Chapter Twenty-Seven
Turning, Aedan stood by his work crew, some of them digging and grubbing, others finagling the noisy, finicky steam shovel, still others inspecting the results of the recent blasts.
Then thunder, a crack of bright lightning, and fat, cold rain began to fall, striking his shoulders. He swore in exasperation. Grabbing his jacket from where he had tossed it on a rock, he shrugged it on and walked toward Hector and Angus.
“We need to stop work for the evening!” he told them above the noise of the sudden squall. “Tell the lads to turn off the steam shovel and gather up their things.” Hector nodded and ran off to do so.
“Sir,” Angus said. “Did Mrs. Blackburn come up here a little while ago?”
Aedan frowned. “Mrs. Blackburn? She is at the house, I think.”
“I was sure I saw her earlier, climbing t’other side of the hill. We were busy at the time. I thought you likely knew at any rate.”
“Odd,” Aedan said. “Are you sure?”
“I am sure none of us wears a skirt,” the man answered. “If she came up, she is at the old wall now. I did not see her leave the hill.”
“Go with the others—find some shelter. I will be back.” Alarmed, Aedan turned away. Pulling up the swath of plaid draped over his shoulder, he formed a serviceable hood and umbrella, and headed for the rough path that led to the other side of the hill.
Slanting rain and dark shadows made the path treacherous, but he went quickly, booted feet sure and rapid as he climbed over toothy rocks even as sheets of rain made the surfaces slippery and puddles formed where he stepped.
He strode forward without hesitation, determined, knowing this was the quickest, if the wettest, way to reach the excavation and Christina.
A cold, grim feeling in his gut told him to hurry.
*
“Where is it?” Edgar muttered, prying away one loosened wax plug after another.
He had cracked two of the pots, and the contents lay strewn on the ground.
The smell emanating was old and fermented.
Christina longed for fresh air. Three candles now flickered inside the chamber to afford more light as Edgar examined the pots.
She huddled in a corner, wrists tied with a rope that the work crew had left there earlier.
As much as she wanted to escape, it would be impossible to climb the ladder with her hands bound and the ladder slippery with the rain now pouring through the gap in the tarpaulin.
She watched Edgar in silence as he tilted pots, looking inside, dumping contents, knocking them over and cracking clay into pieces in his zeal to find something that did not exist here.
She was certain there was no gold in the pots.
The rain beat heavily overhead as Christina sat amid ancient multicolored weavings, spilled grain, the stench of bad beer, and a thick ooze of honey. Her heart broke to see the destruction.
“Where the devil could it be?” Edgar muttered. He yanked out a cloth that shredded under his hands. He tossed it aside.
“Edgar, stop! The historical value of these things—”
“Is not as important as the treasure that must be hidden here somewhere. After the princess fell asleep, or whatever the devil happened to her, Arthur himself sent the mourning prince a gift. That’s in the legend.”
“It’s not in the legend. It’s in Sir Hugh’s poem. He invented most of the story.”
“He knew something, I’m sure.” He searched in a frenzy.
“It is not here! I have been through those pots. You are ruining the artifacts!”
“I trusted you with this task, but you have not managed it well,” he groused.
“How good of you to mention it,” she said sourly.
He pried the lid off another jar. “For years, I studied your uncle’s work and read every word Sir Hugh wrote. I felt sure there had to be a connection between Arthur and Scotland here at Dundrennan. I wanted to find it for the world.”
“For the world or yourself?”
“Your uncle started it, then Sir Hugh. I wanted to find the real proof. I even took you in as museum staff and showed interest in you.”
“Am I supposed to be grateful?”
“But Walter Carriston became a laughingstock for his theories. I could not associate myself with that.”
“You let others do the real work and then take credit. How do you live with that?”
“Guilt and conscience inhibit success.” He popped free another waxen seal. “The evidence is too compelling to overlook. Arthur’s supporters could be on that military roster. He could have come up here.”
“Aedan mac Brudei was on that roster. These were his lands.”
“And Arthur would not have entrusted his gold to just anyone. It had to be a loyal warlord who could protect it until the king could claim it. There has to be something here. If not in this storage chamber, then above, inside the walls somewhere.”
“We have been digging carefully. There is nothing but evidence of a domicile.”
“You are a fool, Christina,” Edgar said. “I was sincere about marrying you. I thought you had more sense. But you came here and lost your mind.”
Lost my heart, she thought. “Let me go, Edgar. I will say nothing. This is temporary loss of control. Understandable excitement on the verge of a great discovery.”
He came toward her, sinking to one knee.
Reaching out, he tipped up her chin. “So lovely. So innocent, despite a lack of good judgment. I fell in love with you when I first saw Stephen’s painting.
I saw a seductress. But she does not exist. You are a dull little scholar after all, and not the equal intellect I hoped you were.
” Yet as he spoke, he slid his fingers through her hair.
“But beautiful, and you could be a helpmate. A partner. Agree to help me. We will find this together. The credit will be mine, of course. But you will benefit.”
“Get away from me,” she said.
He forced her head back, kissing her, his mouth dry and eager, his lips working heavily over hers. His tongue plunged into her mouth.
Gagging, she turned her head away. Edgar grabbed her shoulders, pulling her toward him. She booted him in the stomach with a foot, knocking him backward.
“Stop!” she gasped out.
He gathered himself up and reached for her again. She kicked once more, hitting his thigh. But he grabbed her foot to stop her. Struggling, she writhed away, petticoats frothing around her legs.
“Christina—we could do this together!” He groped, pulled her toward him, hands tight at her waist. “A triumph of scholarship. A brilliant match. I just need your loyalty.”
“Leave me be—” she began.
A movement in the shadows caught her eye. Suddenly, behind Edgar, still clawing at her, she saw a lean, athletic figure hastening down the ladder. Aedan hit the ground and spun, rushing toward them.
His face was hard and dangerous in the low light, his jaw tight with anger. Wordlessly, he snatched Edgar up to drag him off Christina.
Edgar whirled and struck out, and the two men grappled until Aedan grabbed Edgar by his carefully tied stock and gave him a solid punch upward to the jaw. Edgar sank to one knee, groaning. Aedan hauled him upward.
“Touch her again,” he growled, “and you will die, I swear it.” He shook Edgar and tossed him backward, so that he struck the wall and slumped.
Christina struggled to her feet, her wrists roped. “Aedan!”
“Love, are you hurt?”
She shook her head, and cried out a warning as Edgar leaped for him. Aedan spun, broke Edgar’s attempt at a hold and shoved him back again, this time pinning him to the stone wall, their heads nearly touching the low ceiling.
“As for finding King Arthur’s gold,” Aedan said, breathing ragged, “that right belongs to me and mine. When the princess wakes, they say”—he shoved Edgar hard again—“the gold will be found. Not until then. And not by you!”
As he spoke, he tore off Edgar’s cravat and used it to bind the man’s wrists. Neaves cowered, slumped to the floor.
“Stay there,” Aedan said. “Do not dare move.”
Christina came toward them. “How did you know he was looking for gold?”
“I heard what you were saying before I came down the ladder,” he said. “Then when I heard him go for you, I came down.”
“You let me fend for myself when you were right there?” she asked indignantly.
“You defended yourself nicely, madam. If you needed help, I would have interfered. I thought you might want to pummel Edgar yourself before I stepped in.”
She began to reply when Edgar lunged, bowling into Aedan’s legs. They rolled to the ground again, Aedan beneath, then rolling atop, grabbing at Edgar, who slithered toward the ladder. He attempted to scramble up the rungs, managing even with his hands tied.
Aedan threw himself toward the ladder to yank Edgar backward. Neaves somehow butted his head against the tarpaulin to push it aside. It dipped, and water rushed down, pooled on the heavy cloth, knocking Edgar to the ground with Aedan.
Then a gush and a deluge as rain and a slide of mud poured into the souterrain like a black waterfall. The cascade covered the ladder and sluiced over the earthen floor, making even more mud, dousing candles, crashing into pottery.
Christina shrieked as the flood of water and muck tore over her feet so that she lost her balance, falling into the thick rush of it. Choking, gasping, she slid into a wall. Her head hit stone so hard that sound and motion stalled, stopped.
The mossy stones behind her seemed to soften and dissolve, and ooze swept over her, pushing her through the wall. She went into the abyss on the current.
*
The mud slapped over him like a water beast. Aedan rose to his feet, covered in mud. Coughing, groping in the darkness, he grabbed at the wall, looking for Christina and Edgar both. He grabbed a stone broken from the wall like an anchor in a storm.
“Christina!” His voice echoed strangely.
He groped in the darkness, and stumbled over what he realized was Edgar.
The fellow was slumped and motionless. He must have hit his head.
Aedan sat him upright, propping him against something solid, and turned to search in the blackness.
Water poured down from the opening, splashing, swirling.
Overhead, lightning cracked, rain pounded.
“Christina!” Silence. He called again, desperate, hearing only the slap and slop and pound of water and mud against stones and earth.
Feeling along the wall, his arm plunged into a gap. Some of the stones had tilted somehow, driven further into the earth. Odd. There must have been a hollow space behind them for that to happen. He pushed through the gap on hands and knees, calling.
Even in darkness, he knew that he had moved into another chamber, so compact that he could not stand upright or see anything in the darkness. Lifting a hand, he felt a ceiling lines with stones. Another larder?
He edged forward, encountering something—someone in the pitch dark. His hands knew what his eyes could not see.
“Christina,” he murmured.
She lay on her back in mud, unmoving. Under his touch, her head lolled, her arms sagged as he knelt beside her and dragged her into his arms and out of the mudslide. Gently he gathered her to him, terrified that she was gone.
Then he sensed her faint breathing. She was unconscious.
He probed to find the nature of her injury, felt an obvious bump forming on the side of her head.
He searched in a pocket for his silver flask, a slender candle stub, and a box of matches, items he always carried with him when working outside through the night.
Leaning her against him, he touched off a match to light the candle. It flared into blessed light. He set the taper on a stone, noticing then that the walls in the little crawl space were lined in stone like the outer chamber.
He stroked her face, brushing mud from her cheeks, her hair.
She lay serene in his arms, peaceful, eyes closed.
Frightened, he said her name over and over, touched her cheek, cupped the bruise and bump on her head.
She must have been knocked against the stone and somehow pushed through the wall just at the weak spot that gave way.
He looked around. The space looked like an extension of the storage chamber, but different. Stones had collapsed inward, coated in muck now. And the space glowed.
It was filled with the glint and gleam of gold, bronze, silver and steel.
Frowning in the dim light, he saw so many things he could hardly take it all in. Pots, carvings, a bench, small objects piled in a corner.
And gold. He moved the candle in an arc and saw the golden glitter and wink of it everywhere.
Bowls, pitchers, gleaming torques, hammered armbands and wristlets stacked haphazardly.
Swords, daggers with steel blades and bronze handles.
A bowl covered in filigreed gold. A glittering jumble of wire-wrapped brooches.
Stunned, he looked at it, then turned his attention back to the woman in his arms. She was far more important to him than an ancient king’s ransom. She was breathing, but it was shallow. He bent down.
“Christina, my love,” he whispered. He kissed her brow, her soft, unresponsive mouth. “Wake up. Please, God, wake up.” Desperation rose in him like a tide. “I love you,” he whispered. “I love you.”
She did not stir, scarcely breathed. He cupped her face with his hand. He felt sheer will rise up in him and flow to her. “Come back to me. Come on. I am here. Come on.”
*
Come homeward to me.
Drawn like a boat on a slow current, she moved through darkness, through peace, languid and willing, following a stream that carried her—moments, ages, centuries, she was not sure. She felt outside the span of time, floating.
She heard the voice of her beloved then. She felt his love surround her, gather her to him on a silvery ribbon, drawing her along. That sparkling tendril kept her from slipping into the void. He had loved her and had searched for her.
His magic drew her and she went with it, floating, carried along. Then she soared upward, to where his voice was all she knew.
Come again homeward, safe to me.
My love, she tried to say, I hear you.
She felt his touch upon her cheek and opened her eyes.
He smiled, her beloved, eyes so blue in candlelit darkness. His love was warm, golden, healing. She smiled.
He kissed her fingers and bent toward her. “I love you,” he whispered. “I think I have loved you for a very long time.”
“You are here,” she whispered in wonder. “I wanted to find you. You are here.”
“Always here, love,” he said. “Forever.”