The Cortés Enigma (11 page)

Standing on the other side of the graveyard, the archaeologist watched with a rare sense of intrigue.

The man was no stranger to the mysteries and stories of the island, even the more obscure ones. He’d seen people coming and going from time to time, a casual tourist, an overeager journalist, a student who believed in ghosts and aliens…

But till now he had never seen anyone so observant, particularly for something so seemingly irrelevant.

Shaping the bridge of his hat with his index finger and thumb, he followed the Americans in the direction of the path.

10

7pm, Extremadura, Spain

The Extremadura region of Spain has rarely been regarded as important. According to official statistics, it has a population of over a million, but its remote character and open countryside features give the impression that it could be considerably less.

Mile upon mile of green fields, dotted with isolated farmhouses, stretch virtually uninterrupted all the way to the Portuguese border. Most of the villages and hamlets had grown up as farming communities, characterised by a profusion of white houses with sloping red roofs that provided a colourful reminder and picture of a bygone age. The residents, it appeared, were oblivious to the technological evolution. At night, occasional dim yellow lights could be seen to flicker across the horizon like a series of candles burning on a giant’s table. Over the water, isolated bridges, some ancient some new, stood more like monuments than integral parts of a transport infrastructure. The ancient roads, alive with trade and activity when the market was in town, were a different sight when it was not. Even in the busy periods they were rarely busy and, in the heat of the day, the tarmac surface would reflect sunlight for hours on end, generating enormous heat. At night the effect was one of much greater calm, when the journey for vehicles crossing the bridge would be both cool and lonely.

The region was the epitome of solitude.

Among the small settlements within the wider community, the village of Medellín was both small and forgettable. On its outskirts, the view rarely changed. Flat land surrounded it in every direction: both green and yellow, field and desert. The area was a haven for wildlife. A tourist coming from America or further afield would find more in common with the tale of the roadrunner and the coyote than that of Don Quixote. The area had a residual stillness, as if time existed in a vacuum. From year to year the weather barely changed. Even a passing wind was unusual.

Yet nestled within the flat barren landscape, there was one sight that even the least observant could not miss. Less than five miles from the village, a solitary green hill, flanked by the river and forest, overlooked the village like a mother watching over her children. The lush greenery was like a scene from a Disney film, its shape entirely different from anything else in the region. Unlike the rolling downs of England, this strange natural wonder rose up into the sky like an Aztec pyramid. While the scientists claimed that the development of its features was a natural phenomenon, the locals had always viewed it as having a mystical and portentous quality. In an area that had blessed Spain with so many great warriors and explorers, it was most fitting that the hill would honour the most famous of the lot.

And whose descendants would in time claim it.

At the top of the hill, a large medieval castle sat on the site like a king on a throne, as it had for over four hundred years. An imposing fortress in daylight, concealing a mighty and majestic domain worthy of royals and nobility, at night the skeletal remains took on an altogether more dominating aura. As the light faded, its four grand towers produced a dark silhouette, its epic façade merging with the black horizon. From a certain angle, the perfect rectangle appeared almost two-dimensional, and for a time practically invisible. Yet as the darkness fell, its outline would return, its red walls illuminated by several small lights burning like swarms of fireflies in the air. From across the water, its walls reflected on the river like a waving flag. The castle was as it had always been, impenetrable.

And inhabited.

The roads below the village carried very little traffic; and most of the cars that travelled them did so almost daily. Crossing the more modern of the two bridges that connected the sides of the Rio Guadiana, the black Renault Mégane made its familiar journey in solitude. During the day, the black exterior was easily distinguishable, yet at night all that could be seen were two moving lights. On reaching a junction on Ex-206, the car turned at a right angle before slowly ascending the hill, eventually disappearing within the walls of the castle. Even if the mysterious lights had been seen by any of the locals, their appearance would not have aroused suspicion. Many, unaware of the true modern and mechanical source, put them down to the spirits of the conquistadors protecting their homeland as they had all those years earlier. The villagers had grown up with such folklore.

Even expanded on it.

As the dirtied Mégane parked out of sight, hidden from the village by the castle’s outer curtain wall, its three occupants disembarked and took the familiar route into the inner courtyard. Continuing through a large archway, the leader of the three was the first to witness the familiar sight, lit up like the fires of hell, just as it had been in its heyday. Up a steep stone stairway, two further torches lit up imposing double doors, their frames once oaks from the forest below.

The leader stepped forward, the loud thump of his knocking on the doors echoing in his ears. As the seconds passed, a noise could be heard from inside, followed by a prolonged creak as one of the doors was opened.

From inside appeared the butler of the house, a man of distinguished features, a fine shock of grey hair, his eyes an inquisitive and piercing blue behind wire-rimmed spectacles. He looked at the men in silence, paying close attention to the large object that they carried.

A nod of the head was the only acknowledgement.

As they entered the corridor, the sight that greeted them was almost identical to that of the courtyard; the electric glow of the modern-day lights replaced by that of fire on wood, creating ominous shadows against the red carpet. As the walk continued, the temperature varied, a radiant heat to freezing cold. Suits of armour, standing like lookout guards, appeared an evil presence in the fiery light, their shadows easily confused with those of the living. If the walls could talk, they would be telling their tale. It was written in the paintwork, the ceiling, but mainly through the fine works of art that occupied the walls of the lengthy corridor.

The hosts of the past continued to watch out over the living.

As the trio reached the end of the corridor, the light became brighter, but the smell far worse. A large table in the centre of the room was illuminated by an almost angelic glow from the flickering flames of numerous ornate candelabra. On the table, molten wax had solidified at the bottom of half-burned candles, some spilling onto the white tablecloth. Beyond the table, a roaring log fire burned brightly in the huge stone fireplace, while above the table two antique chandeliers were also burning, the lights giving off strange shadows shooting in different directions. Like the corridor, priceless artworks lined the walls, the facial features in the portraits both consistent and familiar.

This was the heart of the castle. A fortress that dated back to the 1500s. It had been founded by the village’s most famous son.

After which it was named.

Castillo Cortés.

At the head of the table, the castle’s only occupant sat in prestigious isolation. Like those of the others gathered around the table, his eyes were dark, in his case a deep shade of brown that always appeared alive and alert. With thick lips, partially concealed by a finely trimmed goatee beard, and displaying a thoughtful expression, he bore a marked similarity to the figures on the wall. His dark hair was curly and naturally wavy, partially hiding small ears that were pierced at both lobes. He was the owner of the castle. A Cortés. The latest of a long line.

Perhaps the last.

The man wiped his mouth with a serviette and rose to his feet. He saw the object they carried above their shoulders. Although the stone was simple, it was a shape easily identifiable in any time or place. They were unlike any pallbearers he had seen, but then again the person they carried was deserving of such prestige.

He headed toward the coffin and knelt, feeling the stone with his palms and kissing it tenderly. Slowly he rose to his feet.

“I’m most sorry about the torches,” he said, looking around the room. “It seems the recent stormy nights have taken their toll on the electricity.”

He looked at each man in turn, pleased to see them.

“Gentlemen.” He gestured them to place the coffin on the floor by the table.

While two of the three sat down immediately after, the leader waited a while longer. He walked slowly toward the head of the table, removed an object from his pocket and threw it down on the table.

Cortés eyed the object from a distance before examining it with his hands. The book was old, bound in the 16th century, the hard exterior considerably worn. He opened it to around the midpoint and read a sentence at random. Though written in his native tongue, the style was elongated and the text worn, the language hard to comprehend.

“You came all the way to Medellín, Fernando, to give me a book?”

The leader of the three smiled, which immediately developed into a laugh. “Not a book. This, my friend, is the book.”

Cortés closed it and examined the cover. “You mean?”

“Yes, Juan,” Fernando interrupted. He walked nearer, their faces almost touching. “Behold the last account of Lady Catalina.”

Cortés was stunned; his bewildered expression confirmed a sense of unique humility, a new unworthiness, something that could only be attributed to the overdue inheritance of a long-lost heirloom.

He looked again at the leader of the three. “You have read it already?”

The man’s expression remained unaltered. “Yes,” he said unequivocally. “The final clue was written inside the coffin. Our journey takes us to the coast of England. And the island of St Lide’s.”

11

8pm

Chris was feeling restless. The search for the graves had proved fruitless, even with the diary. Making sense of its leads was difficult.

He left the GM just before 8pm, comfortably full. The cuisine at the inn was different to what he was used to – sloppy joes were never a bad shout back home – but it easily exceeded his requirements. He took Ben’s advice, plumping for scampi and chips followed by a homemade bread and butter pudding and devoured both in record time. The breaded fish in tartar sauce was particularly appetising.

He could still taste it on his tongue.

The heart of Hugh Town was a well-planned selection of long streets lined by various shops and restaurants. After strolling along Silver Street through the heart of the town, he took a left along Garrison Lane and continued up Garrison Hill.

It was getting dark. The nearby concrete glowed under the light of early streetlights and lights from nearby buildings, their windows occasionally blocked by curtains or metallic shutters. On reaching Garrison Hill, the view improved: to his left, the medieval Star Castle rose into the sky like an ancient skyscraper, its strong walls seemingly impenetrable, whereas in the other direction the nearby harbour was lit up by the bright glow of overhead floodlights. Hundreds of boats, colours of all hues, were moored between the ferry terminal and Little Porth, their engines silent and their owners in the galleys below or taking a walk onshore, perhaps to nearby houses and inns.

For Chris, the harbour was already his favourite sight on the island. His goal in life had been to join the naval academy, and he succeeded, graduating Annapolis without any major difficulties. Five years of naval service had been distinguished: rising through the ranks as a NCO, the potential was there to be an officer. A landmine explosion ended his career. Since then, he had tried everything, but everything lacked adventure. He wasn’t like Ben – at least that was what his grandmother had always said. Whereas Ben was the studious introvert with tough skin, Chris had other talents.

He sometimes felt he was still to find them.

He walked to the end of Garrison Hill and stopped, leaning against a metal railing. There were several more inns in this part, with names such as the Mermaid and the North Atlantic, all with lights shining from their windows and the sound of merriment within.

As he rested against the railing, the cold material bracing against his hands, he saw Valeria heading along the beach toward one of the boats. He saw her climb aboard a slick white vessel, its appearance like that of a miniature yacht.

He walked toward it before stopping, realising he had no chance of catching her. Instead, he watched from the end of the walkway as the small craft kicked up the waves and turned left, circling the island and heading toward the island of St Agnes.