Treasure of the Templars

TREASURE OF THE TEMPLARS

A Western Story

by

TIM CHAMPLIN

Copyright 2000 Tim Champlin

Smashwords Edition

For Jon Tuska and Vicki Piekarski who saved my writing career

Cover design by R. Kent Rasmussen

Ebook design by www.Longharecontent.com

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Epilogue

About the Author

Other Books by Tim Champlin

Chapter One of Tim Champlin's Lincoln's Ransom

Prologue

SCOTLAND

AUGUST, 1897

Professor Roddy McGinnis’s heart was pounding and his mouth dry as he squatted on his heels in the rubble of the medieval dungeon. Using a sheath knife, he’d finally worked loose from the wall in front of him a wedge-shaped stone the size of his head. A tiny, V-shaped notch filed into the edge of the stone had piqued his curiosity. Shafts of dusty sunlight, lancing through the roofless castle ruin overhead, revealed an oblong object in the space behind the stone. He removed a packet bound in oilcloth, shook the dirt off, and unwrapped it. A musty book fell out. With trembling hands, he opened the cracked, leather binding. The yellowed pages were filled with closely spaced lines of a fine, flowing script. Even in good light, the writing was hard to decipher. But it was in English, albeit Elizabethan English. Just inside the front cover, the name PETER STIRLING was written in bold letters.

By the mines of King Solomon! he breathed. He looked toward the four students he was supervising on this dig. They were all busy excavating at the far end of the trench along the dungeon wall. Trying to calm his excitement, he turned his back to them and put on his wire-rimmed glasses.

Peter Stirling was a 16th-Century Scottish knight who’d succumbed to fever in this very castle more than three hundred years ago. He’d been imprisoned and tortured on the orders of his superiors in the Knights Templar, a disbanded order of warrior monks. Stirling was the only surviving member of a small party of knights who had allegedly transported the gold treasury of the order to a safer hiding place in the New World. The rumor had come down the centuries that Stirling, returning alone to Scotland after a harrowing two-year trip to America, had been refused a reward of lands and title in Scotland. In turn, he’d refused to tell the Grand Master the exact whereabouts of the treasure that he and his deceased companions had hidden. For this, he’d been jailed and tortured for weeks until he eventually died. But his secret had died with him.

For the past three hundred and fifty years, members of the Templars, now a shadow organization, had searched in vain for the treasure. Over time, the golden hoard had taken on the legendary status of a lost mine or the buried treasure of Captain Kidd. It had become part of folklore and, like the Holy Grail, or the True Cross, it was an entertaining legend. But almost none of McGinnis’s colleagues in the field of archaeology even believed in the existence of the vast treasure trove.

McGinnis carefully leafed through the book that appeared to be the personal journal of Peter Stirling. He swallowed hard. If this was genuine, he had just stumbled onto the discovery of a lifetime. He would have to examine it at length, but at first glance the ancient volume did not appear to be a fraud. At worst, if the journal revealed nothing of Stirling’s trip to the New World with the treasure, the book would still be a valuable historical artifact that could fund at least two more expeditions to the Near East for his university.

Yet, as he looked at the dated entries, he realized they coincided with the years Stirling was said to have made his voyage to the Gulf Coast of North America. Why had the book been secreted behind this loose stone in Stirling’s dungeon? Wouldn’t his captors have found and confiscated it? Stirling had no relatives except a wife he married after his return. Had she smuggled it to him? For what purpose? Perhaps so he could continue to make entries, documenting and denouncing his unjust tormentors during the weeks of his imprisonment. The book itself might give the answers when he examined it in his hotel room later. He saw no need to share this find with his students.

He wrapped the rotting cloth around the book and slipped it inside his canvas shirt. It might take several days, or even weeks, to decipher and transcribe the contents. But a thrill went over him at the thought that, lying inside his shirt, could well be the key that would unlock one of history’s greatest mysteries.

Chapter One

CENTRAL KENTUCKY

APRIL, 1898

Marcus Flood caught his breath and stopped still in the dusty Kentucky road. Thirty yards ahead was one of the strangest sights he’d ever seen — a white-haired man in a buggy being accosted by two armored horsemen. The morning sun glinted off the cylindrical metal helmets that covered their heads and necks. And each man wore a hauberk — a coat of chain mail reaching past the hips. Flood had the oddest feeling he’d just rounded a turn and stepped back into medieval Europe. But, instead of swords or maces, these men were armed with modern revolvers.

The horsemen were facing away from him at a slight angle, their voices muffled by the helmets and distance. Flood was certain the slim, hatless, white-haired man in the buggy had seen him, but the victim made no sign. Flood quietly stepped back a few paces until he was beyond the cover of a clump of small cedar trees bordering the road. Heart pounding, he lowered the canvas traveling bag from his shoulder. His mind was in a sudden whirl. What was going on here — some sort of practical joke? He was afoot and unarmed. Should he interfere? The old man had not cried out for help. If this was a real robbery, there was little he could do to help, and he might very well get himself shot. But if he did nothing, they might gun down the hapless old man. He tried to salve his conscience and his fear by telling himself that, if he stayed out of sight, the highwaymen would only take the man’s valuables and ride off, doing their victim no physical harm. But he couldn’t be sure of this. Then, again, the old man might try to make some foolish resistance.

Whatever he decided, it would have to be quick. He took his bag and crept off the road among the stunted cedars. The trees had taken root in a thin layer of soil that overlay some ledges of limestone. The flat rock thrust out of the ground here and there, and some broken pieces lay about. Keeping one eye on the confrontation through the evergreen branches, he quickly selected a half-dozen fist-sized rocks with good heft. He stuffed two into each side pocket of his corduroy coat, and retained one in each hand, flexing his arms.

As he cautiously crept forward, arms up to fend off the prickly branches, he could see the drama on the road beginning to play out. The man on the buggy seat was yelling something and gesticulating wildly. One of the chain-mail-clad horsemen suddenly swung up a long lance from the far side of his mount. Before Flood could move, the helmeted rider kicked his horse, and the animal lunged forward. For one eternal second, Flood saw the broad lance point poised three feet from the old man’s chest. Then, in a blink, the old man vanished, and the lance buried itself in the back of the buggy seat. The long spear splintered, and the unchecked momentum flung the rider forward over his horse’s neck, and he tumbled onto the buggy’s near wheel.

Even as Flood cocked his arm and aimed the rock, he heard a high-pitched yell as the old man bobbed up from behind the dashboard of the buggy. Flood’s arm snapped forward in a powerful overhand throw. The missile whistled toward its target — the second robber — who was aiming his pistol at the old man.

The rock whanged off the back of the helmet at the same instant the pistol exploded. The man reeled in his saddle.

Before either of the horsemen could recover and realize he was under attack, Flood unleashed the other five rocks he was carrying. Three of them found the men, and two of the sharp missiles hit the flanks of their horses, causing the animals to snort and plunge out of control. The dappled gray hitched to the buggy was also tossing its head and trying to sidle away from the commotion, while the lancer who’d fallen was struggling to get hold of his spooked horse and remount.

As the distracted robbers were trying to get a shot off at Flood, the old man whipped his horse. The light buggy jumped forward and came tearing past Flood, bouncing and skidding around the bend as the panicked animal hit full gallop.

One of the robbers finally got his mount under control and got off a hurried shot at Flood who was scrambling for cover. His element of surprise was gone. The bullet plowed up dirt three feet short of his foot as he leaped back into the trees and threw himself on the ground behind his canvas bag. Another slug thudded into the duffel.

Flood said a quick mental prayer, knowing he was helpless before these two. He could see nothing of the face behind the eye slits in the helmet, but the man was wearing a sleeveless white tunic over his hauberk, with a large red cross emblazoned on the chest. Suddenly the second man yelled something at the one who was firing. He flung down the splintered haft of the lance and leaped down to snatch a small, black leather case from the ground. Then he swung back into the saddle, and both horsemen whirled their mounts away, thundering off up the road.

Panting with fear and exertion, Flood watched as they grew smaller in the distance, dust spurting from the hoofs until they disappeared over a rise. Flood rubbed his eyes and stepped out into the road, looking after them and already beginning to doubt what he had just seen and experienced. The drumming of the hoof beats faded, and the only sign that anyone else had been there was the thin veil of dust hanging in the cool air. His ragged breathing began to steady as he looked around, trying to comprehend the suddenly vanished vision, trying to remember if he had eaten some bad food the night before at the monastery. Brother Anthanasius had made mushroom gravy from wild morels he’d picked in the woods. Maybe he’d accidentally gotten hold of some hallucinatory mushrooms. Surely he couldn’t have just witnessed two men in 12th-Century armor accosting an old man in a buggy on a Kentucky back road. It simply couldn’t be. After all, this was a sunny April morning in 1898 — not 1298.

He turned to look back down the road the other way. There was no sign of the buggy. The only evidence that this scene had even taken place were the scuff marks in the dirt of the roadway, the splintered haft of a lance, and a bullet hole in the canvas duffel bag he’d retrieved and flung onto his shoulder.

Damnedest thing, he muttered aloud, just to hear the reassurance of his own voice. Maybe I’m losing touch. Too much research into the Middle Ages...like Don Quixote. But somebody was here. He put a forefinger into the bullet hole in his bag. But I’d best keep my mouth shut about this.

He surveyed the deserted green fields and woods around him. Except for the sharp, cheerful trill of a meadowlark, everything was as quiet and deserted as when he’d started out from the monastery at sunrise, two hours ago. He had no particular destination in mind, but also no desire to continue in the direction of the departed horsemen. He reversed his course and started walking back down the road after the vanished buggy. After all, the small town of New Haven lay that way. And by the time he reached it, it would be nearly lunch time. He had just enough money for about two meals. Then his worldly wealth would be reduced to one change of clothing, a blanket, and a few small books he carried in his bag. There were trains in New Haven — trains that ran in and out in all directions. Perhaps he could slip aboard a southbound freight toward his parents’ home in Nashville, more than a hundred miles away. He didn’t particularly want to go back there but, at the moment, could think of nowhere else to go. After a year and a half as a lay brother in the Trappist monastery at Gethsemani, he’d agonized over the decision to leave. But he’d concluded the silent life was not for him. He tried to view this as a positive choice, and not another failure. But he had a gnawing feeling that, at age thirty-five, each new beginning was only a fresh mistake.

He’d found nothing so far that satisfied him. He’d dropped out of college at age nineteen to enlist in the cavalry. But the four-year adventure had proven to be mostly hard work and frustration, serving in New Mexico Territory from 1881 to 1885. It was stable duty, sentry duty, and monotonous drill interspersed with endless, exhausting mounted patrols in pursuit of Apaches who vanished into the vast landscape like smoke. After shedding his cavalry blue, he’d returned to Tennessee and a series of unfulfilling jobs as a government clerk, freight handler for the railroad, even a brief stint as a gun salesman, while, in his spare time, pitching for a local baseball team.

He trudged ahead, lost in thought and hardly conscious of nature awakening around him. A short time later he passed a farmer driving a wagon with a span of mules. He opened his mouth to ask if the man had seen a black buggy with a white-haired driver, but the hard look on the man’s face deterred him. Flood merely waved and walked on. A year of fasting, work, and prayer among sixty of his brother monks was powerful medicine. The habit of silence had convinced him that most conversation was frivolous.

Another half hour of walking brought him again within sight of the monastery church spire above the greening spring trees. The tall stone building was a quiet, solid symbol of stability that had stood there in the Kentucky woods for more than thirty years. Before he reached the monastery gates, he turned to follow the road that bent toward the west. He swallowed a lump in his throat as he thought of what the monks would be doing about now. Some of the brothers would be in the fields, a couple of them would be baking bread, two or three more preparing the sparse noon meal, some possibly clearing brush and planting trees, or studying in the library, writing, chanting tierce in the dark, wooden stalls of the Gothic church. It was a quiet, orderly life that he was already beginning to miss. But a man had to have his basic priorities straight in order to live this life. His faith in God remained strong, but, while studying and researching, he’d reached the point where his unquestioning belief in the traditions of the Church and some of its leaders, past and present, had been seriously shaken. Somehow these questions had to be resolved. And, of course, there were so many young women waiting out there in the world....

Flood reflected that being extraordinarily handsome had been much more of a curse to him than a blessing. Good looks and good health were two things he’d always taken for granted, with no trace of pride, since he couldn’t claim credit for either. Certainly his attractiveness to women, coupled with his own weakness of will, had caused him untold heartbreak and grief over the years. Monday’s child is fair of face; Tuesday’s child is full of grace; Wednesday’s child is full of woe... — the old rhyme ran through his head. By birth, he was Monday’s child, but he fit the description of Wednesday’s child as well.

His anguish cast a pall over the beautiful April morning as he trudged along. Within a mile he came upon the buggy. It was off the road, and the right front wheel was shattered against a stump. The dappled gray had been unhitched and was tied to a sapling, apparently unhurt. Flood approached cautiously, looking for the driver, but saw no sign of the old man. He laid a hand on the broken lance that still protruded from the padded leather seat back. Here was further proof it hadn’t been an hallucination. He examined the lathered animal, and could detect no obvious injury.

Get away from my horse! A lean figure bounded out of a clump of blackberry bushes, arms waving and white hair flying.

Flood fell back a few steps, his heart leaping at the sudden apparition.

Where are they? Did you see them? Are they gone? The questions came rattling out like the staccato hammering of a woodpecker. The old man’s sharp nose seemed to be sniffing for danger as his quick blue eyes darted here and there.

They’re gone. Rode off north, Flood replied.

By the bones of Bede! the old man cried. Foxed ’em again. They’re not too smart. But they’re persistent. As soon as they find out there’s nothing in that case they don’t already know, they’ll be hot on my trail. I’ve got to get a move on.

You dropped that leather case on purpose?

A sly look crept over the old man’s face. Won’t slow ’em down for long. You know, if they’ve been around for seven centuries, they won’t quit now. Especially since I know.... He paused and looked suspiciously at Flood. Say, who are you, anyway?

I’m the one who just saved your hide back there. And you’re most welcome, I’m sure, he added sarcastically as he sidled away, keeping a wary eye on this strange character. They could have killed us both, if they’d really wanted to. Why didn’t they? What were they after?

I...can’t really say. Here, look at this buggy. You think you can fix this wheel so I can drive on?

Flood glanced at the broken spokes. Not a chance. Although...we could probably switch one of the rear wheels to the front and fashion some sort of skid for the back. It’ll create more drag for the horse, but it might work long enough to get you into New Haven.

Let’s get to it, then! The old man rubbed his hands gleefully.

Flood began to wonder if this man were a refugee from some asylum. Maybe, if he didn’t press him, he could get some more information. By the way, my name’s Marc Flood, he said easily, offering his hand.

A look of suspicion quickly overcame the man’s sharp features. But he finally said: I’m Roddy McGinnis, a professor from the University of Chicago.

And I’m the Pope, Flood thought. When McGinnis didn’t offer to shake, Flood dropped his hand.

Working quickly, the two of them wrenched the buggy off the stump onto the road, jacked it up, and removed both right side wheels, placing the good rear wheel on the front. Then