Undaunted Love (31 page)

Chapter Fifty-Nine

T
HE VOYAGE SOUTH WAS BLESSED with the same perfect weather as Rafe had had heading north, and Livvie, as he predicted, loved everything about the
Fiery Cross
. She watched the crew’s dance across the decks and rigging with never ending fascination. She visited the galley to see how the cook managed to feed so many so often while rocking to and fro. She quizzed the captain on navigation and weather signs and tried to learn to use a sextant. Gabriel brought many a smile to the weathered faces of the crew, and all were sad to see the little family disembark in St. Augustine.

As soon as they made port, Rafe put them all on a wagon and went to the post office. Asking the driver to stop under the shade of an old oak, he ran inside and up to the counter.

“Do you have a wagon going south, to Indian River City, soon? Or do you know if Henry Ledbetter will be coming up?”

The clerk was young, with a freckled face and pale skin that, Rafe thought, must burn painfully in the strong Florida sun. But he was eager to be helpful, and consulted a calendar on the back wall. “Looks like Henry’ll arrive tomorrow evenin’, head back down the day after. Course, you know Henry, he ain’t traveling too fast… Don’t know when he’ll pull in.”

“Will you be here?” Rafe asked. “When he arrives?”

“Oh yes, gotta be, don’t I? Someone has to take possession of the mail. And Henry, he sleeps out back in the barn, saves the coin he gets to take a room at a boarding house.”

“Will you tell him that Rafe Colton is back, and wants to ride home with him? Rafe and his family? We’ll be here first thing.” Rafe looked eagerly at the young man. “You won’t forget, now, will you?”

Laughing, he was assured that his message would be passed on.

They spent the two nights at the Magnolia Inn, and explored old St. Augustine and the fort the next day. Gabriel blinked and squinted in the bright sunshine, and Livvie vowed to get a pram when they arrived in Indian River City as she massaged her shoulder, sore from carrying him around. They went to bed early, and arose before first light. Rafe had arranged for a driver to pick them up at this early hour, and they arrived at the post office just as dawn was breaking. The driver helped Rafe with their luggage, and once he left, Rafe went around back to the barn.

“Henry?” he called, opening the door. “It’s Rafe Colton.”

“Ayuh,” the older man said, turning from a pitcher and basin where he’d been shaving. He wiped his face with a towel and grinned a partially toothless grin. “Welcome home, son.”

Thankful mostly for the purchase of a new parasol in St. Augustine, Livvie nonetheless enjoyed the drive south. The little settlements and towns were charming, and the long Indian River, with its birds and dolphins, fascinated her. They made a bed out of their softest clothing, under a tent made from Livvie’s yellow skirt, and Gabriel passed the day burbling, napping, and playing with his feet.

Rafe had hoped to take his wife to meet Maribel and Oliver, but they arrived in Indian River City after eight o’clock, and his family was exhausted. He could see the strain from both the long ride and the high heat and humidity in the tired slump of Livvie’s body, but she smiled and exclaimed over every new thing. Henry agreed to drive them to Rafe’s little house so they wouldn’t have to wait til the morrow to pick up the trunk from the post office, and Rafe gave Livvie a guided tour as they rode through the town.

“That’s the Marsden’s. We’ll go over there tomorrow – Maribel is dying to meet you, and you’ll like her. That there is the grocer, and next to him the barbershop. That church there, it’s pink…” At Livvie’s raised eyebrows he laughed. “Aye, don’t ask me why, though. The pastor don’t even know. And over there, by the river, that’s where Mr. Price is buildin’ the hotel. We’ll go for a bit down the River Road, and then we’ll be home.” He put his arm around her and breathed in the familiar smells of orange blossoms and salty water. Livvie rested her head on his shoulder.

As they pulled up to their house, Rafe was confused to see that there was light coming from inside. Certainly he wasn’t gone so long that Mr. Price gave his house and job to someone else. Frowning, he helped Livvie down, taking the baby in his good arm.

“Henry, I’ll be back in a minute. I don’t know what’s goin’ on here.”

“Ayuh,” was all the man said.

Keeping Livvie behind him, he crossed the small porch and entered the house. He stopped a foot inside, and Livvie had to slide around him to get in. Then she, too, stopped.

There were vases of fresh flowers on the tables, several lit lanterns, and a basket of fruit on the kitchen table that was visible from the front room. Stepping towards the kitchen, Livvie saw two loaves of freshly baked bread, a jug of milk, a small jar of honey, and a plate of cookies.

“There’s a note,” she whispered to Rafe. He handed Gabriel to her and went to read it.

Dear Coltons,

When Henry sent us the telegram, we wanted to welcome you home. We know you’ll love it here, as we’ve loved having your Rafe. Enjoy these gifts for breakfast, and come for lunch as soon as you’re up and about.

With Love,

Maribel & Oliver

Rafe looked at Livvie and smiled, pulling her into him with his good arm. “Welcome home, my love.”

Solomon’s Throne Preview

Read on for the first few chapters of

Solomon’s Throne

Chapter One

Lisbon, Portugal

September 1683

“F
ORGIVE ME, FATHER, FOR I have sinned.”

The Jesuit had heard it a thousand times before, so many times, in fact, that he had a hard time focusing on the penitent in the booth. It hadn’t been the normal day or time for confession, but he had seen the old man stagger into the chapel, and had assumed he was drunk. The city had built up around the old stone church, and the ale house across the way often spilled out its patrons onto the sacred grounds. The Jesuit didn’t mind. What better place to sleep it off than the safety of St. Anthony’s. The streets of Lisbon, especially so near the wharf, could be rough even when one had his faculties fully intact.

He watched the man as he went about his daily tasks of sweeping and checking the many candles, and saw with relief that he had collapsed with his back against the chancel wall, long legs sprawled out in front of him, chin to chest. His knobbled hand clutched the hilt of a long dagger, and his face - what could be seen around the wild spray of whiskers and wiry gray hair - was scarred.

Soldier,
thought the Jesuit. He had seen many in his day, and heard many of their confessions. Many terrible things had been done in the name of God, and the men suffered long after their missions were complete.

Returning from the ash heap outside the rear door, the Jesuit saw that the man was gone. Surprised that he was able to get himself up, he put it out of his mind and continued trimming the tapers. In the silence a
thud
suddenly rang out. Looking around, he realized that he could see the man’s boots under the curtain of the confessional. He hurried over, and took his place behind the screen.

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” came the gravely voice. “It has been thirty years since my last confession. I have killed many men. I have lied…” He broke off, coughing. “I’m sorry Father. I have lied to protect a secret, and I am now the last one to know it. But I made an oath that the knowledge would not be lost, and now time has run away with me.”

The Jesuit heard the man shift position in the small booth, and then saw a leather pouch pushed under the dividing wall to his side of the confessional.

“Father, I am entrusting this to you. There are men who would kill you for it. They have chased me and… and caused me great hurt. But they have never beaten me! I have never told my secret, until now. Now, you must carry it. You must protect it. This letter… This letter would change the world. We can’t let that happen…We can’t…”

The man fell into a fit of coughing, and, peering through the screen between them, the Jesuit realized that blood was spewing from his mouth and cascading down his chin.

“My son! Let me help you!” The Jesuit made to open his curtain to go to the man’s aid, when the soldier rose up and roughly wiped his chin with his sleeve.

“No! Father, listen to me! I am dying. I make my final confession to you, and ask my God to forgive me. But you must listen! You must keep this letter from them, at all costs. And you must find the Throne of Solomon. I have led them away - oh Father, I have led them a merry chase!” The man laughed weakly. “But you must find it, and protect it. No one else knows… I am the last.” The man slumped back, and the urgency drained away as he began to fight for breath.

“I am the last. It is in Goa. They will find it if you don’t go… Father, you must go.”

Frantically the Jesuit tore back the curtains and knelt down next to the man. His skin was gray, and his lips were turning blue. Blood ran freely down his chin and onto his tattered green cloak, turning it black in a widening stain. The man gripped the Jesuit’s hand fiercely, and spat out one final word, “Run!”

The Jesuit performed last rites on the man, and then asked a novitiate to help him carry the body to their living quarters. The man had definitely been a soldier. His body had more scars than healthy skin, but he had been tall and strong, even in old age. The cause of the blood became apparent as the novitiate stripped the body: he had a ragged stab wound in his chest. There was no smell of ale or wine about the man, and although his clothing was old and worn, it was of good quality. He had a leather purse full of silver cruzados. His dagger was of fine make and design, and he had an ornate silver eating knife in an inner pocket. In another pocket was a small leather-bound book, full of scribbled drawings and strange phrases.

“Father Eduardo…” The novitiate nervously interrupted the Jesuit’s perusal of the body.

“Yes, Paulo, I’m sorry. It’s not every day we have a man die in confession, now is it?”

“No Father. What would you like me to do now? Do we know who he was, or if he has any family in Lisbon?”

The Jesuit thought for a moment. “He said he was alone. That he was ‘the last.’ I think we shall bury him in the cemetery at Jeronimos Monastery, and add his remaining effects to our fund for the poor. He was a soldier… We shall give him a soldier’s burial.”

Astonished, Paulo nevertheless nodded his head in obedience. There were kings buried at the monastery. Vasco da Gama was buried there. Who was an unknown soldier compared to these men?

“Please wash the body carefully, and have Liza clean the poor man’s clothes. We will redress him in those, and bury him with his weapons. I will go to the monastery now to arrange the burial, but I will conduct the mass here.” Once again the novitiate nodded, and turned to his task.

Father Eduardo Borges Santos, the Jesuit, rushed back to the empty chapel and picked up the leather pouch the man had left on the floor of the confessional. Hiding it within his robes, he left the building.

Chapter Two

Port of Lisbon

March 1684

T
HE JESUIT HUDDLED BEHIND THE foremast of the merchant ship Sao Miguel, avoiding both the wind and the strange men he seemed to see everywhere in Lisbon since the death of the mysterious soldier the year before. He was wrapped up in a rough wool cassock, with a cape pulled closely around his head and ears. He had been told that the wind would die down by evening, which was several hours away. In exchange for being allowed on board a day early, he had been barred from the shared quarters he would occupy during the voyage. The captain had intimated that the crew would feel uncomfortable spending their last night at home in the company of a Jesuit, although was careful not to spell out the implied debauchery that would take place.

He had found a crate, which smelled strongly of chicken dung, and had stowed his belongings under it. He planned to sleep next to the crate, out of the cold as much as possible, rising with the dawn and the tide to see the ship leave his beloved city. He looked out over the tiled rooftops of the Seven Hills and tried to make sense out of the last few months. How was it possible that one man, a stranger, had so dismantled his life?

When the soldier died in his chapel, the Jesuit had felt that he was an important man, a warrior of the faith, who had led a hard but honorable life. He had done his best with the funeral mass and burial, although he had had to…embellish his knowledge of the man to get permission for his burial at the monastery. He had repented of his dishonesty, but he had never actually felt badly about it. He had always acted on his impulses about people, believing them to be special knowledge from God, and felt that, in most cases, his small embellishments to the strictest truth were justified.

After the burial, the Jesuit had taken leather pouch out of his small chest of personal belongings. It was the first time that he had looked at it since the grisly death, and his mind ran over the words of the intriguing man once again.
Run, Father!
Surely he was in the delusion of imminent death, suffering from his grievous wounds. Father Eduardo was a man of God… he didn’t need to run from anyone.

Carefully opening the ancient leather, which was smooth and soft from much use, the Jesuit pulled out a roll of parchment wrapped in a soft kerchief of fine weave. The scroll was vellum, apparently excellent quality as it had no cracks or tears. It was obviously very old, and the writing was still sharp and clear. The priest couldn’t read the text, but he recognized the language as Greek. He sat for awhile on his small bed, looking at the letter and pondering. Finally he wrapped it up in the soft cloth, and swung on his cloak.

“But can you translate it?” The Jesuit was sitting on a hard chair in the bright autumn sunshine, overlooking the Tagus River. His host was peering closely at the parchment, squinting and mumbling as he turned it to catch more of the sunlight.

“Patience, Eduardo, patience. Don’t they teach you that in your Society of Jesus?” Doctor Balsemao didn’t look up from the scroll. “Where did you say you got this? It is most remarkable!”

“The man who died during confession gave it to me. He said he was ‘the last’ and that he had vowed to pass it on so that the secret wouldn’t be lost. It’s probably nothing but the ramblings of a very sick man,
Doutor
. But he was very earnest, and it does seem that we should take a dying man’s declarations very seriously, does it not?”

“It is not ramblings, my friend. It will take me some time to write it out properly, but it appears to be quite an old letter of some kind. And I think… yes, I do think that it is signed ‘I, Paul’ and some other words that I believe mean ‘and Achalichus, who wrote this letter.’” Looking up, Balsemao saw the shocked look on the young priest’s face. “Now, Eduardo, let us not jump to conclusions. Greek is a troubling language, and I may be wrong. Or it may be an accounting of the shop of Paul the baker. Give me some time…”  He bent over the parchment once again, a deep crease showing between his brows. “Yes, some time. Come back in two weeks, and I will let you know what I can decipher.”

The Jesuit sat for a few more moments, finishing the deep red wine that his father’s oldest friend had offered him. Sighing, he rose and bowed his goodbye. Doctor Balsemao never looked up.

Two weeks later, the Jesuit was sitting in the same chair. Cold had arrived, and a brisk wind was blowing across the river. Leaves had deserted the trees on the surrounding hills, and the grey sky looked flat and heavy. He kept his hands tucked into the arms of the cloak, and the hood over his head. He would have preferred to sit inside by a warm fire, but Doctor Balsemao was agitated, and had preferred not to speak in the hearing of his family.

“I did not begin this translation with any suppositions. I am sure you can see that one could slant one’s work towards a particular outcome, which of course we did not want. Whatever the letter says, it is best to know this clearly.”  He swung his arms as he paced around the small area of grass, blowing on his hands and rubbing his ears, but not suggesting they continue inside. “I must confess to you, Eduardo, that I am most chagrined by this letter. If it is real, if it is nothing more or less than what it says, it is a letter that has the power to do much damage to the world as we know it…”

The Jesuit took in a sharp breath. “That is what he said. That is what the man who died said… He said it would change the world. I cannot see how a letter could do such a thing!’

The doctor sat down across the small weathered oak table from the Jesuit. He looked at him, then looked out over the gray river. He didn’t move for a very long time, but a sudden gust of wind stirred him. Without looking at the young man, he said, “The letter is from Paul of Tarsus. Our Saint Paul. It was written to the church in Jerusalem, dictated to his scribe Achalichus just before he was executed in Rome. Achalichus was to deliver the letter to Jerusalem himself. There is no indication, however, that this was accomplished. It is possible, of course, that the letter is a forgery… We can pray that the letter was a forgery.” He trailed off, staring out over the river once again. A few raindrops fell.

“Come, let us go in before the fire. I will tell you what your letter says, and I will give it back to you. I will try never to think of this letter again, and I will pray that you will have God’s wisdom on the matter.”

The two men went inside quickly, as the freshening rain began to slant towards them. The housekeeper had kept the fire high in the small room the doctor used as his study, and the Jesuit stood in front of it, hands as close to the flames as he could manage. Balsemao went to a heavily ornate chest in the corner and returned with the pouch and several sheaves of paper. He handed the papers to the Jesuit, and took a seat in front of the fire. He didn’t look at the priest as he read, just stared into the flames, lost in his own thoughts.

Paul, a bondservant of Jesus Christ, called to be an apostle by the will of God, to the church at Jerusalem: Grace and peace be to you from our Father, in the name of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ.

I always thank God for you all, for your faithfulness to our Lord in the land of His birth. We know that God has called and blessed the nation of Israel since the time of our father Abraham, and that He will honor your faithfulness in this time of affliction. I have longed to return to you, and to share with you all that God Almighty has done among the Gentiles. Alas I know from the Spirit of our Lord that my journey is almost at an end, and that I shall be united with my Father before the year is finished.

I am very pleased with the news that reached me through my son and friend Timothy, that you have elected Peter to be the bishop of the church in Jerusalem, and that James, the brother of our Lord, has become the bishop of Alexandria. While the Jews rejected Jesus, there are many of us following the Way, and we know that is it written, “The Delieverer will come from Zion, he will banish ungodliness from Jacob; and this will be my covenant with them when I take away their sins.” Israel will be saved, and it is right and fitting that she should be the center of our work to spread the gospel of good news to the world. Would that I could come!

We know that there are many upheavals going on throughout the world. We know that you are persecuted by the Jews for your faith in Jesus Christ, and by Gentiles for your faith in Abba Father. Through all things, the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob will be with you. As the church grows and spreads from Jerusalem throughout the entire world, may you continue to see His hand on our own people.

Timothy, my brother, greets you, as do Justus and Priscilla.

Achalichus, who wrote this letter, will deliver it to you with all haste, so that you may know that I have longed to come to you, and am keeping you before our heavenly Father at all times.

Now to Him who is able to do all things, may you find strength beyond your earthly bodies, and may His strength increase as yours decreases. To the only wise God, glory and honor forever. Amen!

The Jesuit stood very still, the temptation to throw the pages and the parchment into the fire very strong. He reread the letter, hands shaking. He looked at his friend, who was still staring into the flames.

Finally he spoke. “Peter was the bishop of the church. In Jerusalem.”

The doctor nodded. “Yes, according to this letter.”

“Not Rome. Jerusalem.”

Another nod.

“But…” He stopped. He was again tempted to throw the letter into the fire. He could pretend he’d never seen it, never read it, never… But no. He had seen it. Somehow, against all odds, this letter had survived for 1600 years. It had been hidden by the dead man, and those before him, to protect the Church of Rome… Well, that’s what he assumed. But someone else knew about it. Someone else wanted it. Someone had killed trying to get it. Or get it back?

“Eduardo.” The Jesuit realized that Doctor Balsemao was speaking to him. “Eduardo, I must ask you to go now. I do not want this in my house any longer. There is still a Court of Inquisition here; Antonio Vieira is in Rome trying to end the
auto-da-fe’,
but they still have power. I cannot risk my family, my lands… Please, you must take your letter and go!”

Fumbling with his cloak, draped over the chair to dry in front of the fire, the Jesuit stuffed the handwritten pages from the doctor into his undershirt, pulled the drawstring tight on the leather pouch, and ran outside, oblivious now to the wind and rain.

When Father Eduardo returned to his small apartments at St. Anthony’s, he tucked the pages away in his small chest and put all his energies into forgetting them. Unable to destroy them, and unable to forget them, he stumbled through the next several weeks in a haze of duty and cold. Winter had come to Lisbon, and with it the poor and destitute seeking help. He kept busy visiting parishioners and helping with the smallpox epidemic that cropped up over the Advent and Christmas seasons.

From time to time the letter would force its way into his thoughts, and he would just as forcibly push them back. He had no idea what to do with the information that Providence had put in his path, and was well aware of the dangers posed by the Inquisitors. The five year suspension ordered by Pope Innocent XI had led to a truce of sorts in the country, and very slim tendrils of trust had returned. But this… this was catastrophic. This letter produced by a complete stranger had the power to undermine the legitimacy of the entire Church. What would Rome do to stop such a thing from happening?

After the Christmas season had passed, the Jesuit noticed that a stranger had begun attending mass. Lisbon had many travelers, traders and people from the Empire seeking a new life in the cosmopolitan city. But this man did not seem to be a trader. He had dark hair and fair skin, and he did not have the hands or sun baked skin of a sailor. He did not worship, but sat in the back of the chapel, hands folded in his lap, staring at Father Eduardo with a stoic expression.