Publisher: Clink Street Publishing
Publication date: May 9, 2017
Outremer
I
Who Controls The Past
Controls The Future
An epic love story
must overcome religious divide and a plot to eradicate two blood lines, as the
Crusades and the search for the ancient mysteries of the Holy Grail gather
momentum.
Raised by his father in
La Rochelle, France, Paul Plantavalu is known for his artistic nature,
inquisitive mind and Christian faith. He also has an unshakable love for his
Muslim childhood friend, Alisha al Komaty. Courageous and outspoken, she
returns Paul’s love. But their path is paved with obstacles; religion, war,
political chaos and a mysterious enemy determined to destroy their family
lines.
Sometime between 1110 AD
and 1120 AD in the aftermath of the first crusade, a small band of nine knights
— the founding knights Templar — recover ancient precious artefacts left by a
former, advanced civilisation, beneath the City of Jerusalem. Ruthlessly
guarded, the secrets revealed by this discovery are highly prized by powerful
and dangerous forces far and wide; the repercussions of their capture are
inextricably linked to Paul and Alisha. As Paul starts to experience dark and
vivid dreams and the fragile balance of peace starts to crumble, it will fall
to an enigmatic man known as Kratos and his female warrior protégée Abi
Shadana, to safeguard Paul and Alisha.
Paul and Alisha’s love
story weaves between the threads of our reality and other realms — from the
Druids to the Sufi mystics, the Magi of the East, the secret political arm of
the Knights Templar and the Isma’ilis, the Assassins. Knights and pilgrims
alike will witness some of the darkest battles ever fought. The discovery of a
unique sword’s lethal power and whispered connections to King Arthur and the
Holy Grail lead Paul and Alisha to question if their lives ever be the same
again.
The first of a four-part
series, Outremer is an historical epic, which
sweeps across England, Scotland and France, to Syria, Jerusalem and Egypt.
Discover the truth — and crack the ancient code — behind the great mysteries of
the High Middle Ages for yourself.
About the author: After strange and vivid
experiences whilst living in Cyprus as a child, author D N Carter has been
fascinated by the history, myths and legends of the Middle Ages and mankind’s
past. As he got older travels to Pyramids of Giza in Egypt, the Languedoc
region of France and the deserts of Arabia fuelled his enthusiasm. While not
decoding maps and mathematical codes D N Carter enjoys adventure sports from
parachuting to microlight flying. Today he divides his time between East Anglia
in the UK and the south of France with his family.
Extract
This
scene follows immediately after the original founding knights of the Templar's
locate and enter a secret chamber beneath Jerusalem and recover ancient
artefacts in 1109 AD.
Megalithic
Hypogeum of Hal Saflieni, Malta, 1109 AD.
No sooner had the Count knelt down to pick up the ornate necklace in
Jerusalem, when at that exact same moment, across the Mediterranean Sea upon a
raised artificial plateau near the shore on Malta’s East coast at the site of a
buried Megalithic Hypogeum, a tall, clean-shaven middle aged looking man
dressed in a full-length white mantle stood motionless beneath a single
standing, large and very ancient Holm Oak tree. The tree shaded an even more
ancient stone burial mound. The man sensed something, like a soft wave of water
gently hitting him. The setting sun was reflecting hues of crimson and red off
the white undersides of the Oaks leaves to beautiful effect. His long tied back
hair matched the white of his clothes. His eyes were closed tightly, his hands
resting upon a staff as he breathed in deliberately slowly, held his breath for
a moment, and then exhaled even more slowly. A slight breeze blew his mantle
tunic top open revealing a black and yellow striped cord with a hexagonal
pendant replete with a depiction of a stylised bee hanging around his neck.
Fig 1:
The staff was unusual in that it had a dark polished metallic type horse
shoe at the top positioned above a round ball of identical colour. As the Sun
sank slowly over the horizon, it cast long shadows across the small open
clearing within the woods where the great Oak tree stood separate from the
rest. The round ball section of the staff appeared to glow from the inside and
a pale bluish green light began to emanate from it shining through his fingers.
The man opened his eyes wide revealing large piercing blue eyes that reflected
the silhouette image of the tree he stood before. His gaze slowly moved
downwards to look at the small figure of a young blonde haired girl of no more
than four years of age approach him. Her smile was mesmerising as she stood
before him and looked up. He sighed softly and returned the smile. She
outstretched her hand for his and when his hand met hers, he knelt down and
looked intently into her clear youthful blue eyes.
“We are but the last few of our kind! You cannot understand me, nor
grasp what I say to you yet, but now, as my work can again continue, so too is
your journey just beginning my child; so come, we have much to do,” he said
softly.
The little girl squeezed his hand tightly, and simply smiled back at
him.
Port of La Rochelle, France,
Melissae Inn, Spring 1191.
A
tall figure cloaked from head to toe in a dark grey, almost black, ankle length
over tunic with a bright blue sash wrapped around his middle and over his right
shoulder stood with his back to the main entrance door of the two storeyed
Melissae Inn. A former manor house, it was situated alone at the top of a
raised outlet of land that jutted into the harbour opening of the protected
straits of the Pertuis d’Antioche, part of the Bay of Biscay to the south of La
Rochelle. The port echoed with the sounds of traders, sailors and builders
working upon the new half completed outer harbour wall and castellated towers
that flanked the entrance. Several large Genoese galleys were berthed alongside
Hospitaller and Templar ships along with several merchant Cog vessels; their
sails were being furled away.
With
stables, a sizable bunkhouse and a natural fresh water well, it was a haven for
travellers and pilgrims to stop and rest as many passed by on the path named
the ‘Allee Stella Maris’ due to several myths and stories that surrounded it
being named as such, which the inn fronted onto. It had commanding views north
across the sheltered harbour and west overlooking the open Atlantic ocean
beyond. The sun was casting its last rays on the horizon creating bright shimmering
starbursts of light upon the calm waters, which silhouetted him to those inside
the inn. A chilly breeze gently blew and he raised the hood up over his head.
He stood a while longer gazing out towards the open ocean as raised voices and
laughter filled the air with a cacophony of noise he would rather not hear.
Stephan, the inn’s proprietor, exited the door looking more like a blacksmith
than an innkeeper with his oversized boots and dark leather apron and sleeves
rolled up on his arms. Large in both size and character, his receding ginger
hair gave away his older age despite his face being youthful and kind looking.
“I
think it’s about time you came inside and warmed yourself. That wind will chill
you before you realise it,” he said loudly to be heard above the noise. He
wiped a small drinking goblet with a cloth as he waited for the man’s reply and
adjusted a small sign that hung bearing the name of the inn and an image of a
bee, a beehive and a scallop shell.
The
man raised his right hand in acknowledgement but carried on looking out across
the harbour. A horn blew in the distance and echoed out as workers
constructing the harbour entrance fortifications were called to stop their
day’s work. The regular and repeated thuds and metallic clanging sounds started
to cease almost at once. Only the noise of several horses tied up near the inn
neighing and making the odd snort as a Mareschal farrier tended them now
punctured the air, plus the occasional laugh and female shriek coming from
inside the inn. As the last rays of the sun set in bright crimson and orange
hues on the long streaks of cloud on the horizon, the man turned slowly, pulled
the hood and cloak around himself tighter and walked toward the inn’s main
entrance. Built from both local sandstone blocks and with large wooden beams,
the inn was a solid refuge against the bitter Atlantic winds and weather that
could batter the shoreline during the winter months, but mostly the bay
afforded La Rochelle a temperate climate all year, almost identical to its
southern French ports on the Mediterranean. It made for an ideal location as a
major Freeport for traders.
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