The Larmenius Inheritance Read online

  THE

  LARMENIUS

  INHERITANCE

  JOHN PAUL DAVIS

  The Larmenius Inheritance

  First publication

  © John Paul Davis 2012

  The right of John Paul Davis to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  The following tale is a work of fiction. All names, people, locations and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or else used fictitiously. Any similarity to people, living or deceased, events, organisations or locales not otherwise acknowledged is coincidence.

  This book or eBook is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be resold, lent, hired out or otherwise circulated without the author’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Praise for The Templar Agenda

  Can’t wait for the new one…

  Richard Doetsch, international bestselling author of The Thieves of Heaven

  John Paul Davis clearly owns the genre of historical thrillers.

  Steven Sora, author of The Lost Colony of the Templars

  A well-researched, original and fascinating work – a real page-turner

  Graham Phillips, international bestselling non-fiction author

  Books by John Paul Davis

  Fiction

  The Templar Agenda

  The Larmenius Inheritance

  Non-Fiction

  Robin Hood: The Unknown Templar (Peter Owen Publishers)

  Pity For The Guy – a Biography of Guy Fawkes (Peter Owen Publishers)

  The Gothic King – a Biography of Henry III, due May 2013 (Peter Owen Publishers)

  For more information please visit www.theunknowntemplar.com

  Take my instruction instead of silver, and knowledge rather than choice gold, for wisdom is more precious than rubies, and nothing you desire can compare with her

  King Solomon ~ Proverbs 8:10-11

  1502: Knight of Christ, Miguel Corte-Real, sets out from Portugal on a secret voyage across the Atlantic. Hidden amongst his cargo is a legendary treasure – its very existence known only to those deemed worthy.

  500 years later, esteemed history professor William Anson is found murdered in La Rochelle. Around his neck, an ancient medallion, one that has not been seen since 1307. He is the grandmaster of the Knights of Arcadia: a society of men deemed worthy. His killers, a ruthless brotherhood, whose existence is equally legendary. And they will not rest until they have reclaimed what was once theirs.

  For Anson’s son, navy outcast Matt Anson, his father’s death is just the start of a series of events that turn his life upside down. Meanwhile, in London, journalist Nicole Stocker is sent to look into a string of deaths, including the mysterious demise of Anson. But as progress starts to be made, she is dragged off the case, attacked, and soon running for her life.

  As the futures of Anson and Stocker become intertwined, it becomes clear there is more at stake than mere history. An explosive secret remains buried, one that threatens to bring half the world to its knees. And some want it exposed…

  Prologue

  Nova Scotia, 1511

  Miguel Corte-Real had only one thing on his mind; it was the same thing that had been on his mind when he left Portugal.

  The explorer sat quietly on a lonely rock, his gaze focused on the horizon. It was not yet raining, but the sky above was overcast. The menacing cloud that had hovered over the coastline since his arrival now seemed a permanent fixture. He had heard some of the natives talk of the cloud as being different from that of the nearby islands. To them, the weather was a conscious entity, intrinsically linked with the personality of their most feared god. The man from Portugal had heard the stories. There was a sense of consistency to them: a man from the east who came to the island on the backs of whales, illuminated by a stunning white light, casting him in an ethereal glow. But there was no fire, no tangible presence.

  He believed he knew the truth behind the identity of that god. Unlike the god he worshipped, this man could not walk on water.

  He looked over his shoulder, his attention on the mass excavation that was going on less than two hundred metres away. The technology he saw was unlike anything he had ever seen, at least back in Portugal. The image was strange, somehow reminiscent of the scenes from the Old Testament. He imagined that the children of Israel were there in front of him, living out their legendary story. The irony of the story was even greater considering what was to be buried beneath the castle walls.

  He carried in his hand the only clue that would ever exist to its whereabouts. The paper was smooth and contained both a series of symbols and words, an encrypted code recognisable only to one deemed worthy. He wondered whether anyone would ever decipher it. Perhaps that was a good thing. The item in question was not gold, but it was worth its weight in it. People had killed to possess it. Soon it would be buried, hidden, forgotten…

  Accidental discovery would be impossible.

  Still there was no rain, but soon. Soon the heavens would open. The greatest challenge of his life would be over. In years to come, the secret of this small island would be passed on: a never-ending sequence formed by an unbreakable chain known only to those referred to in antiquity as the Keepers.

  Still no rain, but with every passing second the skies became darker, just as it said in the Scriptures. Any minute now the first drop would fall. The storm would continue long after his own passing, even long after the passing of his successors. The storm was inescapable.

  La Rochelle, France, present day

  The harbour was spinning like a vortex – or at least that was how it appeared to him. A bright halo had engulfed the city, its light bending from side to side as he moved.

  William Anson lost his footing on reaching the pinnacle of the Tour Saint-Nicolas and hit the ground forcefully.

  The pain was excruciating. Even the air felt heavy against his skin. He attempted to scream, but sound would not come. This was truly agony.

  He attempted to find his feet and failed. Even his hands were incapable of escaping the pain. He looked around, but vision was becoming difficult. The nearby walkway, usually heaving with tourists, cameras at the ready, or local couples enjoying a late walk in the romantic light, was deserted. There was a chill in the air, but the air was still, pleasant despite the late hour. Yet, the sky above was dark. He knew that a downpour was imminent.

  The Scot finally struggled to his feet, using the wall to support himself. The rough stone felt unbearable against his hands. Again he fell, his feet no longer able to hold his weight. Nor could his naked body. Every bit, torture.

  William Anson had always known that death was unavoidable. While no human being lives forever, for him the threat was always close. Even as a child he had been brought up to know the significance of his family’s history. The older he got, the more regularly that seemed to reveal itself. But it was not until earlier that day he knew for sure. Even when he woke up, he sensed something, an unusual feeling yet not altogether unexpected. He knew his visit to the museum had not gone unnoticed. He knew it was only a matter of time.

  He rolled to one side and coughed, even that now tortuous. His throat was restricted, an undeniable pain caused by a series of regular convulsions. There was also tightness in his chest, but that was not the worst pain. His outsides burned, unlike anything else he had ever experienced.

  But despite the anguish, the Scot felt a strange satisfaction knowing that they would never find what they sought. Men had
died for it; he would die for it. In his mind he attempted to focus on the face of his assailant, that look of unmistakeable anger in his eyes, knowing that he had failed.

  Yet the satisfaction was light relief.

  Every second that passed, the pain was intensifying.

  From down below, he heard a scream – a long, high-pitched shriek that would undoubtedly rouse attention. With his failing vision, he saw a woman standing by the water’s edge, her face frozen with fear. He could not blame her. His appearance was ghastly.

  Death was unavoidable.

  The halo that had earlier engulfed the city had merged into a blinding light that shone imposingly against a dark backdrop. It was not yet raining, but the black cloud above was gathering. The air was becoming oppressive, the faintest hint of thunder evident toward the north. Yet still no rain, nor lightning.

  Across the water, three men stood silently. Their presence was unnoticed, their frames hidden from any passer-by by the thick wall of the Tour de la Chaîne.

  The tallest of the three men lit a cigarette. ‘The 23rd grandmaster of the Knights of Arcadia is dying,’ he said. ‘Next comes the 24th.’

  The other two nodded. Together they stood motionless, their eyes still focused on the Scot. They watched him stumble across the stone, coming to a stop on the side of the tower. Slowly, they saw him slide across and out of sight. They heard a loud splash from beneath the tower.

  Then silence.

  The first drop of rain fell. The second of the men looked up at the darkening sky. As he did, there came the second drop, and several more. Quickly the heavens opened.

  The downpour had just begun.

  1

  Headquarters of the Knights of Arcadia, somewhere in Scotland

  The tall monk in the white habit continued through the open doorway, heading in the direction of the chapel. He walked slowly, unconsciously trying to delay his arrival.

  The news he had received minutes earlier did not make for pleasant hearing. It was not until he heard the words for a second time that the information began to sink in. He was nervous. Throughout his seven years in the order, he had been encouraged to pray for the safety of the grandmaster. He knew the knock-on effects could potentially be great.

  The young monk approached the entrance to the chapel and slowly opened the door. The chapel was small but attractive in appearance. Although the monastery predated the Reformation, the chapel was more modern and free of dilapidation. An altar was located in the usual place, lined with a white shroud, and surrounded by four walls, painted white: the right side separated by four stained-glass windows. Four pews provided the focal point of the chapel, located atop a hard floor that continued all the way to the altar. Its pews were deserted apart from one. An elderly abbot was kneeling at prayer, unmoved by the newcomer’s entrance.

  The young monk approached the front pew and leaned in close to the abbot.

  ‘Father,’ the young man said, ‘I bring grave news.’

  The abbot turned, slowly making eye contact with the monk. He was over eighty years in age, bespectacled, with thinning white hair. His once handsome face was heavily lined, but his eyes were still warm and alert. He blinked several times, allowing his focus to adjust on the young man beside him.

  The young man’s expression was distant. ‘Father, I’ve just heard word that your nephew has died.’

  The abbot remained still, his eyes motionless. He wetted his lips and swallowed. For over twenty years he had prayed for the safety of the man, the grandmaster, his own kin.

  ‘What happened?’

  The young monk spoke softly. ‘The facts are still unknown to me,’ he replied. ‘Only that the grandmaster is dead.’

  The abbot nodded. He controlled his emotions well, placing his concentration on his breathing. As usual, he would mourn in private.

  ‘Would you like me to tell the others, Father?’

  The abbot shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Thank you, Robert.’

  The young monk lowered his head and slowly left the chapel.

  The abbot remained on his knees, his hands cupped together in prayer. He stared to his right at the second stained-glass window, his focus on the familiar features of Bernard of Clairvaux, the first grandmaster of the original order.

  The first “Keeper of the Light”.

  Edinburgh, Scotland

  Matthew Anson was still in bed at 11:30am. He awoke slowly, his eyes struggling to adapt to the darkness. The curtains at the end of the room were firmly shut, allowing no light to penetrate the thick blue cotton.

  He couldn’t recall the last time he had risen so late, or the last time he had been hung over. At university he had got used to both, but three years in the navy had seen his routine set by the command of others.

  It still seemed strange that part of his life was over.

  Somewhere in the apartment, the distant ringing of the telephone sounded louder than usual. The intake of last night’s beer, Snakebite, and Vodka Red Bulls was still strongly evident on his breath, accompanied by what he guessed was a meat feast pizza. The combination was sickening. He had sworn on graduation never to drink Snakebite again. At uni they called it Nasty, or Purple Nasty. Nasty, he thought.

  Even the damn union used to smell of it.

  The ringing stopped, leaving his ears adjusting to the silence. He rolled onto his side and sat up slowly. The pain in his head intensified, accompanied by the harsh unbalanced feeling that affected his vision. Something else was disturbing him. Though the ringing had stopped, a strange vibrating sound was making itself known.

  He rose slowly to his feet, struggling to keep his balance. Through the darkened room he walked, practically stumbling, heading in the direction of the window. He opened the curtains. The brightness of mid-morning hit him instantly, causing his eyes to close. He blinked several times. The area outside his room was a typical suburban street, concrete, several cars, wet pavement, darkened from the recent poor weather.

  He turned slowly, his concentration on the noise. As he did, the sound stopped, as did the vibrating. A loud ringing sensation echoed in his ears, a familiar feeling that he often felt after a night out at a nightclub, accompanied by the pounding of his rapidly beating heart. His throat was dry, and his skin sweaty. For the first time he noticed that he was completely naked. His black T-shirt with the Jack Daniel’s logo was in the middle of the floor, covered in a purple stain, along with his boxer shorts. He retrieved his boxers and put them on before looking himself over in the better light.

  He looked horrendous, but he remembered a time when he had looked worse. His eyes were red and bloodshot, typical morning after. Purple bags had also gathered under his eyes. He looked closely at his right eye. A small cut was visible beneath the lower lid. Fragments of dried blood circled the cut. He focused on the mark – a visual reminder of his disgrace a week earlier. The scar was still to heal, but he could tell from the blood that the cut had reopened.

  What the hell had he been doing last night?

  Removing the blood, his gaze returned to the mirror. His medium-length, dark brown hair was messier than usual and slightly curled on the fringe. He vaguely recalled two of his mates taking the piss out of him for it, implying it was a perm. He laughed as he recalled. Although he was hardly a perfect ten, he was not without charm. His stubble beard, now slightly unkempt, had earned him vague comparisons with Ethan Hawke in the eyes of one drunken conquest six years earlier, and he had decided not to shave through uni. In the navy he opted for cleanliness, but over the last week the stubble had returned.

  The silence in the room was interrupted for the second time by the loud vibrating sound. A green glow was visible, shining intermittently from the right pocket of his blue jeans. Finally he realised what was making the sound.

  His mobile phone was ringing.

  He picked up his jeans and rummaged through the pocket. The display indicated that the incoming call was the voicemail service, ringing on a recurring basis. Strange, th
e setting was on silent.

  The display suggested he had four missed calls from the voicemail and one other from his aunt’s number. It was unlike her to call.

  Taking a seat on the side of his bed, he listened to the voice message. The call was from his aunt, an instruction to call her back as soon as he received her message. He lowered the phone and pressed 3 to return the call. The ringing tone rang out at regular intervals, ceasing on the third.

  ‘Hello?’

  The voice was that of a woman, instantly recognisable but also somehow frail, at least compared to her usual self.

  ‘Catherine.’

  ‘Oh, Matt, thank God.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  Moments later Matt left his bedroom, his thoughts scattered. He stumbled along the deserted corridor, failing to avoid bumping into the wall. Without conscious thought, he had descended the small flight of stairs to the kitchen.

  He looked around aimlessly. Three washed plates were located neatly in the newly bought plate rack while an empty bowl was floating in the sink. Fifteen cans of Foster’s were stacked up on the windowsill, each one open and mostly empty. The smell of spilt beer was prevalent, mixed with the unappealing smell of burned toast from the white toaster that was still switched on.