The Eye of the Wolf (18 page)

          Mikayla inwardly
groaned and shook her head. This was very unprofessional. She had exactly seven
weeks until the 900 years anniversary celebration would flood the island with
tourists from all across the world, including the British royal family. She had
work to do. She didn’t have time to be caught up in a romantic interlude with a
handsome world traveler.

She sighed. But, he was so charming and handsome and
sexy and the kiss they had shared two nights before had taken her breath away.
She rubbed a hand across her heart again, feeling the drumming the thought of
Will created. Soothing the ache it created.

Mikayla sighed. This would never do. She had to
focus, and she was going to start right now.

          “Tell me, Monsieur
Dejeune, how exactly did the Crusaders with King Henry arrive on Amor?” Mikayla
circled a suit of armor, inspecting the workmanship and the links holding the
suit together. Through cursory examination, Mikayla could tell that the suit
was created in France during the early 1000s. She jotted that information down
in her notebook before looking for more signature trademarks of the metalsmith
of France who had manufactured the armor.

          “Well, Dr. Knight,
local records and folk lore tell that Henry and his Knights landed on the
shores of Amor after being blown off course on their way to Greece.” He gently
took her arm and led her to one of the tapestries that adorned the walls.

          Mikayla examined
the tapestry. It covered the entire wall from ceiling to floor and window to
window. The wool and silk threads once had been vibrant in color, entertaining
viewers with the tale of King Henry and his loyal knights. Now, those same
threads had faded and begun to fray after 900 years of hanging on the walls to
provide warmth to the cold, stone walls of the castle.

The tapestry was a story, Mikayla could see, the
story of King Henry and the early history of Amor. At the top of the tapestry,
A group of knights rode on horseback through a countryside covered in mosques
and sand. One of the knights wore a crown, similar to the crown in the Museum
of History. That would have been Henry.

Mikayla’s eyes followed the line of horsemen as
Dejeune narrated the tapestry. “Following the sacking and rescuing of Jerusalem
from the infidels.” Mikayla rolled her eyes at the use of the term
infidel
to describe the Muslims who had protected their holy city from the crazed Christians
roaring in on horseback fortified by the belief that they were protecting the
city from Satan and his followers.

Dejeune’s voice washed over Mikayla just like a
college history professor’s in its monotonous tone, inundating her with
information. Boring her silly. She was pleased she didn’t really have to
listen. The story unfolded before her with great detail and vitality.

“From Jerusalem, Henry and his knights commandeered
a boat and sailed into the Mediterranean with the intention of landing in Italy
or Greece, no one is really sure which was their original destination. I
suspect it was Italy since the Italians had been hosts to the Crusaders. While
in the Mediterranean, a tropical storm arose and blew them off course. They
were lost at sea for 40 days and 40 nights before one of the knights finally
spotted land through a heavy fog that had descended on them during the night.”

On the tapestry, a thread boat with its white sail
and red cross was tossed among gales of water and wind and a sea serpent that
arose from the waves to threaten the knights aboard that ship. Then, land was
sighted  rising from the gray thread that surrounded the white sail and
red cross. It rose green and gray above the blue water.

“The knights landed on the shore just below where we
are now. They were greeted by the Greeks who were here. The Greeks who lived
here were sailors and fishermen whose families had come to this island almost
one thousand years before the arrival of the Crusaders.”

Small fishing boats, rows of crops, and friendly
faces greeted the Crusaders who stood on the sandy white beach of early Amor.
The friendly faces offered large silver fish that glinted in the sunlight that
filtered through stained glass windows in the room. Baskets of breads, grapes,
and wheat sat beside the feet of the Greeks. Each knight and Greek lifted a
glass of purple to one another. A toast in friendship and welcome.

“Shortly after the arrival of the Crusaders,
something happened among the peoples. A rebellion? A revolt? No one is sure,
but there was violence between the two groups.”

Red slashes of color flowed from fallen men in plain
clothing while men in silver armor stood over, swords drawn. In the distance
was the roughly hewn walls of the beginning of the Secluded City jutting from
the rock of the island. Mobs of angry farmers marched over hills no longer
green and alive but brown and dead. Pitchforks locked with swords and lances.
Fishing boats burned bright in the darkening water, no longer pulsating blue.
Horror echoed.

“The majority of the Greeks who were here prior to
the arrival of the Crusaders were killed in the revolt. Women, children, and
the infirm were the only ones to survive. Henry was mortally wounded in the
fighting. He died shortly after peace came to Amor again. His son, born to a
native woman, was named Richard and would become king at the age of 16.”

Women and children bowed at the feet of the
Crusaders whose red crosses were bright against the dreary backdrop. King
Henry, with his royal crown perched upon his head, was struck from behind by an
unknown, dark man whose features were disguised by the black thread used to
create the specter. Pyre flames bright as a small, young boy places the crown
upon his head and looks to the distance. The spires of the Secluded City pierce
through the dark clouds of the sky to shoot bright golden threads of sunlight
down upon the boy-king. Knights in glinting armor kneel at his feet, heads
bowed in supplication.

Dejeune sighed with a content look upon his face.
“Peace reigned for 200 years before the Seljuk Turks conquered all of the
Mediterranean region. The knights of Amor, descendents of the Greeks and the
Crusaders, repelled and displaced the Turks after 20 years of fighting. Even
during that occupation, the monarchy begun by King Henry maintained itself and
control of the people. That, Dr. Knight, is the record of the arrival of the
Crusaders.”

“Hmm…” Mikayla noised as her eyes followed the path
of the Crusaders from arrival on the island to the sun illuminating King
Richard at the bottom corner, larger than life. Richard’s boldness and strength
shone through the wools and silks to engulf the viewer, to make the viewer
believe in the rightness of the Crusaders taking control of the island.

Mikayla knelt down and fingered the tapestry. The
wool was rough against her fingertips. Dust floated out of the tapestry to
tickle her nose. She examined the figure of King Richard carefully. Behind him
was the Secluded City, shining in its glory, its draw bridge down and moat
greenish-blue in the distance. Mikayla’s fingers traced the shapes of King
Richard and the Secluded City, mesmerized.

“It is an amazing piece of work, isn’t it, Dr.
Knight.” Rene Dejeune rocked on his feet and looked the tapestry up and down.
His pleasure with the work was obvious. “Have you ever seen its like?”

Mikayla glanced over her shoulder and shook her head
as she pulled a magnifying glass from her pocket. Her fingers were tracing
something hidden in the stitching of the Secluded City, something similar to
letters. It was very tiny, minute enough to be missed. “No, Monsieur Dejeune, I
haven’t. Who is responsible for this work?”

“Ah, wonderful question.” Dejeune nodded
enthusiastically. “It was created by King Richard’s Queen Consort and then
completed by the Queen Consort of King Malachi.”

Mikayla leveled a magnifying glass on the tapestry
and narrowed her focus on the stitching she had been tracing.

ÀÃFbyJ

 It wasn’t letters but
it was symbols, symbols that were familiar to Mikayla but not recognizable. She
got closer to the tapestry and tried to choose the language that was stitched
into the fabric. It wasn’t Greek; it wasn’t recognizable, yet Mikayla felt for
sure that she had seen this very pattern before.

“Did you find something of interest, Dr. Knight?”
Dejeune squatted down next to her on the floor and peered over her shoulder.

“Ummm,…” Mikayla took up the notebook she had
dropped on the floor and copied the symbols down on the paper within the
covers. She then hurriedly stood up. “I was inspecting the stitching in the
lower corner, and I discovered this pattern stitched in.”

Mikayla held out the notebook with its strange
symbols. Dejeune adjusted his half-glasses and inspected the symbols. His hand
beneath the notebook began to shake violently. He sucked in his breath. His
eyes darted around the room like those of a scared rabbit who knows he is stuck
in the hunter’s sights. Anxiety and fear filled his eyes as Mikayla’s own
nerves began to sing.

“Monsieur Dejeune, can you tell me what it means? Is
it a native language?” Mikayla peered into his face searching for the cause of
his obvious anxiety. Sweat broke out on Dejeune’s forehead. Mikayla shook
Dejeune’s arm. “Monsieur Dejeune?”

Dejeune looked into Mikayla’s eyes and forced
himself to grow calm. He was threatening the project. He was threatening his
work for the Wolf. He mustn’t allow anything to interfere with the plan the
Wolf had put into play. He also owed it to this young historian to protect her.
She was an innocent pawn in the drama that was playing out. They were just
beginning the second act. He had a duty to protect her against the danger she
was in regardless of her knowledge of that danger. It was also his duty to
protect the secret of the Wolf.

Dejeune drew himself to his full height and adjusted
his dress jacket. “I apologize, Dr. Knight,” he handed the notebook back to her
in a swift moment, his movements again having purpose and not being lost in
dreams of ancient knightly quests. “I was not feeling well this morning, yet I insisted
that I give you this tour. I suppose I should have stayed in bed.” He smiled
coolly. His voice was clipped and all business, a stark contrast to the fear
hidden in his dark eyes. “I apologize again for my brief moment of weakness. I
haven’t seen anything of the like prior to this. I suppose it is the signature
of one of the creators.”

Mikayla frowned but took her notebook back without
complaint. She highly doubted that it was the signature of the creator. Women
of the Middle Ages did not sign their work just as artists prior to the
Renaissance did not sign their paintings. It was a signal of humble piety.
Dejeune gestured through another door, and they exited the Crusaders’ hall.

“If you will follow me, the Princess Royale and the
Crown Princess are waiting to meet with you in the Yellow Tea Room.” Dejeune
led her into a large foyer. A large, curving staircase of pink marble that
shone bright enough to see a reflection engulfed the majority of the foyer. A
balcony circled the foyer from the top of the staircase. Sunlight twinkled
through a dome in the ceiling of stained glass. Mikayla craned her head back to
see the dome. The stained glass portrayed the image of King Henry rising to
heaven, the halo behind his head bright, while his son, King Richard stood
tall, holding his father’s sword, the crown set upon his head and light
streaming from the clouds above behind him. Again, as in the tapestry, the
framework and roughly hewn walls of the Secluded City stood tall behind King
Richard. It was a breath-taking, if not propogandic, image.

Mikayla followed Rene Dejeune up the curving
staircase and to the door of the Yellow Tea Room. The guards who stood before
the door bowed deeply to Dejeune and pulled open the doors.

Mikayla followed Dejeune through the doors and into
the room that was appropriately named, the Yellow Tea Room. The walls were
covered in a faint, yellow, silk wall-covering. Heavy, gold draperies and a
filmy white window treatment hung from gold braided valances over the large
windows. A grand piano sat near the windows, its lid tipped up, ready to be
played. Sheets of music sat on the stand tempting the tinkerer to sit and
tickle the ivories. On a stand, beside the shimmering black piano, sat a violin
of the most magnificent quality. Its burnished wood glowed in the faint light,
like it had a life of its own. An aura surrounded it, beckoning to be played,
with the hands of a lover, soft, gentle, and needy. A fireplace was set into
the deep mahogany wood of the wall. The royal crest with its wolf’s head baying
at the full moon was molded in bright gold and shone in the beam of sunlight
that struck it. Three settees faced the fireplace, yellow brocade covering the
seats and deep mahogany creating the arms and legs. A deep golden rug,
luxuriously woven, covered the center of the finely polished marble
floor.  

          Mikayla took in
the lavish surroundings in a glance. It was on her second glance that her eyes
took in the two women seated on one of the settees near the fireplace. A silver
tea service sat on a finely carved cart before the settee. The wood of the cart
gleamed almost as brightly as that of the silver tea service. It warmed the
room, but it also suggested that there was power here, power Mikayla would
never understand as a simple historian from America immersed in this world of
ancient beliefs and ancient powers.

          Dejeune led
Mikayla to the chairs facing the brocaded couch with their backs to the ornate
marble fireplace. He gestured to one with a hand that shook slightly and then
he bowed deeply to the two women who had remained seated upon their entrance
into the room. He waited a heartbeat or two before straightening and moving to
the next chair to take a seat himself. Both women inclined their heads slightly
in the direction of Dejeune but their piercing green, matching eyes, eyes like
that of a cat or other animal who would need to see at night, remained fixed on
Mikayla, raking her from head to toe in skepticism and cool reflection.