'I've found him.' Caroline's voice came clear and steadfast from the far corner of the crypt.
The effigy on top of the tomb was worn and indistinct, but it was still recognisable as a warrior in chain mail, long sword by his side, feet crossed and resting against a small chest. If it weren't for the brass plaque, the tomb would have been indistinguishable from the others in this oldest part of the crypt.
'Prince Christian,' George read. He scratched his cheek. 'He doesn't look like Prince Albert. Are you sure he's a relative?'
'It'd be difficult for him to look like anyone, with the features worn like that,' Aubrey said. 'Bertie says that his research insists that this Prince Christian is his direct ancestor.'
'And he went mad?'
Aubrey winced. 'I wouldn't put it as bluntly as that, but he was reputed to be feebleminded, or prone to irrational rages, or both. Bertie says that Christian was locked away in a tower when he was only twenty-two, at a monastery in Fremont. Died there a forgotten man, apparently.'
'At the age of ninety-four,' Caroline pointed out. 'A respectable age for those times.'
'For any time.' Aubrey squinted at the plaque. 'Ninetyfour? All the books say he died not long after being locked up. Hmm.'
'He would have seen so much, living for ninety years in the fourteenth century,' George said. 'Well, he would have if he hadn't spent most of it locked up.'
'True. Wars, invasions, the Plague. His father defeated us, you know, at the Battle of Ballan. Took most of our Gallian territories before he was killed the next year at the siege of Tigre.'
Caroline made a peculiar noise.
'What is it?' Aubrey asked her. 'Are you all right?'
She didn't answer the question. 'Who succeeded Stephen III?'
Aubrey rummaged his memory. 'His son, I think. Paul II.'
'Who died soon after, mysteriously.'
Aubrey shrugged. 'Well, the only mysterious thing about it was the exact nature of the poison. And who among the hundreds of potential suspects was the actual killer. He was a bad king.'
'So who succeeded him?'
Aubrey tried to remember. The fourteenth century was a particularly muddy time in Gallia, with a great deal of back-stabbing, false alliances and betrayals. Like most of Gallian history, he thought, only more so.
'One of his brothers,' George said. 'Theodore. That's the one.' He caught Aubrey's look. 'I haven't been wasting my time, you know. I picked up a few things while traipsing around those churches. Quite interesting, all this stuff.'
'Theodore,' Caroline repeated. 'The same Theodore who died in the Battle of St Hugo?'
'Yes,' George said.
Aubrey was intrigued. Caroline's eyes were bright and excited in the lantern light.
'All of this was in the time they called the Year of the Four Kings, wasn't it?'
'You seem to know your history pretty well,' George said.
'History is important,' she said.
'The Year of Four Kings ended when Stephen's brother Armand took the throne, uniting the insanely arguing family factions,' Aubrey put in, not wanting to be left out. 'He ruled for ten years, and spent most of it getting soundly beaten by Albion but not dying in the process, unlike many of his predecessors.'
Caroline waved a finger. 'A further question. What if Christian weren't illegitimate?'
'Well, that'd mean that he was robbed of the throne by his uncle Armand. Gallia was probably better off, given that Christian wasn't in the best state to lead the country.'
'True, but look closely.' Caroline took Aubrey's arm in a fierce grip. 'Prince Albert says he's the direct descendent of Prince Christian on his mother's side. If Christian was the rightful king of Gallia, then our Crown Prince is the heir to the throne of Gallia.'
Aubrey made a strangled noise before he found his words again. 'What did you say?'
'King Albert,' George said. 'Monarch of Albion and Gallia. Sounds good, wouldn't you say?'
Aubrey's mind whirled. The political situation on the Continent was precarious enough without a bombshell like this. 'No. This can't be true. It would have been raised before now.'
Caroline shook her head. 'Only if it were known. So what if the Prince just found some new evidence to suggest Christian was a truly recognised son of Stephen?'
'Bertie is a deep one,' Aubrey admitted. 'He keeps his motives to himself, but I don't believe our genealogical search was just a ruse.'
'I'm not saying that. I'm guessing that he's only come across this recently, after sending you looking for his ancestors.'
'Proof.'
They both looked at George. 'Proof,' he repeated. 'All this is no good without some sort of evidence.'
In the excitement, Aubrey had crumpled Bertie's letter. He smoothed it on his leg. 'Special features. The tomb. Special features. The tomb.'
'Aubrey,' Caroline said sternly. 'Gibberish.'
He looked up. 'I think Bertie wants us to bring back something from the tomb.'
George grimaced. 'He wants us to turn grave-robbers?'
Aubrey read the letter again. He placed a hand on the marble. 'No, we don't have to open the coffin. I think Bertie's veiled instructions point somewhere else.'
'Another code, old man?' George asked.
Aubrey studied the tomb. 'No. Just Bertie's execrable fondness for puns. At the end of the letter, after he asks me to find Prince Christian's tomb, he adds a post script. "I want you to look for some support for the family tree." It's underlined, just in case I was feeling more than usually obtuse.'
'The Crown Prince enjoys puns?' George's brow wrinkled as he tried to come to terms with this notion.
'He's an ordinary sort of fellow in lots of ways, George. He still puts his trousers on right way up, just like you and me.'
'I see.'
'Did you know that Christian never went to battle in his life?' Aubrey continued. 'All this armour is a sham for him. Even this chest at his feet.' He reached out and tapped it. 'Just the sort of thing a knight would bring back from a busy time looting and such, full of riches. Christian, of course, did no such thing.'
'I'm sure this is leading up to something,' George said.
'I think I have it,' Caroline said. 'What's another word for chest?'
George shrugged. 'I'm happy to play my part. Another word for chest? What about box, container, trunk –'
'Trunk will do. And how did Prince Albert put it, Aubrey? "Support for the family tree"?'
'Precisely.'
'So what supports a tree?'
George held up a hand. 'Please, Miss: a trunk!'
'So there you have it.' Caroline put her hand on the small marble box. 'Perhaps this isn't just ornamentation.'
Aubrey nodded. 'Let's see what we can see.'
Caroline tapped at the base of the chest.
Aubrey joined her, running his hand along its carved sides, feeling the smooth marble. It had a rolled edge, semi-circular in profile. Alternating lozenges and diamond shapes decorated its sides and a large, flowerlike rosette had a prominent position in the middle of each face.
Caroline shook her head. 'I can't hear anything.'
'I should hope not,' said George. He shuddered. 'Is anyone else cold?'
Aubrey peered at one of the rosettes. Was there a crack around it? 'I think –' He pushed at it – unsuccessfully – then pushed and twisted. He heard a click. The rosette depressed, then released, and a drawer slid out of the base of the chest.
The body of the drawer was made of copper and lying in it was a sheaf of documents. A dry, spicy smell came from them, a mixture of dust and cinnamon.
Aubrey lifted the documents. He screwed up his face at the dust, and gently shook them.
'Heavy paper,' George said.
'Not paper, vellum,' Aubrey said. 'Fine animal skin. Durable and beautiful. Used for the most important records.'
'Such as a Deed of Recognition?' Caroline suggested, looking over his shoulder.
Aubrey studied the document that lay on top
of the bundle. It was written in Latin, but the purple splash of a royal seal at the bottom was unmistakeable, even if faded. 'I'd say so.' He stared at the tomb. 'Bertie, you are a deep one.'
He closed the drawer and felt it click shut. Then he lifted his head. He'd felt a tickle, an insubstantial caress on his nerves. 'Ah.'
Caroline straightened. 'What is it?'
'Magic.'
George glanced from side to side. 'Where?'
'I'm not sure.' Aubrey could feel it, thick and deep. 'It seems to be coming from all directions.'
'The church,' Caroline said. 'It's fading.'
Even in the dim light thrown by the lantern, the stones of the crypt were growing insubstantial enough to show the earth that lay behind them. It would be madness to be trapped in the place. 'You're right. We must get out of here.'
Caroline led the way. They hurried through the tombs and monuments, footsteps echoing. They rushed up the stairs and almost knocked over the startled priest.
'Father,' Aubrey said, in Gallian. 'Everyone must leave the church. Immediately.'
'I'm the only one here,' the bewildered cleric replied, in Albionish. 'I must tend the church.'
Aubrey blinked. For an instant, the whole church wavered, rippling like a pond in the wind. Then, the walls began to fade.
George took the priest's arm. 'If you're the only one here, no-one's going to miss you.' He bundled the protesting priest toward the door, with Aubrey and Caroline close behind.
Standing on the courtyard outside the church, surrounded by the passionless edifice of the Taxation offices, they stared as the solid stone of the church continued to grow more ghostly. In the midday sun, such a thing seemed unlikely, a trick of the light, but when Aubrey could see through the walls, making out the shapes of buildings behind it, the reality of the phenomenon was undeniable.
'The government can't keep this sort of thing secret forever,' Caroline said.
'I'm surprised they've managed to suppress it this long,' Aubrey said.
'And what will the people say when they realise their cherished landmarks are vanishing?' George asked. The priest, standing next to him, gaped.
'Prime Minister Giraud will be hard pressed to hold onto power, I'd say. And if the government collapses here, I know one country that would be very, very pleased.'
Aubrey looked at the fading church, then at the ancient document in his hands, another item that would shake the status quo.
If it ever came to light.
'LOOKS RATHER ODD, OLD MAN,' GEORGE SAID OVER A CUP of coffee, 'your poring over dusty old relics in a place like this. That sort of thing would be more at home in a museum, I'd say.'
The café fronted onto the small square between the Taxation offices and the river. In the centre of the square was a fountain. A startled-looking goat spouted water through its mouth while balanced on its back legs. Aubrey was impressed by the sculptor's skill and puzzled by his imagination.
Aubrey sighed. Caroline was sitting close, brow furrowed as she studied the precious text. 'This will do, George. It's all we have at the moment.'
'Don't mind me, old man.' The large slice of cherry tart George bit into showed why he was happy with the venue.
Aubrey was fascinated. For a formal medieval document, the Deed of Recognition was direct and simple. Most of it was taken up with the titles of both Stephen III and Christian, a good two-thirds of the page detailing exactly which province, district and demesne belonged to each. The actual recognition was blunt, direct and inarguable, which, Aubrey decided, is exactly what the old warrior Stephen must have had in mind. It made it clear that Stephen had married Christian's mother after the death of his first wife, Clothilde, and the document was a binding regal declaration of Christian's change of status from illegitimacy to legitimacy. Of course, Aubrey decided, Stephen wasn't to know that Christian would long outlive his three brothers. The warrior king probably thought that Christian's legitimising was simply for show and of no dynastic importance.
The other documents proved to be equally interesting. One of them detailed the assorted possessions and responsibilities of the monarch. At the top of the list was the Heart of Gold.
It confirmed Aubrey's impression that this fabulous artefact was of ancient origin, for it was noted as being old when Stephen came to the throne. The document described the golden heart as being the soul of the nation, irreplaceable in every way. It also spoke of terrible consequences if it were moved.
'What does that word mean?' Caroline asked. She pointed right where Aubrey was reading.
'Unravelling, I think.'
Aubrey paused and stared at the smoke-stained ceiling. Unravelling. That was a good way of describing what was happening to Lutetia and Gallia. Just as an intricate carpet could fray and lose its pattern, the country was falling to pieces. And a dangerous time for Albion would ensue if it continued.
'I'll feel happier after we leave these documents at the embassy,' he said, and he wondered what Bertie's reaction would be when he read them.
Nineteen
AUBREY HELD THE BANKNOTES JUST OUT OF REACH OF the cabby. 'Are you sure this is the right place?' he asked in Gallian.
'This is where you asked to come.' The cabby was unshaven. He wore a monocle, which made him look rather more academic than the rest of his clothes indicated.
Aubrey nodded to Caroline and George. 'He says this is the place where von Stralick asked us to meet him.'
'Looks like a wasteland to me,' George said. The sun shone hard and brassy over the factories with yards full of discarded timber, iron and rope. A disused canal, overgrown with willows and rubbish, ran behind the factories. The entire area was abandoned, an industrial wilderness. Aubrey found it difficult to believe that the Chalbord district was less than six miles from the centre of the city.
'What's that?' Aubrey asked the cabby. He pointed at a mound of concrete on the nearest corner. Ten feet or more in height, it looked as if a bunker had been knocked over by a steamroller and then used as a dump for unwanted pieces of cast iron.
'Metro station, used to be. The St Louis spur runs right underneath us here. Not been used since they built the Central line.'
Aubrey handed him the money. 'Excellent.'
The cab rolled off with little haste, despite the unlikelihood of picking up any fares in a neighbourhood that seemed devoid of people. Aubrey watched until it turned the corner into Kellerman Street and headed back toward the centre of the city.
Caroline inspected the rubble from a distance. 'Do you think we're looking at another Holmland hiding place?'
'We'll find out soon enough,' Aubrey said. 'But they do seem to have a penchant for underground refuges.'
George clapped his hands together. 'Right. Let's see just what part of this rubbish is a disguised entrance.'
He strode across the desolate intersection. Aubrey caught Caroline's attention. 'Good man, is George.'
'Indeed.' She smiled. 'Shall we follow him?'
'After you.'
Just before George reached the rubble, the mound groaned and shook. He jumped backward as a rough rectangle detached itself and slammed back with a ringing crash. With nowhere to hide, Aubrey groped for a useful spell, absently noting that the rectangle of rubbish was a door, cunningly disguised and set into the debris. It had been covered with broken concrete and a rusty iron grille.
Hugo von Stralick stumbled out, wild-eyed and panting. Aubrey sighed with relief, and he hurried to the Holmlander.
Von Stralick stood on the edge of the mound and gazed with horror at the gaping hole he'd sprung from. Then he saw he wasn't alone. He wiped his brow with one hand. 'The Heart of Gold. It is gone. Muller and Schnagel are dead.'
'Steady, von Stralick,' Aubrey said. 'What's going on?'
Von Stralick's clothing was in disarray. His grey tweed jacket was streaked with cobwebs. His tie was awry. He'd lost his hat and he dragged at his hair with his fingers, trying to get it into some sort of order. His eyes were not steady; hi
s gaze roamed around, not settling long on anything.
It was most unlike the self-possessed Holmland spy that Aubrey had come to know.
Von Stralick cleared his throat, then closed his eyes for a moment. When he reopened them, his breathing was slower, his voice less hoarse. 'I received a communication, telling me of this place.' He jabbed a finger at the rubble. 'Another refuge that Muller and Schnagel had access to. I had orders for them.'
'Ah,' Aubrey said. 'The machinations among your factions must have come to a head.'
Von Stralick shrugged. Slowly, he was beginning to resemble the fashionable diplomat again. 'When I return to Fisherberg I expect I will hear that some general or other has taken extended leave, or died unexpectedly or suchlike.'
'What were you going to do?' Caroline asked.
'Muller and Schnagel were ordered back to base. I was to take the Heart of Gold and restore it to its rightful place. Discreetly, of course.'
'But who killed them?' George asked.
'That I do not know, but whoever it was has taken the Heart of Gold. It makes matters most uncertain.'
'Uncertain,' Aubrey said. 'Nothing's changed then.' He went to the doorway and peered into the darkness.
'Where are you going?' Caroline demanded.
'The Heart of Gold has gone, but the scene of the crime remains. Let's see what we can learn.'
'Don't even think of telling me to wait outside,' Caroline warned.
'Wouldn't dream of it.'
'Nor me, old man,' George said.
Von Stralick straightened his jacket and sighed. 'I must accompany you, then. Honour insists.'
A short flight of concrete stairs took them to a concourse littered with building debris. As they went deeper, von Stralick produced a bullseye lantern. When he lit it, the light jittered over the pale green wall tiles. Shreds of old posters advertising absinthe, cigarettes and once-fashionable holiday destinations hung forlornly, reminders of busier times.
Von Stralick took them through rusty turnstiles to the platform. The tunnels were black voids swallowing the tracks. Aubrey felt a faint breeze on his face as they walked to the end of the platform, where Von Stralick stopped. The lantern light wobbled on an iron door. A sign announced it was for staff only.
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