Read Online Rogue Angel 52: Death Mask by Alex Archer - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Alex Archer
Ads: Link
any crypt might lie.
Now Annja was convinced that if there was anything to be found here, it would lie beneath this Christian building, down in the ruins of the old Moorish palace, assuming the builders had built upon the foundations of that place as they had with the theater on the other side of the city.
It didn’t take long to find an area that had been sectioned off by red velvet rope. It wasn’t exactly high security. A priest was busy placing fresh candles in sconces close by. She would have to wait for him to finish what he was doing before she could slip under the rope and disappear down into the crypts. In the meantime, she decided to take a proper look around, just in case there was something she’d missed.
The transept displayed two paintings by Bartolomé de Cárdenas. According to a small plaque on the wall, he had died in Valladolid in 1628. No direct link with either of the Torquemadas, but what
was
interesting was the fact that one of the paintings depicted the Conversion of Saint Paul. Cardinal Torquemada was a defender of the conversos in Valladolid—Jews who had adopted the Christian faith rather than be forced to leave Spain. Paul of Tarsus was a Jew who converted. More connections, more hints and clues. Her gut instinct was that she was looking in all the right places, but it was hard to know what was actually relevant and what was a case of her making connections where none existed.
The church included several side chapels, according to the floor plan. One was the funerary chapel of Alonso de Burgos, who had died in 1499. The date was so close to the death of the inquisitor that it had to be worth investigating while she waited for the priest to finish with his candles. It offered no immediate revelations from the outside. She stepped through the arch into the chapel proper. Although there were no doors between it and the body of the church, it was markedly quieter. The archway was obviously acting as some kind of baffle, which meant sound would almost certainly not travel out of here, either. That could prove useful if she had to hide.
There didn’t seem to be anything of great interest inside the chapel, so Annja took a moment to check out the picture Roux had sent.
The sketch certainly looked as if it could be the mask they were looking for. The additional detail of the ribbon suggested that the artist might actually have seen the artifact. Of course, it was possible he had just used his imagination in deciding how the mask might be fastened around the Grand Inquisitor’s head. There was no way of knowing if Goya had in fact seen the mask, or even confronted a figure wearing it, during his studies. But if he had, that meant she was looking at as near-perfect a rendition of it as she could possibly have hoped. That made it feel more
real
to her.
She pocketed the phone again.
The moment of peace gave her the opportunity to examine the key properly, as well. She held it in one hand and rubbed the ancient metal between the thumb and forefinger of the other. A few flakes of rust fell away, but no more than that. It was in incredible condition, almost perfectly preserved. It was hard to imagine it could be as much as five hundred years old. She could feel the weight of history in it as the key stretched across her palm, extending beyond the width of her hand. It was sturdy, not delicate, but it was also beautifully crafted. Judging from its size and weight, the key was designed to fit a heavy-duty lock. What did that lock protect? Something valuable, surely? Something the world wasn’t intended to discover by chance. The key represented a secret. There would have been a few who protected that secret through the years, but they must all be dead now. What was that secret? The Mask of Torquemada? She wasn’t sure that artifact, no matter how compelling a treasure for someone like her, was actually valuable enough to warrant such extreme measures—a Moorish grave in a Christian crypt, a Moorish
Now Annja was convinced that if there was anything to be found here, it would lie beneath this Christian building, down in the ruins of the old Moorish palace, assuming the builders had built upon the foundations of that place as they had with the theater on the other side of the city.
It didn’t take long to find an area that had been sectioned off by red velvet rope. It wasn’t exactly high security. A priest was busy placing fresh candles in sconces close by. She would have to wait for him to finish what he was doing before she could slip under the rope and disappear down into the crypts. In the meantime, she decided to take a proper look around, just in case there was something she’d missed.
The transept displayed two paintings by Bartolomé de Cárdenas. According to a small plaque on the wall, he had died in Valladolid in 1628. No direct link with either of the Torquemadas, but what
was
interesting was the fact that one of the paintings depicted the Conversion of Saint Paul. Cardinal Torquemada was a defender of the conversos in Valladolid—Jews who had adopted the Christian faith rather than be forced to leave Spain. Paul of Tarsus was a Jew who converted. More connections, more hints and clues. Her gut instinct was that she was looking in all the right places, but it was hard to know what was actually relevant and what was a case of her making connections where none existed.
The church included several side chapels, according to the floor plan. One was the funerary chapel of Alonso de Burgos, who had died in 1499. The date was so close to the death of the inquisitor that it had to be worth investigating while she waited for the priest to finish with his candles. It offered no immediate revelations from the outside. She stepped through the arch into the chapel proper. Although there were no doors between it and the body of the church, it was markedly quieter. The archway was obviously acting as some kind of baffle, which meant sound would almost certainly not travel out of here, either. That could prove useful if she had to hide.
There didn’t seem to be anything of great interest inside the chapel, so Annja took a moment to check out the picture Roux had sent.
The sketch certainly looked as if it could be the mask they were looking for. The additional detail of the ribbon suggested that the artist might actually have seen the artifact. Of course, it was possible he had just used his imagination in deciding how the mask might be fastened around the Grand Inquisitor’s head. There was no way of knowing if Goya had in fact seen the mask, or even confronted a figure wearing it, during his studies. But if he had, that meant she was looking at as near-perfect a rendition of it as she could possibly have hoped. That made it feel more
real
to her.
She pocketed the phone again.
The moment of peace gave her the opportunity to examine the key properly, as well. She held it in one hand and rubbed the ancient metal between the thumb and forefinger of the other. A few flakes of rust fell away, but no more than that. It was in incredible condition, almost perfectly preserved. It was hard to imagine it could be as much as five hundred years old. She could feel the weight of history in it as the key stretched across her palm, extending beyond the width of her hand. It was sturdy, not delicate, but it was also beautifully crafted. Judging from its size and weight, the key was designed to fit a heavy-duty lock. What did that lock protect? Something valuable, surely? Something the world wasn’t intended to discover by chance. The key represented a secret. There would have been a few who protected that secret through the years, but they must all be dead now. What was that secret? The Mask of Torquemada? She wasn’t sure that artifact, no matter how compelling a treasure for someone like her, was actually valuable enough to warrant such extreme measures—a Moorish grave in a Christian crypt, a Moorish
Similar Books
