The Cortés Enigma (38 page)

Epilogue

Chris was at his wits’ end. The room was not meant for humans; that much had been obvious from the very start. The walls were wet due to sea mist, that and water that had leaked in from the storm. For all he knew there were other things, causes that his messed-up mind couldn’t even think about.

Hours had passed since his last nourishment. Was it longer? A day perhaps? In truth, part of him was relieved. The face haunted him, stalking him like a nightmare. It wasn’t just the face, but the similarities, the things it reminded him of. The grandmother was like the granddaughter: it was the same face only older.

And evil.

He opened his eyes, not because it was an easy thing to do, but anything was better than seeing that face. It was the first thing he saw when he closed his eyes, the only thing. Those eyes, once fiery and hazel, now cold and lifeless like a dried almond; that nose, wrinkled and pointed like a witch from a Roald Dahl book; those lips, thin and mean, a bringer of that same evil.

It was the face of age.

And the face the beauty of youth would surely one day become.

At the top of the stairs he saw movement, then light, painful on the back of his eyes. After two days shut away in the room, he was no longer accustomed to light. It was becoming brighter, white light ever more intense. The door at the top of the stairs had opened, though at present he was still to see who was responsible. There were footsteps on the stairs. The sound was strange for footsteps on stairs, not quite a bang but similarly loud. He reasoned stilettos were responsible, but what possible motivation could she have for wearing them here? And tonight? The steps were old and dilapidated, like walking on a boardwalk. The area at the bottom was equally bad; whatever he had been lying against had surely never been used for such a purpose. The lighthouse was to save lives. Not to be an oubliette.

The room was not meant for humans.

As the figure approached, he made out features. They were different from the last time: this woman was slender, younger. She was attractive once. Her features hadn’t changed physically, only her characteristics. Her jaw was tighter, meaner; her chest harder; her hair dirtied, as if it hadn’t been washed for a couple of days. There was sound coming out of her mouth but not words, breathing, heavy breathing.

Then there were the eyes, not warm but cold.

The eyes of a waitress.

And a murderess.

The old woman was sitting alone in the bedroom, surrounded by the new things.

All her life she had dreamed of them.

The gold was still to be recovered in its entirety; it would take months to complete that task. One small crate was all her granddaughter could manage.

She had learned to prioritise.

The Stone of Fire was the clincher: the purple light was dazzling, seemingly capable of lighting the room of its own accord. There were markings on the stone. Her failing sight could no longer read them explicitly, but seventy-seven years of being her had taught her everything she needed to know.

And her granddaughter.

Valeria entered, looking refreshed. She had washed her hands, face and hair, her appearance every bit that of a princess.

“Put it on,” her grandmother requested. “Show me.”

The headdress was located in the box; bringing it back had been an even greater priority. She raised it slowly out of the wooden container, its various feathers danced from side to side as she lifted it.

Slowly she brought it above her head, then down. It stayed, albeit heavy.

A perfect fit.

She turned away, first to her grandmother, then the mirror. The feathers were complete, the inner region covering her head like a bridge above water. Nothing of the type had been seen for many years.

Perhaps it never would again.

She was the last, but she had succeeded.

Montezuma had his revenge.

Less than a quarter of a mile away, the boat docked at the usual jetty. Danny tied it up to the nearest post and disembarked, helping the passenger before heading up the hill in the direction of the lighthouse. Beside him, Ben walked with a limp; he had been shot in the leg and lost over two pints of blood.

But he was alive.

He prayed Chris was as well.

Unlike the previous times Danny had visited, his demeanour was cold and his focus absolute. The girl who had treated him as a brother for seven years was gone, replaced by a creature far more foul.

From the outside, the two men stared at the walls, the whiteness a pale reflection of the setting sun.

The walls were blank.

And inhabited by fools.

…to be continued…

The Facts Behind My Fiction

As those of you who have read my novels before will know by now, this is usually the point when I spend some time explaining what areas of the novel were made up and what was inspired by fact. In the case of this novel, the task is all the easier. In a word, most of it was fiction.

There are indeed over 140 islands/islets that make up the Isles of Scilly. St Lide’s, however, is not one of them. The island does not exist. St Mary’s, on the other hand, is real, and much of what was mentioned is accurate. The Gibbous Moon is, of course, fictitious, as is the nearby North Atlantic inn. The museum exists, though my description of it is mostly made up. The same is true of the library. Old Town Church is based on the real St Mary’s, located in Old Town. Descriptions of the graveyard are based mostly on fact, except for the Godolphin Mausoleum, which does not exist. Similarly, the Star Castle does exist; however, suggestion of manipulation of its shape or a tunnel beneath it is conjecture. St Agnes is also a real island. There is a redundant lighthouse there, but the Old Man’s Foot does not exist.

The Godolphin family really existed, along with the Osbornes. The family were indeed the governors of the Isles of Scilly. Everyone mentioned in the novel did exist; however, most of the family were buried elsewhere. For those of you who believe in ghosts, it might amuse you to know Sidney Godolphin is, in fact, rumoured to haunt the Three Crowns Hotel in Chagford.

Godolphin Cross is a real location. The pub is actually called The Godolphin Arms and is not in any way the inspiration for the Godolphin Cross in this novel. The estate exists, and its description in this novel is based on both my first-hand and second-hand research. The three mines did exist, including the Great Work Mine. The remains are open to members of the National Trust and day visitors alike. The story of the treasure is, of course, fictitious. John Leland was a historical figure – an antiquarian of high renown. His writings included mention of the Godolphin mines. Connection with the treasure and the Star Castle, though, are my own invention.

Hernán Cortés was, of course, a real person and a great explorer. Much of what is included in this book is based on fact. His daughter, Catalina, is alleged to have died early. The granddaughter in the novel did not exist – nor did the
Santa Estella
and its connection with Sir Walter Raleigh. The idea that Catalina went in search of the treasure is therefore untrue.

The Noche Triste did indeed occur – for more on this I recommend you try
The Conquest of New Spain
by Bernal Díaz, which is a first-hand account of the events. The five emeralds in the novel did exist; Cortés gave them to his wife as a gift, much to the distaste of the Queen of Spain. The coat of arms is historical; the suggestion that it is, in fact, a subtle treasure map is not. The Aztec treasure is recorded among the texts of the conquistadors as having been real. The treasure has never been found. In the 16th century a Spanish galleon did go down between St Mary’s and St Agnes. It was discovered in 1978; however, folklore of the wreck dates back at least one hundred years before that time.

The identity of the ship has never been uncovered.

Acknowledgements

Researching this book has been an enormous pleasure, and I am grateful for the kindness and assistance of many people who I have met along the way. In particular, thanks go to all who offered their expertise and advice on my visits to the various places mentioned. A special thank you, as always, goes to Pauline Nolet for her work as copy-editor and my fellow authors and friends, Dave Leadbeater, Mike Wells, Steven Bannister, Andy Lucas, Cathy (CR) Hiatt, Karen Perkins, and Christine (CK) Raggio for helping to put
The Hotbox
project together last year that included the first edition of this book.

Thank you for reading. As for every author, readers are the lifeblood of our existence. I hope you enjoyed the book. If so, please look out for my other titles:

The Templar Agenda, 2011

The Larmenius Inheritance, 2013

The Plantagenet Vendetta, 2014

The Cromwell Deception, 2014

Robin Hood: The Unknown Templar, Peter Owen 2009

Pity for the Guy – a biography of Guy Fawkes, Peter Owen 2010

The Gothic King – a biography of Henry III, Peter Owen 2013

For more on me, please check out my website,
www.theunknowntemplar.com
. There, you can also find a link to my blog.

If you have any questions or you would like to get in touch, you can email me at
[email protected]
. You can also follow me on Twitter at @unknown_templar