The Devil's Path (An Alexander Scott Novel Book 1) Read online

  “Alex, there are so many different Grail legends passed on down through the years that it is impossible to say which one is true….or if any of them are at all. Some say the Grail was taken and hidden in Genoa, others that it was hidden in Eastern Europe and others that it never left the Holy Land. However, by coming here and seeing that rock, it was enough for my father to know that it had been here, and it also told him where he had to go next.”

  “Where might that be?”

  Kate picked up her glass and then shot it down in one gulp. “To France, Normandy to be exact, the ancestral home of the Bors,” said Kate. “That’s where my father would have gone.”

  With a smile, Scott said, “Sure, why not, it’s not as if I know what’s really going on. I thought this would be a simple assignment. No one said that I would be involved in a hunt for a relic from the Bible.”

  “Excellent,” said Kate, “I’m going to pack.” With that, she left Scott all alone at the table, a million things racing through his mind. Standing up, he walked over to the bar and called over Owen. Five minutes later, over a hearty handshake, Scott headed upstairs to pack as well.

  Chapter 9

  Normandy, France

  The black-and-white-painted ship slowly slipped into the harbor at Cherbourg. One among at least a couple dozen of others already moored. A flock of excited seagulls eagerly greeted the new arrival, loudly squawking and flying all around the vessel as if it were somehow there to feed them.

  Scott and Kate sat on the upper deck eating a light lunch of cucumber sandwiches washed down with a full-bodied French red wine. They watched as their ship, the Isle de Martinique, carefully navigated her way past a couple of smaller fishing vessels until it dropped anchor beside the central quay. Their voyage across the channel had thankfully been quiet and uneventful. Sneaking out of Llangollen in the middle of the night, Owen had arranged for them to be taken to Colwyn Bay on the north shore of Wales, where a fishing boat owned by a family friend took them all the way to Island of Guernsey in the English Channel. From there, they secured passage on a small French steamship that regularly plied the waters between Cherbourg and the Channel Islands.

  During the voyage, Scott had learnt that there was more to Kate O’Sullivan than met the eye. She was an accomplished scholar in her own right. Having worked at her father’s side for the past ten years, she could read and write Latin, French, ancient Greek and some Arabic. Kate, like her father, was an expert on The Bible but had also taken the time to delve into the Quran and Torah in her quest to gain greater understanding of spirituality. Before leaving Virginia, she had become quite versed in medieval history, a subject Scott admittedly knew little about. Scott chuckled to himself, thinking that the Union’s hopes of finding President Lincoln’s friend were tied to the abilities of a young, strong-willed Confederate woman. He reveled in the irony of the whole thing.

  They decided to wait until the ship’s crew were busy offloading their supplies before disembarking from the vessel. Dressed in borrowed simple fishermen’s clothing, they blended in with the men and women noisily jostling about on the pier. Scott and Kate had abandoned their luggage for a couple of rumpled cream-colored haversacks that they carried over their shoulders. Feeling that they had not been observed, Scott and Kate nipped into a local church and then changed back into their normal clothes. Later, they made their way to the train station and bought passage on the next train to Avranches, an old city located at the base of the Normandy Peninsula. Here, explained Kate, they would probably find the best clues to the Bors family history and hopefully the Grail. Scott could not fault her logic; if she drew that conclusion from her father’s notes, then Professor O’Sullivan would most likely have gone there himself. The train didn’t leave for another two hours, so Kate and Scott strolled arm in arm to the closest Bistro, located on a narrow side street near the train station, and ordered themselves some lunch. A platter of breads, cured meats, and cheeses accompanied by the obligatory bottle of wine soon arrived at their table.

  “Have you been able to deduce anything new from your father’s notes?” asked Scott as he nibbled on a piece of strong-tasting blue Roquefort cheese.

  Kate looked up. “I hate to say it, but from here on out my father’s books aren’t going to be that much use to us,” said Kate, a sad look filling her eyes. “He wrote an awful lot in his journals about the legend of the Holy Grail and its connections to the Arthurian legends. Unfortunately, his notes seemed to end with his disappearance from Wales.”

  Scott reached out and gently touched her hand. “Kate, I wouldn’t worry too much about that. You’ve gotten us this far, if anyone can track down the clues to finding your father, it will be you,” said Scott with a smile on his face. “Honestly, I’d be lost without you, and that’s the truth.”

  Kate blushed but did not pull her hand away. “I hope you’re not putting too much faith in me, Alex,” said Kate, looking into his deep-blue eyes.

  “Kate, we can do this,” said Scott firmly. “If we can keep ahead of whoever it is that is following us, then I honestly believe that you can pull this off. Trust me, together we will find your father.”

  An hour later, their train pulled noisily out of the Cherbourg Train Station. The steam from the train’s engine, swirling back and enveloping the first couple of cars, was making it look like a dragon breathing smoke as it sped down the track and then out into the green French countryside.

  Kate sat quietly looking out the window as the world sped by. Her mind was elsewhere. She knew the Bors’ ancestral home was in the Avranches region only she was not sure where exactly they should look. A thought seemed to be hovering in the back of her sub-conscious; no matter how hard she tried, she could not connect the dots. For now, she realized that she would have to put her faith in god and the man sitting beside her. Looking over, she saw Scott sat quietly reading her father’s last book on the Great Flood and Noah. A sudden fatigue seemed to catch up with Kate, making her eyes heavy and impossible to keep open. Leaning over, she placed her head on Scott’s shoulder and within seconds was fast asleep.

  A voice softly called to her.

  “Time to get up Kate,” said her father. Looking up, Kate saw her father; his beard desperately in need of a trim covered his wizened face. Rubbing her eyes, Kate rolled over and then pulled the sheets over her head and protested that she did not want to get up.

  “Come, Kate, the train’s stopping,” said her father, who suddenly turned about and walked away, leaving her all alone in her desolate and empty bedroom.

  “No,” said Kate desperately, snapping her eyes open. Instead of her father, Alexander Scott stood there looking down at her. Disoriented, Kate looked around and realized that it had all been a dream. “How long was I asleep,” asked Kate, rubbing her tired eyes.

  “A good four hours,” said Scott, helping Kate stand up. “You must have needed it, or you wouldn’t have slept so deep.”

  After gathering their few possessions, they walked off the train and were met by a pair of young black youths dressed like train porters, who offered to take their bags. With a smile, Kate and Scott handed off their bags and followed the boys outside. A light breeze made its way down the busy side street. Kate stopped and took a deep breath. The smell of fresh bread from a nearby bakery wafted through the air. She thought it one of the most-pleasant aromas she had smelt in ages. It reminded her of home in Virginia.

  “Now where to, Kate?” asked Scott, breaking Kate out of her reverie.

  “We need to find a church, preferably an old one,” said Kate, looking about hoping to see a man of the cloth. None appeared through the crowd of people moving along the side street. Kate bit her lip and then stood on her toes, hoping to see a priest, but as before, nothing.

  “Where to Madame?” asked one of the youths as he hailed down a carriage.

  “I’m not sure,” replied Kate fluently in French.

  “Perhaps a hotel for you and your husband? There is a good one close to here, nice
clean rooms…very affordable,” said the closest boy with a wink.

  “One moment,” replied Scott in French as Kate without warning suddenly rushed off into the crowd. Scott could see her flame-red hair bobbing and weaving as she made her way through the sea of people.

  Kate stopped beside a man in a long blue coat. He wore a military-style kepi and bright-red trousers. Scott could see them engaged in discussion; he could not hear what was being said, as several vendors began noisily pushing their way through the throng, drowning Kate out. A minute later, with a tip of his hat, the man went on his way. Kate made her way back over to Scott. The look on his face told her she should not do that ever again.

  “What was all that about?” asked Scott.

  “That man is a Gendarme, a French policeman, if you like,” replied Kate. “He told me that the oldest church still standing around these parts is called Saint-James, and it is located on the outskirts of the town.”

  Scott looked down at the youths and said, “Do either of you know where the church of Saint-James is?”

  One boy looked back, absolutely puzzled, but the other nodded his head enthusiastically and then waved over a carriage. Scott tipped the boys, after the driver got the route from the young boy who claimed to know what they were looking for. A minute later, comfortable in their open carriage, Scott and Kate sat back and watched the old brick buildings crowding the narrow cobblestone streets pass by. The one thing that Scott missed most of all about Europe when he was back at home was the history that seemed to seep from every nook and cranny of every building, no matter where you went. America was a youngster compared to Europe and at this moment, it was still tearing itself apart. Scott shook his head and cleared it of such negative thoughts. He knew that it would be pointless and counter-productive to dwell upon such things.

  An hour later, the carriage pulled up and stopped in front of one of the smallest churches Scott had ever seen. It could not have been more than thirty yards long and a dozen wide. It had a small bell tower at the far end of the brick church topped with a freshly installed iron cross resting on top. The roof looked like it had been repaired recently with new pinkish-red tiles that seemed out of place with the much older patchwork of deep redbrick ones on the roof. A small cemetery in need of some attention butted up against the church. Scott had no doubt that many of the worn stone crosses, almost impossible to read, were hundreds of years old. After paying the driver, Scott helped Kate from the carriage, grabbed their duffle bags, then together they stood there staring at the aged-looking structure.

  “Well we didn’t come all this way to gawk at a church,” said Scott, breaking the silence. “Come on let’s see if the Father is home. It’s getting late and it’ll be dark soon.”

  “Lead on,” said Kate with a wave of her hand.

  Opening a squeaky, rusted metal gate, Scott walked down the cobblestone path leading to the closed front door of the church. Stopping in front of the dull black-painted wooden door, Scott tried the handle. It was open. Pushing the creaking door inwards, Scott and Kate took a quick peek inside. When they saw no one around they stepped inside out of the warm, late-afternoon sun. The air inside the dimly lit church was cool and inviting. Looking about, Scott could see a dozen old and worn pews lining either side of the small church’s interior. Only a handful of candles were lit at the far end. The sun shone brightly through several stained-glass windows, casting beams of light onto an old wooden pulpit. Kate always enjoyed being inside old churches. They reminded her of her youth. Looking up at the stained-glass windows, she marveled at the intricate detailing. Above her, she saw the image of Saint James when he was a Bishop helping the poor.

  “May I help you, my children?” said an elderly voice out of the gloom.

  Scott and Kate both looked over. Standing there in a dimly lit side vestibule was a short, elderly-looking man with a long scraggly white beard, dressed in his priest’s vestments.

  “Please pardon our intrusion, Father,” said Kate. “The door was open, so we came inside to get out of the heat.”

  “You are English?” asked the priest, noticing her accent.

  “No, Father, we’re American,” said Scott, offering his hand in greeting. The priest placed his bony hand inside Scott’s and shook his hand. “My name is Alexander Scott, and this is my cousin Kate O’Sullivan,” said Scott with a smile, trying to break the ice with the priest.

  “Pleased to meet you. You speak French very well. I don’t think I’ve ever spoken to an American before,” said the priest. “My name is Father Francois. I have been the priest here going on seventy years now. I do not know where all the time has gone,” said Francois before tugging on his beard. “Oh my, listen to me babbling like an old fool. How may I help you, my children?”

  Kate cleared her throat and spoke. “Father, my cousin, Alexander, is a lawyer for a prominent New York family. They have retained him to look into several questionable claims made by a man alleging to have ancestral property rights in this region of France,” said Kate. She hated herself for telling a white lie to such a sweet-looking old man. “We, of course, cannot discuss the details of the claim while it is still before the courts. I’m sure you understand.”

  “If you say so, my child,” said the priest, clearly not understanding the legalities, but with a shrug, not caring either.

  “I was wondering if perhaps you could assist us?” said Kate with an enchanting smile.

  The priest smiled back. “My dear, of course, I will do what I can to help you. I don’t get too many visitors these days. Most of my flock has passed on or now attends service elsewhere. The company would do me good.”

  Kate instantly felt even worse for lying to him.

  “Well, any help you can give us will be greatly appreciated,” added Scott, digging into his pocket. “I am more than willing to make a donation to help with the upkeep of your church.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” said the priest with a wave of his hand telling Scott to put his money away. “Your company here will be payment enough. I doubt that my church or I will see many more summers,” said the priest sadly.

  A few minutes later, sitting around a small wooden table in the church’s only spare space that doubled as the father’s kitchen and living quarters, Scott, Kate and Father Francois drank a glass of locally-produced red wine, shared some bread and cheese before getting down to business. The Father told them he was in his eighties and regaled them with a story about when he was as a young man, when he sat outside and watched the English Fleet bombard the coast during the time of Napoleon. He still vividly remembered the flames from the burning ships lighting up the night sky until, with the blood-red dawn, the ships had forever sunk from sight.

  Scott and Kate sat there enthralled by the man’s story, until with a broad smile on his weathered face, he looked over at Scott and spoke.

  “Now enough tall tales from me,” said the priest with a wink at Kate. “How possibly can I, an old priest, assist you with your legal case?”

  Scott placed his wine glass down. “Father, a very influential man, claiming to have ancestral ties to the Bors family, claims that his family lived in this area as far back as the time of the Romans. He has gone to court to argue that he has the right to claim to land throughout Normandy,” said Scott, embellishing Kate’s tale. “If successful, his claim could affect many families and landowners in this region. What I would like to do is determine if his family is actually from this region, and if he can legitimately establish an unbroken family lineage back here to Normandy.”

  “Oh my dear, that sounds awfully complicated,” said the priest, pouring everyone another full glass of wine.

  “Actually, it might be quite simple,” said Kate. “Do you still have any records or books written during the mediaeval period or perhaps even earlier?”

  The Father seemed to grow distant for a moment, lost in thought. He scrunched up his wrinkled face, ran a hand through his beard, and then struggled to rise from his chair. Scot
t instantly jumped up and grabbed the elderly priest’s arm.

  “I know that I have some books in the cellar that I have never opened in all my time here,” said the priest, shuffling off to grab a candle from his cupboard. Lighting it, he led Scott and Kate to a closed trap door in the far end of the church.

  Scott bent down, brushed away the dirt, and then lifted the handle, pulling up on the door. The musty stale smell of dust and earth rose up.

  “I am too old to climb up and down the stairs,” said the priest. “You are both more than welcome to look around down there. If you like, I will see about getting us some soup for dinner.”

  Scott went to offer the priest some money, but with a smile, he refused and shuffled off, leaving Scott and Kate looking down into the dark, decayed-smelling cellar.

  “After you,” said Kate.

  Shaking his head, Scott turned about and then climbed down the rickety wooden stairs into the near pitch-black cellar. He thought the ladder was going to collapse with each step he took. Finally, his feet touched the dirt floor. Reaching up, he helped Kate climb down the ladder, the candle in her hand helping to illuminate the small room under the church. Scott saw another candle sitting on a dust-covered table and lit it. The tiny room filled with light. The cellar was no more than a half dozen yards long and barely three yards wide.

  The cellar was cool, but not damp.

  Kate took a second to get her bearings. After a few seconds, she made her way over to a wall containing a bookshelf crammed with worn-looking, dust-covered, leather-bound books. Carefully picking one from the shelf, she opened it and let out a gasp. Kate had never held in her life a book that was more than eight hundred years old. Looking at the writing, she could see that it was written in Latin, the language of the day for the clergy. After a few minutes of delicately looking through the fragile and yellowed pages of the book, she reverently placed it back on the shelf, and then with a determined look on her face, she eagerly started to look around for another equally dated tome.