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  BETRAYED

  THE LEGEND OF OAK ISLAND

  BETRAYED

  THE LEGEND OF OAK ISLAND

  CHRISTOPHER

  DINSDALE

  Text © 2009 Christopher Dinsdale

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, digital, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior consent of the publisher.

  Cover art by Jock MacRae, design by Emma Dolan

  We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts for our publishing program. We acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program (BPIDP) for our publishing activities.

  Napoleon Publishing

  an imprint of Napoleon & Company

  Toronto, Ontario, Canada

  www.napoleonandcompany.com

  13 12 11 10 09 5 4 3 2 1

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Dinsdale, Christopher, date-

  Betrayed : the legend of Oak Island / Christopher Dinsdale.

  ISBN 978-1-894917-91-9

  I. Title.

  PS8607.I58B49 2009 jC813’.6 C2009-904777-2

  For my good friends and fellow co-conspirators,

  Randy, Paul and Darren, without whose enthusiasm and

  support this story might still remain unfinished

  In 1496, a young boy named Nicolo was exploring the attic of his large Venetian home. Among the boxes and crates of his great-grandfather’s possessions, he found a large pile of papers with almost unintelligible scribbles and drawings covering page after page. Not impressed with this uninteresting use of paper, Nicolo decided to use some of the sheets for painting, while others he simply shredded to use as the stuffing in one of his many art projects.

  Fifteen years later, Nicolo, now a father and husband, returned to the same attic and rediscovered the same manuscript. To his horror, he realized the significance of what he had nearly destroyed as a child. The series of papers were his great-grandfather’s detailed memoirs of his adventures with a mysterious northern prince. They described his voyages west, following the ancient Viking routes to a wild and beautiful land. According to the manuscripts, the voyages took place in the late 1300s, over a hundred years before Columbus sailed west and “discovered” the New World. He found a map detailing Greenland, Nova Scotia and the New England coast. What was missing, however, much to Nicolo’s anguish, was the reason why a northern prince and a Venetian navigator would make such a dangerous expedition to a land so far away from their home . . .

  Prologue

  Off the coast of Egypt, April 1392

  Screams of death, explosions and cries of war tore through the humid Mediterranean air. Ignoring the distant pandemonium, a craft and its small crew rowed with determination toward a gloomy beach. Clad in iron mail, his blond locks blowing in the warm midnight breeze, a prince from a faraway land stood in the bow and scanned the shore for the signal. He couldn’t help but glance with regret upon the distant crimson glow that was the ancient city of Alexandria being brutally sacked. A part of him wished there was another way.

  Prince Henry, unlike many other European rulers and Catholic leaders, held Muslims in great respect. They had kept science, medicine and mathematics alive during Europe’s grim and backwards dark ages. They were also a faithful people, children of Allah, who worshipped the same God to whom he had pledged his life. Through the Templar knights he had befriended many Arabs, some of whom he would trust with his very life. He could even converse, albeit sketchily, in the language of the desert. Yet this mission was unlike any he had ever attempted. He knew he could trust no one but those within his innermost circle. This was a mission of destiny. The next hour would determine the future of the world’s greatest religions for centuries to come. Failure was unthinkable. And if the city of Alexandria and hundreds of his attacking Templar brethren had to be sacrificed to achieve his goal, then so be it.

  Prince Henry strained his eyes, peering into the inky darkness. Through trusted messengers within the Templar Order, he had been given a message that this was the beach where he was to meet the Coptic King of Ethiopia, the leader of the oldest kingdom in Christendom. The reason for the secretive meeting was coded within the message, and Henry was stunned by the revelation contained within the text. Now, in the misty Egyptian twilight, the moment he had planned for over a year was almost at hand, and the enormity of what was about to transpire weighed heavily upon his heart.

  Behind him, three pairs of well-oiled oars continued to dip almost silently into the ocean. He was confident that their approach to the beach could not be heard over the approaching surf. He glanced skyward. The ever-thinning blanket of cloud could become a serious problem. His approach might well be silent, but soon he would be visible by the light of the emerging half-moon.

  “Are you sure this is the beach?” came a whisper from behind. Antonio Zeno, his most loyal friend, manned the rudder and examined the approaching shoreline.

  “Aye, Antonio,” he replied, “I’m sure.” But he frowned. The signal would have to come soon or the darkness, and their only hope of completing the rendezvous undetected, would be lost. He could feel the boat starting to lift in a regular rhythm as they neared the breakers rolling up onto the sandy shore. Then, just to his left, he saw it. A sudden flash of unusual green light. Then another. He turned and pointed excitedly.

  “By the Grace of God, they made it! Did you see the flash?”

  “That I did!” answered Antonio.

  Prince Henry could feel the boat change heading slightly as Antonio pointed them towards the source of the green signal. The boat started to accelerate, catching the lip of a passing swell. Prince Henry’s trained sea legs adjusted to the movement, and he prepared for the next ascent. The boat suddenly rose and accelerated again, this time leaping towards the beach. The six men on the oars dug into the water, matching the speed of the wave, and the boat shot like an arrow into the froth of the breaker, sliding up onto the white sandy beach with surprising grace. As the wave lost its momentum, the launch settled with a lurch onto the glistening wet sand.

  Prince Henry leapt nimbly over the rail and onto the sand, his leather boots sloshing in the retreating surf. He hurried towards the edge of the stand of palm trees, scanning the vegetation for human activity. From behind a thick trunk stepped a dark figure. Henry stopped, raised his right hand and spoke in a long-forgotten ancient tongue.

  “Abraham is the father to us all.”

  The shadow answered. “God, Yahweh, Allah . . . The Great Architect is known by many names.”

  “Yet Abraham ties all faiths into one,” the prince replied.

  The tall shadow stepped forward, his dark robes flowing gently in the cool desert breeze. The thick gold medallion that hung from his neck shimmered in the growing moonlight. They clasped hands, the subtle placement of their thumbs confirming their brotherhood.

  “Prince Henry, it is an honour to finally meet you. Welcome to Africa, my home.”

  Prince Henry knelt down and bowed his head in submission. “Thank you, King Severus. The honour is truly mine.”

  The king gripped the prince by the shoulders and helped him to his feet. “I wish this could be a time of celebration, Prince Henry. Your rule in the north is already legendary among the faithful. When you return home, please thank your King Robert for saving the lives of so many of our brothers.”

  “The knights who have settled in Scotland have more than returned the favour. In one single battle, they put our enemy to the south to shame.”

  The king smiled. “That is good to hear.”

  An explosion ripped through the night air. King
Severus glanced towards the burning city. “How I wish we could talk further, but as you know, my nemesis is close at hand.”

  Prince Henry’s mood instantly soured. “Al-Din Khurshah?”

  “I see you have heard of him.”

  “He once saved my life. It pains me to do this without his knowledge.”

  The king grunted. “You may have a friend in the leader of the Hassasin, but he has been my enemy since birth. That is why we must act tonight. Our Holy Relics must not fall into the hands of the infidel.”

  Prince Henry grasped the king’s shoulder. “The Ethiopian people have been The Blessed Protector of these objects for centuries. There is no greater honour that could be bestowed upon a nation.”

  “It is an honour that I now pass on to you and your people of Scotland. We can no longer guarantee protection of our holy treasure. It breaks my heart to give up the role of defender, but we have no choice. The Muslim armies and al-Din Khurshah are closing in upon my homeland. Our army is weak. Through the torture of a trusted advisor, the infidels discovered the whereabouts of our holy treasure. They will now stop at nothing to acquire it. The treasure must leave this area and be moved far away. And I can think of no nobler follower of Our Lord than you to assume this Holy Duty.”

  Prince Henry stepped closer and nodded to the king as both men pondered the enormous magnitude of the moment. “I swear that I will do everything in my power to protect the treasure.”

  King Severus was about to respond, but his voice cracked with emotion. Generations of his ancestors had been able to safely guard the treasure, and now he would forever be remembered by his people as the one who had failed his god. He fought back the tears in his eyes and forced himself to take a deep breath. “We must hurry, Prince Henry. Your Templar attack upon Alexandria may not be a great enough diversion to throw al-Din Khurshah completely off the trail.”

  The king snapped his fingers three times. A dozen burly soldiers materialized from the darkness. Dressed in chain mail armour with sheathed weapons at their side, four of the soldiers carried a large, intricately carved wooden crate. Two long wooden poles transferred the weight of the crate onto the shoulders of each man. The king signalled to the soldiers to follow him to the waiting craft. The oarsmen had already pushed the boat back out and turned it around, preparing for a quick departure. The king and his men strode out into the warm ocean water. They raised the crate up into the air, and passed it to the crewmen on board, who struggled with its weight but still managed to carefully lower it between the two middle benches. A commotion on the beach caused everyone to look back towards the treeline. Two soldiers rushed out onto the beach.

  “They have found us!”

  King Severus turned to Prince Henry. “Quickly! Leave! We will hold them off at the beach! You must not be caught!”

  Prince Henry nodded solemnly and leapt into the boat. “Antonio! Get us out of here!”

  “You heard him, men!” barked Antonio. “Dig in with those oars! Pull!”

  The boat slammed into the first wave, the bow rocketing up its frothing face and landing on the backside of the swell with a terrific splash.

  Prince Henry looked over his shoulder. The Coptic warriors had unsheathed their swords and formed a semicircle defense, protecting Prince Henry and his escape. King Severus stood before the men, his head bowed in meditation, palms together. Suddenly, a swarm of mounted horses burst through the vegetation and galloped onto the sandy shore. The king surprised the mounted attackers as he spread his arms wide, offering a greeting. The lead horseman threw something in the darkness. King Severus staggered forward several steps, fell to his knees, then collapsed onto the warm sand. The armed warriors screamed in anger and charged at the mounted fighters. Several horses fell to the slashing swords, sending their riders crashing hard to the ground. The remaining Arab fighters recovered quickly. They drew their weapons then retreated to a safe distance. The well-trained Hassassins then brought down the Coptic warriors with precision, galloping towards their prey and using their long lances to impale them where they stood.

  Prince Henry watched the lopsided battle with the eyes of a warrior. He noted the efficient manner of the Hassassin attack and regretted bitterly that so many had to die to protect his precious cargo. On the fading shoreline, he could just make out the dying king lifting his head, gazing one last time at his retreating treasure. Prince Henry swore he saw a faint smile on the trembling lips.

  Unable to find the treasure among the dead, the horsemen quickly discovered the silhouette of the escaping boat. They began shouting curses at the vessel in Arabic until their leader quieted them by raising his hand. He rode his steed out into the surf, his men following close behind. A voice echoed out to the sea in Arabic.

  “Return what is ours!”

  Prince Henry remained silent, hoping he would not be recognized in the darkness.

  “Is this how the Prince of the North treats a brother? And to think that I once saved your life!”

  “A calling beyond blood has brought me to do this,” cried Prince Henry over the surf. “You will always be my brother.”

  “Then return to the beach, brother, so that I can send you off with a proper kiss!”

  Antonio, listening to the interaction, sprang forward. “Get down!”

  He tackled Prince Henry to the deck. Several objects flashed in the moonlight, whistling over the heads of Antonio and Prince Henry. There were several dull thumps in the wood. The rear right oarsman cried out in pain. Prince Henry crawled over to his wounded soldier. Embedded in his right shoulder was the intricately carved handle of a dagger. Two other daggers were entrenched in the wooden transom, just where Prince Henry had been standing moments earlier. He pulled one from the wood. In the tip of the dagger was a small hole. A tiny drop of deadly poison glistened menacingly in the moonlight.

  Prince Henry laid the soldier down on the ribbed floor of the boat. “Don’t pull out the dagger, James, or you will release the poison!”

  He took up the unmanned oar himself then nodded to his shocked crew. “Pull for your lives, men! If we fail to get back to our ship and set sail before sunrise, we will have wished we each had a Hassassin’s dagger embedded in our flesh. They will soon be upon us like rabid wolves!”

  Rukn al-Din Khurshah stood on the beach, quivering with rage. He and his men had been so close. The few seconds it tad taken to battle the remnants of a dying monarchy had cost him success. If he had achieved his lifelong quest and recovered what was rightfully his, he would instantly become a timeless hero to all of Islam! Now he watched his dreams evaporate in the early morning mist.

  All was not lost, however. There was still a chance they could catch the northerners in the open ocean with their quick, single-sailed dhows. He wheeled his horse around and cantered out of the surf.

  “Back to Alexandria and our ships! We still have a chance to retrieve what is rightfully ours!”

  The warriors galloped past the bodies lying in the crimson-stained sand and guided their horses towards the raging battle taking place in the smouldering streets of Alexandria.

  One

  A farm south of Roslin, Scotland, August, 1393

  Tegan MacDonald and her son, Connor, hid in the choking cover of dusty hay. She clutched her shivering son, her life, in her bare arms and silently prayed that they could somehow survive this moment. She had only been able to rescue a small pouch of money along with the clothes on their backs before the English began the attack on their farm.

  Disappointed to find the building empty of treasure, the angered troops lightened their spirits by putting the torch to the old thatched roof that cosseted the humble daub and spackle home. The straw, dry from the summer sun, quickly ignited. The homestead for generations of MacDonalds was now engulfed in a raging inferno. The young boy watched in disbelief through the open stable doors as his mother choked back tears.

  “They’ll be coming for the stable next,” she managed to whisper. “We have to leave before they fi
nd us.”

  While the soldiers were fighting over who would keep the meagre possessions looted from the farmhouse, Tegan rolled onto her back, pulled back her knee, and unleashed a kick that sent flying a loose plank from the back of the stable. Pushing Connor before her, she squeezed through, rolling onto the icy mud of the field. They leapt to their feet and flew like the wind through the fields. The ripening harvest was to have fed them through the harsh Scottish winter, but it was the least of their worries as they desperately sprinted to the safety of the approaching dark forest.

  Crashing through the brambles that guarded the woods, Tegan and Connor didn’t slow down until they reached shadowy safety beyond the licking light of the farmhouse flames. She pulled her child to a stop, their chests heaving for air.

  “We will walk to cousin Maggie’s home,” she announced between gasps.

  “But that will take until morning’,” complained Connor, frightened and exhausted.

  “I’m sorry, Connor, but I need you to be strong right now. I know we can make it before sunrise. Once we arrive, you can use the cot in the loft and catch up on your sleep. Now come on. We have to get to the road.”

  By the time they stumbled through the thick woods to the mud path that led to the village of Roslin, their clothing was badly torn and their skin burned with deep scrapes. They held each other close in an attempt to share the heat of their bodies as they walked wearily down a gentle hill, following the black tunnel through the trees that was just a slightly lighter shade of grey than that of the surrounding trees.

  A gurgling up ahead told them of the approaching stream which eventually wound its way into the village and under a wooden bridge. As they stepped onto the bridge, a voice, low and gruff, froze them in their tracks.

  “To cross this bridge, you must first pay the toll.”