Chapter Four
Michael watched as Sophie clipped the stitches with a steady hand, pulling gently to remove them from the little terrier. It was quite a contrast from the emotional state she had been in last night when he arrived at her clinic.
Of course, there had been a big red dragon breathing fire at the silly fools who thought a twenty-gauge shotgun shell would pierce his armor.
Michael hadn’t meant to kiss her, either.
Centuries spent as a male—to say nothing of enhanced warlock abilities—told him this woman was not likely to succumb to any intimate gestures without a solid relationship.
He had meant to comfort her, ease the despair he felt in her, but the desperation he’d seen in her eyes at the arrival of the police had triggered that kiss.
And, by the Goddess, her lips had been soft and warm and moist just like he imagined—
His reverie ended as Mr. Smith entered the study, carrying a folder.
Sophie looked up. “Is that the manuscript?”
“It is indeed,” he replied and sat down at his desk. Princess bounded to him, her three puppies tumbling over each other as they wobbled after her.
Michael laughed and scooped the pups up in his hands as he took one of the two chairs opposite Mr. Smith. “Your mom needs a rest,” he said to them as Mr. Smith slid the folder toward him.
Sophie approached more slowly and sat in the other chair. “Shouldn’t something this old be kept in an environmentally-controlled box or something?”
“Oh, this is just an English language copy,” Mr. Smith said. “The original is in my vault. I have very good security. Go ahead. Read it.”
Michael let one of the puppies nibble on his finger while they waited for Sophie to finish. Princess watched him anxiously and he finally set the pups down and gave her a pat on her head. “There you go, Mama,” he said as she sniffed her offspring.
Sophie put the manuscript down and shook her head.
“I can believe the Templars found some ancient religious relics. Anyone who is interested in history knows the original nine spent their time digging around Solomon’s Temple rather than “protecting” Christian pilgrims on Crusade.
Stories of the vast Templar treasure are legendary.
I can even believe that they managed to smuggle it out of France and to Scotland before that dreaded roundup on Friday the thirteenth.
But magical? How can an inanimate object wield power? ”
“I don’t blame you for being skeptical,” Michael replied.
“You’ve been trained to deal with facts and proof.
For the sake of argument, let’s assume the Templars did get the treasure—whatever it was—to Scotland and under the protection of the St. Clairs, who opposed the French king and his somewhat dubious alliance with England.
Studying history, it’s pretty safe to bet that it was the Templars who were the “warrior force” that gave Robert the Bruce his victory at Bannockburn. Are you okay with that?”
Sophie shrugged. “I suppose. But what does a lesson in Scottish history have to do with Celtic relics supposedly handed down by some mythical gods?”
Mr. Smith pursed his lips at that. “My dear Sophie— Your name means “wisdom.” Did you know?”
She frowned at him. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“Tsk, tsk,” Mr. Smith replied. “A wise woman would be willing to accept new ideas and concepts, wouldn’t she?”
“Concepts, yes, but—”
“Just keep an open mind, my dear.”
Sophie grunted and turned back to Michael. “Go on, please.”
“I’m going to have to backtrack a little for you to understand how this particular manuscript was written,” Michael said. “Excalibur is one of four sacred relics that were entrusted to a secret order of Templars referred to as the Priory of Sion—”
“Are you going to go all The DaVinci Code on me?” Sophie asked suspiciously.
Michael shook his head. “The relics were passed down through the Merovingian bloodline and the Priory was the elite guard trained to protect them.”
“Whose bloodline?”
“The Merovingian kings of Gaul, also known as the Sorcerer Kings, were considered quite a threat to the Roman Church in the sixth century because of their knowledge and use of esoteric and occult skills.”
Sophie grimaced. “So how are French kings from fifteen hundred years ago relevant to the manuscript? It isn’t that old.”
“Patience, my dear,” Mr. Smith interjected.
“They’re relevant because they were descendants of the Fisher Kings, who traced their lineage back to Joseph of Arimathea.
” Michael eyed Sophie as though waiting for her to interrupt again, but she was silent, so he continued.
“Pelles, the king during Arthur’s time, had a daughter named Elaine, who married Lancelot—”
“And Galahad was born and eventually found the Holy Grail!” Mr. Smith clapped his hands excitedly. “Doesn’t it all just fit together?”
Sophie studied him, wondering if both of these men were slightly mad, but before she could comment, Michael went on.
“I can see the skepticism on your face, but it’s the truth. However, to move forward and answer your original question—the manuscript was probably written in the twentieth century, but in medieval Gaelic so only those who were meant to read it would.”
“There aren’t too many people who major in medieval languages, are there?” Sophie asked.
“No, but the Priory still exists.”
“Uh-huh,” Sophie said.
Michael smiled. “I know it’s hard to believe, but each of the relics would have been protected by a person with interest in that field.
The Spear and the Sword are both battle weapons, so my guess is they would have had a military guardian.
Someone like General Lee or Winston Churchill or maybe even Patton. ”
“Patton?”
“Well, you know he loved history and believed in reincarnation. He spoke of battle sites where he had fought before.”
Sophie stared at him. “You’re saying these men were members of an ancient secret order of the Templars?”
“I can’t say that. No one knows who members of the Priory are except for the Grand Masters, who are always referred to as Jean.”
“Why?”
Michael shrugged. “Perhaps to protect their real identity. Perhaps because the Templars revered Jean—John—the Baptist as their patron. At any rate, what’s important now is that the Sword is in the United States.”
“And you’re going to tell me how it got here?”
He grinned. “Sure. I don’t know where the treasure was secreted for over a hundred years, but speculation—from scholars—is that William St. Clair—which is how the Sinclair name was pronounced back then—began building Rosslyn Chapel in the late 1400s as a cover to hide the treasure.
Kirks—churches—were still safe from invasion at that time.
” Michael paused, trying to keep the bitterness out of his voice.
“However, when King James began his persecution and burning of so-called witches a century later, nowhere was safe. Rosslyn Chapel aroused suspicion because it had too many pagan symbols carved on its walls, pillars, and altars. Would it not make sense for the St. Clair earl to remove the treasure?”
“I guess. But why bring it to America? If I recall, it was the Spanish and the French who were claiming land here then.”
“True,” Michael agreed, “but the St. Clairs hailed from Viking sailing stock. One of their Henris set off for Nova Scotia in 1398, nearly a century before Columbus. By the mid-1400s, St. Clair had drawn maps of North America.” Michael nodded toward the manuscript.
“St. Clair would have known where to go.”
Sophie followed his glance and then looked at Mr. Smith. “You said that your research assistant found the spear? Why isn’t she looking for the Sword then?”
Mr. Smith’s face drooped. “She is missing, at present. I, of course, have hired private detectives to look for her.” He looked at Michael. “I’m sure that horrible man, Adam Baylor, has hired some as well.”
“I have every reason to believe that Sara and the spear are safe,” Michael answered, hoping no one would ask who his source was.
Even Smith—who had a lively imagination—would have a hard time accepting a faerie had told him.
And Michael didn’t even want to see the incredulous look on Sophie’s face.
She would think him completely delusional.
But it was Sophie who switched directions. “Who is Adam Baylor?”
Michael couldn’t very well tell her that Baylor—or Balor—was an ancient god who had deliberately become evil and fed off violence and enmity.
“Adam Baylor poses as a very wealthy broker who is based in London,” he finally said, “but what he really does is launder money from international drug cartels and sponsors terrorist organizations across the world.”
Sophie stared at him. “Why hasn’t he been caught? Surely Interpol has the technology to—”
“Interpol has tried. So has Scotland Yard and the CIA. Baylor uses aliases and has layers of protection,” Michael answered. “The set of books he keeps are clean. No one has ever been able to directly connect him to anything.”
“Then how do you know he’s guilty?”
“Every once in a while there’s a whistleblower brave enough to come forward,” Michael said. Better not to mention just how long ago some of them came—Julius Caesar, King Arthur, MacBeth—more recently, Ghandi and Martin Luther King…
“What happened to them?” Sophie asked.
“They all ended up being assassinated,” Michael answered.
Sophie’s eyes grew round. “This Baylor person was responsible?”
Michael nodded. “He even had the poor old professor who translated this manuscript murdered, although there is no blood on his hands.”
She looked again at the manuscript. “Has he seen this?”
“Undoubtedly,” Mr. Smith cut in. “The clue to finding the spear was in here. It was how he knew to track Sara and Mr. Ramsey.”
“So he’s searching for the relics too?” she asked.