Another famous name connected with Oak Island is that of William Kidd who was hanged for piracy in 1701.
There is...a strange tale told by Andrew Spedon in Rambles Among the Blue Noses which appeared in 1863. Spedon said that Kidd had a lieutenant named Lawrence who jumped overboard and swam for it to escape being arrested with Kidd when their ship reached Boston Harbour.
Lawrence is said to have been befriended and hidden by Dutch settlers, to whom, before his death, he gave the information that Kidd had left a vast treasure buried on, or near, Nova Scotia.
Lionel & Patricia Fanthorpe
Secrets of Rennes le Chateau
........
Prince Henry Sinclair, Earl of Orkney, set off on a voyage of discovery for a great new country and dropped anchor in Guysborough Harbour, Nova Scotia, on 2 June 1398. From there, he is believed to have also gone on to Massachusetts - 94 years before Columbus...
Also, at Westford, Massachusetts, is a worn carving of what is believed by experts to be a medieval knight in efficy, dated to the latter half of the 14th C.
Frederick Pohl in 'Prince Henry Sinclair' tells us a bit more about the Westford carving:
The long sword with large wheel pommel is of a late 14th C type. It is a Scottish claymore of 1350- 1400...
Armorial scholars say that the basinet is a form that was in fashion for only 25 years, from 1375 - 1400.
The Scottish gypsy clans of the Bailleys, the Wilsons and the Browns were centered on two 'villages of refuge' - Middleton and Temple, some 10 miles south of Edinburgh. Temple is the...location of the Scottish medieval Knights Templar.
In the museum at Rosslyn Chapel, there is a head of St.Sara that was carved in Santiago and made from jet. St.Sara is the patron saint of the gypsies and is still celebrated today, especially in southern France.
The founder of Rosslyn Chapel, Sir William St.Clair, was a member of the Order of the Knights of Santiago.
Karen Ralls-MacLeod
Ian Robertson
The Quest For the Celtic Key
........
The name 'Sarah' in Hebrew means 'princess' or 'queen'. So we have, in a tiny coastal town in France, a yearly festival in honor of a young girl-child called Sarah.
A child of Jesus and the Magdalen, born after Mary's flight to Alexandria, would have been about 12 years of age at the time of the voyage to Gaul recorded in the legend.
She, like the princes of David's line, is symbolically black "unrecognised in the streets" (Lam.4:8).
The Magdalen, herself, is the 'sangreal' in the sense that she was the chalice, or vessel, that carried the royal bloodline...
darkness was symbolic of her hidden state; she was the unknown queen - unacknowledged, repudiated and vilified by the church.
Fossils of truth remain in our symbols, our proper names of persons and places, our rituals and folk tales.
Margaret Starbird
Woman With the Alabaster Jar
Emlyn and Jeanne paused a moment, for breath, as it were, in the midst of revelation. Ideas knocked about Em's head like sparrows flocking, seeking home...she nearly found a nest for them; something that rounded them up neatly together, but still it seemed just beyond her reach.
Jeanne took her hands. 'You must return with me, Em. Alex is set upon ye sharing his hospitality. Perhaps, if ye just give him a wee chance, ye'll see summat of what I have seen in him,' she paused, glancing down, 'and why I do love him so dearly...'
'Oh, Jeanne,' Em laid her hand upon her friend's arm, 'do you, truly?' Em was surprised and touched at Jeanne's admission.
Jeanne sniffed a little, and stood, putting her hands in her skirt pockets. 'Aye. I do.' She blinked at Emlyn. ''Tis why I was so beset with eud, the jealousy, when I saw ye in the
hay, ye ken. Eudmhor, the green eyed monster had hold o'me, see.' Jeanne looked away and swished her skirts as if to sweep the air clear between them.
'Oh, cariad...' Em smiled, stood beside her and squeezed her shoulder. '"The green-eyed monster which doth mock the meat it feeds on."'
'Aye, that's the one,' Jeanne nodded, with a small smile. She looked away back toward her home. 'I've never felt this way with any other man, ye ken.' She returned her gaze to Em, her eyes steady and fixed. 'It's because we both have the same goal, and the same drive. We are true partners in the same quest.'
'And what quest is that, ma chere?' Em wanted to know.
Jeanne smiled a real smile then, face a-gleam with the light of joie de vivre. 'Why, the quest for the holy grail, naturally!'
Emlyn laughed, Jeanne joined her, and they linked arms.
'Well, count me in, then!' She grinned at her friend. 'I love a good mystery. Will we find hidden treasure, perhaps?'
'Aye, we will. Most assuredly!' Jeanne winked and swatted Em's backside. 'Come, let's clear the tea things and be off then, shall we? Alex is bent on salmon for tea...'
'You figured I'd be returning with you, then?' Em raised one brow in query.
'Pretty sure...' Jeanne nodded, gathering tableware onto tray. She sighed, 'That is, if I were suitably, eh, remorseful...'
In answer, Em swatted Jeanne's backside in turn.
......
'It Lives!'
St.John stated the obvious as he puffed ferociously upon his ubiquitous cigar, leaning upon the ship's railing as Daryl's head hove into view from the stairwell to their rooms below.
'It's...not easy.' Daryl growled, as he crawled up the narrow ladder onto the open deck. 'Back is a bit better, but these stairs were made for a smaller sort.'
St.John turned back to his ocean view; the starboard deck was somewhat more sheltered from an icy wind that had seemed to blow up as soon as they'd cleared San Pedro Bay. Evening was fast falling now and a sliver of moon shone fleetingly betwixt flocks of clouds, growing darker and fatter, pregnant with rain, wind and snow.
'You slept through the day, old man.' St.John noted. 'And missed dinner as well.'
Daryl stood upwind and ran his hands through his hair. 'Not hungry yet. Soon maybe, a crust of bread and some Brie?'
'Eh, possibly.' St.John dropped his cigar butt overboard, ('to worm the fish,' as he called it.) 'There is always coffee and tea brewing. Strong, dark Russian Caravan. Lox, caviar, and of course, vodka.'
Daryl leaned on the rail beside his mysterious mentor and studied the silvering sea at twilight. 'Where are we now?'
'Queen Charlotte Sound,' St. John indicated with his chin. 'Out there. Not far from Ketchikan. From there, we travel onward to Stewart, then southeast overland to Calgary, and train. We've been lucky with this tail wind so far.'
Daryl tightened the scarf about his neck and pulled his hat down tight. St.John grinned up at him. 'If you could pack a pound or two on those long bones of yours, you'd be well insulated. Like a seal.'
'...Or walrus.' Daryl wryly remarked into his muffler.
'Eh?' St.John wasn't deaf yet.
Daryl cleared his throat. 'I wanted to thank you, St.John. I haven't slept so well in days... It was a mercy, truly; and much appreciated.'
'That's what I thought you said.' St.John turned and leaned his back upon the railing. Glancing up at Daryl's somewhat haggard features, he relented.
'Come on, lad, let's have some tea and brandy against the long night to come. Like it or not, we're stuck together a while. Let us make the best of it...'
In one corner a small group was gathered about two men who were huddled over a magnetic chess set, deep into play, an immense bottle of vodka half-full on the table between them. A haze of blue smoke from rolled cigarettes lingered in the air about them like the ghosts of grandmasters past.
'I'm sure I can dig up something in the galley,' St.John told Daryl. 'Why don't you find a seat for us meanwhile?' He indicated with a nod to the far corner away from the action, and smoke. Daryl obeyed with great relief.
Soon enough, St.John reappeared with a tray of covered dishes followed by the cook, who brought the tea and tableware. 'Spasiba,' St.John told him as he returned to the warmth of the galley.
St.John removed the lids to uncover a ripe white cheese, good black rye bread, a dish of dates, a plate of lox sliced thin and an apple each. Beneath another lid, to Daryl's delight, steamed a fluffy pile of aromatic kasha.
'Roasted kasha!' Daryl exclaimed, inhaling deeply. 'Now, I am hungry! Spasiba, indeed!' He wasted no time in setting upon their sailors repast with a will.
Serving large heavy mugs of the fragrant black tea before them, strong enough to have poured itself, St.John smiled grimly. 'Not so bad then, travel via Russlandic ship?'
'Umm,' Daryl agreed, nodding, taking a long drink of tea, and refilling his mug. 'I am beginning to feel summat human again.' As he stirred his tea, his attention turned back to the chess match where he now noticed piles of money on the table.
'They're making book on the match?' he whispered.
'Naturalmente,' St.John replied, loading a slice of rye with cheese and lox. 'Chess is their national sport.'
Daryl grinned on one side of his face.
'"But we shall play a game of chess,
Pressing lidless eyes
And waiting for a knock upon the door..."' he intoned, slicing up an apple.
'T.S.Elliot,' St.John murmured, taking a slice.
'But I prefer Jorge Luis Borges' "End Game" --
"God moves the player, and he, the piece.
What god from behind God begins to weave the plot,
Of dust and time and dreams and agonies?"'
Daryl chewed his apple thoughtfully as he recalled the tell-tale anachronistic quotes St.John had dropped before, like bread crumbs leading to a revelatory End Game of his own.
Quiet murmurs from the men watching the match drifted with the smoke about the room. Daryl could pick up a few words he knew: 'spat'/sleep, 'shakhmaty'/chess, and 'opasnost'/danger.
He studied St.John methodically emptying his plate and wondered about his mysterious traveling companion and new partner.
Feeling Daryl's eye upon him, St.John sat back from the table, and reaching into a breast pocket, removed a flask.
'Brandy?'
Daryl nodded, 'Naturalmente!' He drank off his remaining tea and proffered his mug. As St.John poured, Daryl noticed his Masonic ring. Odd, that. He'd never noticed one before...
Daryl felt a Scotch toast was in order then, considering their destination. 'Slainte!' He said, clacking mugs with St.John, who nodded, returning the salute with a 'Slainte mhor!'
Taking a token sip, Daryl told himself to go slowly with the spirits; for revelations surely would arrive with the evenings discourse.
'"Health to Marion", is it? Rather a Jacobian salute, mon cher St.John?' Daryl gazed intently at the insignia on his new partner's ring. 'And from a Widow's Son to boot...'
'Indeed. As are many of my countrymen.' St.John replied evenly, munching a date.
'Your countrymen...' Daryl paused. 'Would that be Quebecois? Or Nova Scotians?'
St.John took a long draught from his mug, before answering, 'Oui.'
Daryl, used to such prevarication from the slippery St.John, remained unruffled.
'Rather late in the day to be seeking home rule and feinriaghladh, is it not?' Daryl pressed with a knowing smile.
'Tis a matter of onair,' St.John answered, 'of honour.
Much is owed. Much, remains to be paid. In one way or other.' St.John was not smiling. Not at all.
.........
Meanwhile, back at the ranch...
Emlyn and Jeanne arrived in time for tea. And a high tea it was, of sorts.
Whilst they were busy in town, apparently the Master of Arcadia had been busy Himself; a large oaken round table had been set up before the fire in the long hall; late blooming bouquets of flowers mixed with autumn leaves were set about the room amongst large pinecones; pumpkins big and small sat amid gnarled gourds and baskets of assorted nuts and fragrant apples.
As Emlyn and Jeanne arrived, having turned over the lines to Maurice, the head groom who saw to the horses, they headed up the front steps to view newly constructed Corn Dollies flanking the entrance, and a pair of enormous pumpkins.
'Someone is getting in the harvest season spirit!' Em exclaimed, delighted.
'Oh, aye! Himself goes all out this time of year!' Jeanne smiled. 'Tis the New Keltic Year in the Old Calendar come November, as you weel know...' She opened the door and ushered Em within.
'Halloo the House!' Jeanne called, removing her coat. 'Man o'the Hoose!' She put hands on hips and directed her gaze upstairs.
'Ach, and there ye arr!' Alexander appeared from the back rooms, and took his wife's coat, kissing her cheek.
'And Emlyn! Welcome, at last!' He took her coat as well, then offering an arm to each, directed them both into the Long Hall.
'Ach, weel, haven't ye been busy then!' Jeanne exclaimed, as she found the room transformed into an Autumn Fantasy. 'Wuf! At least he left us the sofas!' She plopped down upon a sofa beside the fire. 'I see ye have the fireplace ready for scone-making.'
Emlyn was still strolling about the room, eyeing all the decorations amongst the decor. 'Scones, did you say?' She smiled as she directed her feet to the fireside taking a seat in the wingchair.
'Aye, there might be that,' Alex grinned as he poured them each a small sherry and brought a tray to the tea table before the fire. Taking a seat beside Jeanne, he set down a single glass of water, then raised his sherry in a toast: 'Slainte mhor!'
'Slainte mhor!' replied Jeanne, Emlyn joined in belatedly, with 'Slainte mhor!' then paused and wondered, watching as Alex and Jeanne performed an odd movement of each passing their drinks over the glass of water before sipping.
Jeanne had her eye on Em, and smiled at her. 'Tis a toast to our True King Across the Water, ye ken; Bonny Prince Charlie.'
Em passed her own glass over water as well then, and drank.
'A wonderful toast, and a fine sherry! Fit for a king, indeed.'
Alex smiled at Jeanne. 'You pick your friends weel, luv.'
Jeanne stared into the fire and sighed. 'If only Shannon were here...'
'She'll come 'round,' Emlyn assured her. 'It all seems to be just a, sort of misunderstanding on her part.'
Alex stood then, 'She dinna ken wot she'd be missing this day!' He put down his glass and held up a finger as if to say, "just you wait!", then turned on heel and retreated to the back rooms and kitchen.
Jeanne shook her head, smiling. 'Would you look at this?' She waved a hand about the newly redecorated hall. 'He's like a boy sometimes...gets carried away with things. But, he's an easy mon to like, no?'
Em patted Jeanne's hand. 'Aye, he is; you'll get no argument from me.' Although privately, she wondered about his wicked sense of humor...whatever would he get up to on All Hallow's Eve?
Alex returned with a large cast-iron fry pan and a bowl, presumably of scone batter, and taking a low seat before the fire, set to with cooking up scones.
Emlyn inhaled deeply:'I detect something cooking already...'
'Aye,' Alex glanced at her as he took the poker and prodded about the ashes. 'I've potatoes baking in the coals ye see. They're commin' along weel noo.'
Emlyn was delighted with this simple, fresh country fare amongst all the grand furnishings and art works. She found herself approving of Jeanne's choice of husband. And, aye, she had to agree, they did seem well-suited to one another; having a similar goal and purpose in life.
Setting a large iron lid upon the scone pan, Alex stood and
removed the iron kettle from the arm which hung over the fire. He poured steaming hot water into the teapot upon the table, and removed the sherry glasses, replacing them with simple earthenware mugs for the tea.
'A mon needs a healthy slug of tay, to fartify himself for the hard jobs ahaid!' He winked at Jeanne and smiled.
'Yoor the one, mon,' Jeanne began, 'who said he wished to cook and serve for the ladies this day!' She allowed an eye roll Em's way.
Alex sighed as he took a seat beside Jeanne, who had helped herself to the teapot and poured, while Alex adjusted his kilt over a knee as he crossed a leg, then put a hand upon his wife's knee in comfortable solidarity. Em took note of the sgian dubh,the dirk in his sock.
'Aye,' he said, nodding to Em. 'A Scot mun' always be prepared for annythin' at annytime.'
'My friend, Aleister, does carry such a dirk as well,' Emlyn commented. 'And, yes, came in very handy it did indeed, sometimes. Thanks Jeanne,' she added as she put a drop of honey in her mug. Taking a sip of the strong, flavorful tea, she continued, 'Indeed, I sometimes wonder how history might have gone if only the Bonny Prince had had children and prospective heirs to the throne...'
'Oh, but he did!' Jeanne exclaimed.
Alex sat forward now, adding, 'He did, lass! Indeed. For he was twice marriet, and though his firrst wife dinna conceive --'
Jeanne butted in with: '-- An' though she'd had an affair wi' a foppish Italian poet!'
'-- After which Charles was granted a divorce by papal dispensation, in 1784!' Alex nodded, resuming his discourse. 'Ach, the prince had a few offspring from the wrong side o'the blanket as they say, and he was able to remarry, ye ken. In 1785 Charles marriet again, to the Comtesse de Massillan in Rome. She was a cousin by descent from Charles own grand uncle, King Charles II.'
Jeanne poured more tea all round. 'They had a son two years later, Eduard Jacques Stuardo, who became known as Count Stuarton.'
'Why have I, or anyone, not heard about all this?' Emlyn was astounded, to say the least.
'All of Europe knew of it,' Alex stood then strolling to the fire, and lifted the lid to his scones.'Nearly there,' Alex casually replaced the lid to the scone pan and stood with hands behind his back at parade rest.
'Meanwhile, back in England,' Jeanne continued, turning to Em, 'news of Charles Edward's legitimate son was immediately suppressed by House of Hanover and it's long, lethal arms! -- Tcha!' Jeanne shook her head, as if to rid it of the very thought.
Alex smiled at her. 'You are lovely when you're in a fightin' mood, lass...' He lifted the scone lid again.
'Une moment, cheries!' He bowed briefly, hastening back to the kitchen, then returned with a tray of small plates, tableware, butter, clotted creme, honey and jam pots which he set upon the tea table.
Deftly then, he removed the scone pan and slid the scones into a cloth-lined basket and covered them.
'Ladies...' He bowed once more, then sat himself beside Jeanne.
Em sighed. 'I want one, just like yours...' she allowed.
Jeanne glanced at her. 'What, a scone?' she asked, as she
selected a steaming bun, the scent rising, teasing the senses, and handed it to Em.
'No,' Em clarified, accepting the scone -- 'a mon!'
Alex erupted into a hearty belly-laugh, eyeing his wife, as Jeanne also chuckled to herself, taking another hot scone.
'Sorry, Em, but they broke the mold with this one.'
............
Midnight had come and gone and still the chess match aboard ship battled on.
Pouring more brandy, St.John began to wax loquacious.
'Note bene: Indeed it was Prince Charles who was one of the main perpetuators of Scottish Freemasonry,' St.John declared, sawing off more rye loaf slices. 'This we know from Stuart history. And it was also he who never shied away from linking speculative Freemasonry with the Templars.'
'This all had to be somewhat sub-rosa, though, did it not?' Daryl rejoined, sipping slowly. 'The Church had made it clear by then that the Templars were the devil's next-of-kin.'
'Hm. Yes. That is what comes of respecting one's adversaries. Richard the Lionheart and Saladin had great mutual respect for one another. Templars knew the value of real knowledge, whatever the source.'
Daryl frowned. 'Richard was a bit of an arse, though, was he not? Rather overstayed his crusading in the holy land, while leaving England to fall to wrack and ruin by plunderings of petty officials meanwhile, and sending many into poverty...'
St.John stared hard across the table, pinning Daryl with his gimlet gaze. 'Yes. Quite right.' He then shifted his bulk and relaxed. 'History's hindsight prefers to call him "Lionheart" though, and tries not to look too closely at his, ah, peccadillos.'
'The Italian word for "young Arab lads?"' Daryl asked, with a gaze to the ceiling. St.John merely smiled, taking another date.
'Actually,' Daryl continued, snatching a date himself before they all fell into the bottomless maw of St.John, 'the Templars, other than Richard, presumably, began to team up with the Assassins. They had a common enemy in Saladin. It was Rashid al-din Sinan, the Old Man of the Mountain, who was the Templar's contact in most of their dealings with Muslims.'
St.John munched more bread and cheese. 'Hmm...Rashid, yes. He was hoping to make the Templars his allies, perhaps even create a Templar/Assassin joint Order. Some mis-communication nipped that in the bud, however...'
St.John's gaze shifted to the chess game. 'Looking rather dire for black, now, I'd say.' He poured the remainder of his brandy into their mugs.
'Where was I, now? The Order, in Scotland, yes: Mid-1700s, it was Andrew Ramsay, known as Chevalier Ramsay, who was Prince Charles's tutor. He delivered what became known as 'Ramsay's Oration'. '
Daryl put a hand up; '...Wasn't Ramsay a tool of the Jesuits though? They baited certain societies into a false sense of acceptance, to learn their heretical secrets. ' Daryl thought little of the Jesuits, a mostly military arm of the Vatican. 'Black Pope' indeed; black deeds done, and not dirt cheap.
St.John glowered, ignored him, and continued: 'This declared that Freemasons had evolved from 'Crusader Knights' as he called them, who had formed themselves 'Lodges of St.John'.'
He paused then, and rapped his knuckles thrice upon the table.
Just then, a cry of 'Mat!' was heard from the chess contingent as a White Knight took the Black King. Cheers and grumblings were heard in equal measure as the party relaxed, lit cigarettes and poured more vodka, amidst the pocketing of rubles.
'Shah Mat!' Daryl lifted his mug. 'The King is dead!'
'Long Live the King!' St.John clacked his mug and joined Daryl in a long-overdue toast.
'And to absent friends...' Daryl added, with a sigh.
Brian Blackmoor's Mickey and Broom Play Chess
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