Monica laughed playfully.

  “That’s arthritis, Rick.”

  He laughed too, but her joke landed on a tender spot, the age difference between them. It shadowed the feelings he was developing for her, making him doubt whether what seemed obvious could be true. Could she really feel the same? He didn’t want try to build something meaningful on uneven ground.

  Looking at the sun’s position, he changed the subject. “It’s nearly lunch. Let’s find somewhere to eat.”

  “We need to find a place to stay,” Monica informed him. “I checked us out of the hotel in Edinburgh.”

  Rick was surprised by that, and a bit annoyed, but he pressed on, smiling. They climbed back into the small car without further comment and navigated through narrow, winding streets that seemed designed to confuse travelers. After several wrong turns, they emerged onto Main Street and spotted a rustic tavern. Inside, warmth enveloped them, a welcome contrast to the cool spring air. The small dining room was curiously empty despite the number of cars parked on the street outside.

  As they stepped further in, a woman’s voice called out from behind an open doorway at the end of a long bar, her highland accent broad and musical.

  “We winnae be servin’ fir another hour, mind.”

  Rick rolled his eyes at this distinctly un-American concept of restaurant hours.

  “Not even hot soup and a sandwich for a tired traveler?” he called back.

  His accent drew the owner out, a plump, somewhat worn, middle-aged woman with silvery blonde hair that caught the light from the windows. She emerged from the kitchen and gave them an appraising look before attempting a smile.

  “American, is it?” she asked, eyebrows raised.

  Rick smiled and gestured between them. “Rick Townsend and Dr. Monica Scott.”

  “Scott,” the woman returned, perking noticeably. “And a doctor tae boot.”

  “Archaeologist,” Monica clarified.

  “Ah, the chapel then,” the woman responded with immediate understanding. “Or is it the ruin ye come fir?”

  “Perhaps both,” Monica answered, “but right now we’re starving. We didn’t eat breakfast.”

  The woman’s shoulders drooped in good-natured resignation. “Close the door back there and have a seat.”

  She pointed to a table near the kitchen entrance. “Hang the closed sign, in case any o’ my guests return early from their tour. I’d no’ want them tae get the idea that I’m servin’ before time.”

  Rick complied, closing the dining area off from the rest of the tavern before taking a seat across from Monica. The solid, well-worn wooden chair creaked beneath him.

  The woman wiped her work-roughened hands on a dishtowel and extended one. “Margaret Kennan,” she said, then added, “I’ve hot, sun-dried tomato soup wi’ roasted peppers and I can make a liverwurst sandwich if ye like.”

  They both smiled and Rick said, “That sounds wonderful. We promise not to tell anyone that you broke the rules.”

  Margaret’s laugh was warm and genuine.

  Monica leaned forward. “Speaking of guests, we also need a room.”

  Margaret answered from the kitchen, her voice carrying over the clatter of ladles and bowls. “Unfortunately, all o’ my rooms are taken tonight. Ye might try the Guest House across the street.”

  Monica thanked her as Margaret emerged bearing two steaming bowls of soup, the rich aroma filling the small space. “Please tell me yer not payin’ in cash,” she said. “I cannae unlock the register until it’s time.”

  “Card it is then,” Rick assured her.

  Margaret returned to the kitchen and brought out sandwiches a few minutes later, the bread freshly sliced and still warm.

  “This soup is delicious,” Monica said, smiling after her first spoonful. “I don’t think I’ve ever tasted a better tomato soup.”

  Margaret smiled at the compliment, then wiped her hands and sat down at their table. “Ye dinnae seem the usual tourists. I cannae put my finger on it. I see plenty o’ Americans, mostly demandin’ this and that, but there’s somethin’ different in your manner.”

  Rick smiled at what he took for a compliment but continued eating, savoring the rich, tangy soup. Monica said, “Actually we’re not tourists. We’re here doing research related to an archaeological dig in Canada. We think there may be a connection to Rosslyn.”

  “How interestin’,” Margaret said, her tone suggesting it was anything but.

  “Well, ye’ve just missed the last tour o’ the day. The evenin’ tour, the ‘ghost tour,’ as they’re callin’ it, only runs on Fridays and Saturdays.”

  Rick set down his spoon. “What about the scholarly tour? When does that run?” He went on to explain, “We have lots of in-depth questions.”

  Margaret blinked, momentarily caught off guard, but she recovered quickly. “So ye want a private tour?”

  Rick nodded and Monica smiled.

  “Yes, private.”

  “There are none scheduled, o’ course, but I have a friend, Liz MacPhee, she’s the village librarian. Liz knows all about the history o’ Rosslyn, the chapel, the castle and even back tae the ancient Roman occupation.”

  Rick brightened.

  “It sounds like Liz is exactly who we need.”

  Margaret pushed back from the table. “Excuse me then, I’ll just give Liz a wee ring and see if she’s able tae make time for ye.”

  As she disappeared into the back, Rick caught Monica’s eye and smiled. For the first time since their arrival in Scotland, the tension between them seemed to ease, if only momentarily.

  ~

  ​

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Rosslyn Chapel

  The Guest House lived up to its modest name, only one of its six rooms remained available. Their room, like all others in the freshly renovated ancient stone building, featured a new queen-sized bed and modern furnishings. Monica was quietly delighted at the arrangement that would keep Rick nearby, while he resigned himself to spending the night in the room’s comfortable lounge chair.

  After settling in, they explored the small village of Rosslyn before returning to Margaret’s tavern for dinner. The tavern was crowded with tourists. Rick and Monica had to wait in the small pub area for a table, where they both drank too much on empty stomachs, Rick leading the way; it being his first taste since the concussion. As it worked out, after eating a skimpy meal of pub fair, they returned to their tiny room at the Guest House and, falling into bed together, promptly fell asleep.

  In the morning, they were startled awake by a rude knocking on the door of their room. Rick shot up in the bed, immediately feeling the effects of the night’s alcoholic abuse, not remembering how or when he’d gotten undressed. It took a moment for him to find his voice, but he finally responded to the insistent pounding, “Yes?”

  An angry female voice returned to him through the closed door, “Get up! Yer guide is ‘ere. She’s waitin’ fer ye!”

  Rick checked his phone for the time, then remembered that Margaret Kennan had arranged for her friend, Liz MacPhee, to give them a morning tour. He nodded toward the open bathroom door. “You go first,” he told Monica.

  She groaned at his gesture of kindness but rolled out of bed anyway and padded across the creaking wooden floor to the sparse bathroom. After relieving herself, she splashed cold water on her face in a futile attempt to clear her mind, then brushed her teeth while Rick hurriedly dressed. When she finished, he followed the same hasty routine in the bath.

  Liz MacPhee was younger than Rick anticipated, a smallish woman of four foot ten, pleasantly round in appearance, with sparkly green eyes, and a scattering of freckles on a strikingly pretty face. She had short-cropped auburn hair, disproportionately large breasts and a tiny voice that sounded as if she’d been huffing helium. Unmarried at thirty-one, she was an unhappy soul to begin, so, being kept waiting this way only added to her normally contentious mood. Nevertheless, she managed to force a smile during introductions, having waited nearly an hour.

  “Ah want tae be clear that Ah’ve been on the clock fer an hour now. Ah’ll expect tae be paid fer that time,” she stated firmly, her Scottish brogue unmistakable.

  “Oh, certainly,” Monica agreed cordially before adding an apology. “We’re so sorry to have kept you waiting. It’s jetlag. We overslept. I hope you’ll forgive us.”

  “Happily,” Liz replied, quickly qualifying, “as long as Ah’m paid fer ma proper time.”

  Rick smiled down at her, amused that despite the considerable height difference between them, this tiny woman had so assertively put him in his place.

  “We must get started right away,” she scolded, “there’s much tae see.”

  Rick raised his index finger, begging her indulgence for just one more minute, then he hurried off to the Guest House dining area to pour two cups of hot coffee to go, one for him and one for Monica.

  When he returned, Liz set a fierce pace for their walk from the Guest House, down the path to Rosslyn Chapel. She walked ahead of them, her short little legs churning like the pushrods of a steam locomotive on a downhill run. Even Rick, with his much longer stride, had difficulty keeping up with her.

  When they reached the chapel entrance, Liz stopped abruptly and explained with evident pride, “Ah have ma own set o’ keys. The regular tours dinnae start fer another two hours. Ah always schedule ma tours early in the day tae avoid any interference.”

  With that declaration, she unlocked the chain securing a small set of double doors at the chapel’s entrance. Using an ancient-looking skeleton key, she unlocked the doors and swung them open.

  “Let’s go inside,” she invited. “Ah’ll explain the history o’ the chapel, then we’ll look aroond and ye can ask yer questions.”

  As they began to enter, Liz frowned and said, “But ye cannae bring that coffee in wi’ ye.”

  Her citing of the rules prompted Rick to be assertive in his own right. He suggested, “In that case, perhaps we could have a tour of the outside of the chapel first.”

  Liz’s expression grew briefly dark, but she recovered quickly, breaking into a familiar forced smile and saying, “Excellent.”

  With that, she marched off at her former pace toward the southern edifice of the building. She stopped at the southwest corner and launched into her lecture on the chapel’s history, information Rick and Monica had both extensively researched, Monica many years ago and Rick more recently. Up close, the chapel was considerably less imposing than images suggested, though both in appearance and purpose, it remained a miniature cathedral. Warm morning sunlight illuminated the seven flying buttresses supporting the newly renovated southern wall. Deep shadows filled the niches between each buttress, where tall stained-glass windows depicted various gospel stories.

  One window particularly caught Monica’s attention, the one portraying Jesus calling children to himself. Knowing this depiction differed significantly from others of the same theme, and noting Liz’s failure to mention it as they passed, Monica raised her hand.

  “That window there, the one called ‘Christ Blessing The Children,’“ she pointed. “Do you know when that window was installed in the chapel?”

  Liz paused, clearly annoyed by the interruption.

  Rick interjected with slight sarcasm, “Margaret did tell you that we would have some in-depth questions, didn’t she?”

  Liz glared at him and retorted, “The whole chapel has jist been renovated, includin’ replicas o’ the windows.”

  She turned to Monica then and continued, “But, if Ah remember correctly, Ah believe the stained-glass windows were originally installed as part o’ a renovation that was undertaken in 1862.”

  Monica asked, “So, this window was not part of the original chapel, as constructed by William Sinclair?”

  Liz smiled benignly. “None o’ the windows were, as Ah jist said. Ah dinnae believe there’s any record o’ the original window designs.”

  “So, it’s not possible that the windows of the 1862 renovation were also replicas?”

  “It’s possible Ah suppose, but not very likely,” Liz ventured. “They would have tae have had the original designs. Why d’ye ask?”

  Monica hesitated, wary of Liz’s persistently sour mood. She explained, “In one of my medieval studies in college, I was looking into the Cathar influence in Scotland. I’m curious about this window’s history because the mythology surrounding it has been attributed to the Templars.”

  Liz’s expression brightened with genuine interest. “O’ course Ah’m aware o’ some tourist hoopla aboot the window bein’ a Templar riddle, but Ah wasnae aware o’ any connection tae Cathar mythology. Ah find the idea intriguin’.”

  She glared at Rick again and added, “Perhaps ma day willnae be a complete loss after all.”

  Rick smiled at her and finished his now-cold coffee. To his surprise, Liz returned a warm, friendly smile, suggesting her barb had been in jest.

  Monica continued, “As I understand the myth, it claims that this window represents the marriage of Jesus of Nazareth to Mary Magdalene, and that they had children together. Of course, like all things Templar, the metaphor is so subtle as to almost be lost.”

  Liz studied the window more closely, as did Rick.

  “How d’ye arrive at that interpretation?” she asked, her curiosity clearly piqued.

  “Look at the woman standing to Jesus’ left, holding a child,” Monica directed.

  Both Rick and Liz studied the window. There were other women in the depiction, but the woman to Jesus left was distinctive. Monica continued, “The legend of the window begins with the assumption that the child she’s holding is her own. You can see the intimacy of a mother in the protective way she cradles the child. Her royal-blue robes indicate she’s a person of importance, thus, being in Jesus’ circle, she is presumed to be Mary Magdalene. And the child, also draped in purple, signifies a royal line. Her position in the portrait, to Jesus’ left and slightly behind, represents the cultural place of a wife. So, according to legend the symbolism suggests that Mary Magdalene is Jesus’ wife, and the children they’re holding are their own.”

  “Fascinatin’,” Liz responded, her eyes wide with genuine interest.

  Rick looked closer at the window. “And I see that the Templar rose is depicted in the border all around the edge of the window, so it’s definitely Templar-influenced.”

  Monica nodded. “My hypothesis is that this heresy came to Scotland following the Albigensian Crusade, sometime after 1209. That would be when surviving Cathars fled from the persecution in the French Languedoc.”

  Despite her historical expertise, Liz had never encountered evidence that Cathars from France had sought refuge in Scotland. She asked, “Is there some historical evidence o’ this?”

  “There’s little direct evidence but considerable speculation,” Monica explained, “based on the fact that many Cathars were French Freemasons who eventually settled in the British Isles to work on various building projects.” She paused thoughtfully. “Regardless of whether that’s true, there are two schools of thought about the bloodline heresy. One suggests it traveled from Jerusalem via the Templars to the Languedoc first, then to Scotland during the purge. That’s plausible, but it’s equally possible that Templars could have been among the exiled Cathar knights. The alternative, the argument I subscribe to, proposes that Cathars brought the heresy to Scotland a century earlier, and the Templars adopted this Christology when they fled here in 1307.”

  Rick listened with genuine admiration for Monica’s vast knowledge. Nonetheless, he argued, “I’m familiar with the bloodline heresy. Lord knows it gets enough attention these days, mostly in fictional novels masquerading as historical fact. I don’t believe there’s any truth to it, but some suggest that proof of a bloodline was the leverage the Templars held over the church and the pope.”

  Monica gave Rick a condescending look.

  “If the Templars found proof that Jesus was a fraud during their time in Jerusalem, don’t you think the Vatican would have crushed them long before they accumulated the kind of wealth and power they possessed in the fourteenth century?”

  Liz’s eyes sparked with a sudden conspiracy theory. “But what if the Templars kept the proof hidden, where the Vatican couldnae find it, and secured the secret wi’ a dead man’s trigger?”

  “A what?” Monica asked.

  “A dead man’s trigger,” Liz repeated, giving Monica a quizzical look. “Ye ken, an arrangement where, if death or harm should come tae the one holdin’ the secret, the information would automatically be made public.”

  Monica considered this, her brow furrowed.

  “If that were the case, the knowledge would certainly have become public before 1312, when the Templar leaders were executed in Paris.”

  “Unless,” Liz countered, leaning forward slightly, “the pope already had his hands on it. There were five years between the arrest o’ the Templars and the execution of their leaders. There was a lot o’ torture goin’ on. If the evidence was turned over tae the Vatican durin’ those years, the pope would be free tae silence the Templars forever.”

  Rick stroked his chin and nodded. Though he believed the bloodline heresey to be a lie, he suggested, “You might be right. If the Templars possessed evidence as damning as a bloodline, the pope would never have dared authorize their execution unless he had the evidence under his control.” He turned to Monica. “So, assuming the pope already had possession of the evidence, he might want to hide it somewhere where no one could ever find it. Do you suppose that could be what’s at the bottom of the pit on Oak Island?”

  “The bottom o’ where?” Liz asked.

  “At the bottom of the pit on Oak Island in Nova Scotia,” Rick repeated. He met Liz’s gaze. “And that brings us back to the purpose for our visit. We believe there’s a connection between this place and Oak Island, but maybe we have the story backwards.” He looked again at Monica. “What if the Templars were not the depositors on Oak Island at all. What if they were searching there for something they’d lost.”