He abruptly stopped scratching. Standing, he stepped over so that his feet were below the circles of the old fortress. He peered intently at the drawing of square and circles and curving lines.
It almost exactly duplicated the little one on the scrap of parchment that he had seen in Reyna's Book of Hours.
Something was missing, but he couldn't remember what it was. He strode from the garden, wondering why someone had drawn a map of Black Lyne Keep and its lands as seen from the eye of a flying bird.
He found the little Book of Hours on the solar shelf. Flipping through the pages of devotions and images, he found the scrap of parchment. It still looked like something drawn by an astrologer.
He realized what his own map had not included. Two straight lines bisected the old motte and donjon, forming a cross.
He examined the frail and ragged quality of the lines. A Book of Hours was the sort of book one would keep near the dying, reading familiar prayers to comfort them. If Robert of Kelso had drawn this, what was so important that he would use his last strength to do so?
He replaced the book on the shelf, but tucked the little map into his sleeve. It was one more mystery left by the good Robert, and as unlikely to be solved as the others.
He left the keep and climbed to the battlements, then circled around to the south where he could see the old motte in the distance. He narrowed his eyes and peered in vain for signs of Reyna returning. He would wait only a little longer, and then go looking for her.
His gaze fell to the cemetery, and the central cross marking Robert's grave. He remembered standing here, his fury building while he imagined Reyna with Edmund. That jealousy seemed distant and foolish and he knew he would never feel anything like it again. He would never doubt her thus, not if a hundred Edmunds passed this way to talk philosophy.
Nor would he ever again resent her memories of the man buried under that cross. Robert had become a friend of sorts. Hadn't they both arrived here the same way, cut off from family and past, only to stay and build new lives? He was no Robert of Kelso to be sure, but oddly enough he found himself following that man's steps. He smiled at the irony, because it had been Edmund's more obvious similarity to Robert that had fed his torment that night.
He began to walk away and then paused, frozen for a soundless moment. A scattering of notions poked at his mind in unison, arrows from numerous quivers of memories sighting in on him all at once. He stared down at the cross while he absorbed their onslaught, astonished and annoyed that he had missed such obvious explanations.
He walked slowly to the stairs, mulling what had just occurred to him. Surely he was right, and he thought he knew how to be certain. He would find the proof, and then go and tell Reyna what he had learned. It was not a big mystery, but she would be glad to know the truth, especially on this day when she had garnered her courage to face what she called “all of it.”
Alice's grandsons played in the yard and he called to them. “Come with me. I need small strong bodies, and you look just right.”
Adam and Peter hopped and skipped beside him into the tower. He took a torch from the hall and they marched up to the solar.
He handed Adam the torch and bent down to press the stones that opened the wall to the hidden stairway. He should have done this a month ago, but he just assumed— well, he had just assumed that it was exactly what it was. “Go and stand down two steps to give us light,” he instructed his torchbearer.
The light ducked and disappeared into the wall and Ian followed, bringing Peter. He turned the small boy toward the niche.“I am going to hoist you up and I want you to crawl in and see what is there. I should warn you that there may be huge spiders.”
The idea of confronting huge spiders enthralled Peter. Ian lifted him onto the edge of the deep niche, then took the torch to raise the light. Peter's rump and legs began crawling away. Soon only one small foot was within reach.
“What is back there?”
“Lots of cobwebs and squishy bugs. Wish you had let me bring a sack. Seems unfair that Adam should miss all the fun.”
“Besides bugs. In the back, isn't there armor and cloth?”
“Aye.”
“Can you get the cloth out without tearing it over-much?”
“It's falling apart. Stinks bad too. What do you want this old thing for?”
“Just hand it to me.” The rump inched backward, and a hand shot out with the tattered cloth. Ian took it and gave the torch back to Adam, then helped a very dirty Peter out of the niche.
Back in the solar, the boys waited expectantly to see the nature of the hidden treasure. Ian didn't have the heart to send them away, and so they flanked him while he carefully unfolded the filthy cloth and spread it over the chair.
“It is only an old surcoat for armor,” Adam said with disappointment.
Ian mentally cleaned the dust and rot off the garment and filled in the sections lost to time. This rag explained much.
Peter traced the horizontal and vertical lines where dark fabric met light in the center. “Looks like part of a cross. And this could be red, and this white. It's a crusader's surcoat.”
“Something like that,” a new voice said.
Ian turned to see Andrew Armstrong standing near the door.
“No doubt a Fitzwaryn long ago left that there,” Andrew added.
The boys began imagining that ancient warrior, speculating on the battles he had fought against the Saracens.
Ian smiled, expecting that the siege of Antioch would fill the yard for the next few days. “Go now, and see if your grandmother or the grooms need you for any chores,” he said.
They ran off, filling the passageway with war cries. Ian and Andrew faced each other in silence.
“You knew,” Ian said.
“I was his squire when he first came. Not a very good squire, but he understood it was not my nature, and saw to it the others did not mock me too much. We both knew I would never earn my spurs, and so he convinced Maccus that my worth lay elsewhere. Eventually I became steward here, and then later he was given the lands and I served him again.”
“How did you know?”
Andrew gestured to the surcoat. “I found it by mistake. One day while I squired for him I decided to clean up the old armor he kept in some sacks, even though he would never use it again. That was with it. I recognized it. Anyone back then would have. I asked him about it. He was a good man, and I swore never to speak of it. By then I knew something about secrets which some men need to keep. He knew mine and I knew his, and we neither of us judged.”
Ian fingered the tattered red-and-white cloth. “Red cross on white field, in reverse of a crusader's livery. A Templar's surcoat. Scottish?”
“Nay, I do not think so. He had been in the East when he was a boy. Scottish by birth, I'm sure, but he hadn't lived here for many years and was still young when he returned.” He glanced to where Ian's fingers lay. “His French was impeccable.”
Ian did some calculations. “One of the last to be dubbed, I would guess. Perhaps the last to die.”
“There is no need for anyone to ever know.”
“He is dead. There is no danger now.”
“Still—”
“Reyna needs to know. Other than her, perhaps not. If he chose to keep this secret while he lived, we can let it be buried with him.”
Andrew nodded gratefully. He turned to leave, but paused. “His first years here, I always had the sense that he was waiting for something. He kept a subtle distance from the others, and formed no close friendships. Even with Maccus, he held something back.”
“It might have just been the secret itself. Hiding a past has a way of isolating a man,” Ian said, realizing that he and Robert had even more in common than he had thought.
“Perhaps. And yet, as the years passed, he changed, as if he knew it would never come, whatever it was. Knew he was here to stay.” He shrugged and walked to the door. “Not such a bad secret. No sin in it. I always thought that he should te
ll Reyna, at least. He once said that he would, that she would need to know.”
Ian carefully refolded the surcoat. He stored it in one of his own trunks, then walked over to the books to investigate yet another arrow point that had pricked at his memory.
A short while later he had made two stacks, one high with the Gospels and Aquinas and Bernard, the other much smaller and poorer, with the herbal and a few secular treatises.
He turned to leave, but halted. Lifting the little Book of Hours from atop the tall stack, he opened it and tore out its first page, then placed it on the stack with the herbal.
Chapter TWENTY-SIX
Reyna sat on the ground against the stone she and Ian had shared the day she escaped from Aymer, feeling its warmth against her back, thinking that she really should finish this or Ian would begin to worry and come for her.
She gazed again at the lintel spanning the ancient entry to the donjon's foundations. Aye, it had happened there. She was sure of it now. Still, it looked different and not very threatening, possibly because she saw it from this angle, and not as one leaving the blackness.
The memories and images had come clearly, almost too clearly, once she knew what she sought. Not lined up in a composed tale, but as flashes of sight and sound and emotion.
Two bodies, not one, but she had barely seen the second after the horror of the first. Duncan cursing loudly, and yelling for someone to get her away. Strong arms grabbing her, dragging her back into the blackness. A hand covering her eyes when she was brought out again and carried down the motte.
Had she forgotten at once? When had she started believing that her mother lived in that abbey? Her whole childhood had become a blur, except during those nightmares and terrors. Otherwise her life might as well have started the day Robert found her in the crypt.
She rose and dusted off her gown. She had already said her prayers for that poor woman whose unhappiness had ended here. Had Duncan forced her to watch her lover die first? The distant screams in her terror suggested that he had.
She approached the lintel. A knot twisted in her stomach. The dark had not frightened her during the two weeks since returning from Harclow, but then Ian was usually reassuringly nearby. This would be different. And this was not a passageway or a chamber or even the crypt, but the place where it had all begun.
She entered the old foundations and marched bravely forward, until she lost the last of the light and only blackness faced her. Sweat slicked her palms and her heart beat rapidly, but the unhinging fear stayed away. Groping her way along the stone wall, she proceeded forward until she found a slight turn and the entry behind her disappeared.
And then she halted in horror.
Voices mumbled toward her, off the stones, through the blackness—A low laugh— The stone beneath her hand felt the sounds as surely as her spirit heard them echoing quietly all around her.
Nay, she cried silently, dropping her hand and turning in circles to confront them. It is over. No more!
She turned to run, but the shock had disoriented her. She reached out blindly, seeking the wall, but her hand found only blackness. Stumbling forward, with panic rising, she struggled for breath and prayed that she headed toward the entrance. Then suddenly she was sprawled on the ground, her face against the stone floor, her body bent in an unnatural pose.
The impact cleared her head. She groped around and realized that she had fallen into a hole half a body deep. Her hand hit a pile of dirt and a stack of stones.
The rocks still spoke to her. Nay, not the rocks. The sound did not come from them. The whispering mumbles were up ahead, louder now than before. Relief broke in her. Ian must have come, and brought someone with him.
She crawled out of the hole and began walking toward the voices. Her foot hit another pile of dirt. She moved to her left until she found the stone wall. Flat against it she eased forward.
After a while she could see the dimmest light. That made no sense. If she was retracing her way to the entrance, how could she have missed all these obstacles on her way in?
The passage angled a little, and suddenly the light grew stronger. A huge shadow moved up ahead, and she caught her breath in shock.
Another shadow moved and took human form and looked right in her direction. It stiffened and swung out an arm. “Get her.”
It sounded like a threat, even though that would make no sense. Still, she turned on her heel and began to run.
Pounding steps came up behind her. Large arms grabbed and lifted her and carried her toward the light. Finally, she found herself set down on a large stone between two torches.
The passage spread wider here, and she looked around in confusion. Stone slabs had been moved and more shallow pits dug. The handles of picks and shovels crossed each other on the floor. Rolled blankets and leather sacks rested against a wall.
She looked up at the broad naked chest hovering over her, and then into Reginald's worried, rugged face.
“What are you doing here, Reyna? Robert said that you feared the dark,” a soft voice said. Edmund stepped around Reginald. The torchlight turned his hair into a halo of fire. Edmund had also stripped to the waist, and sweat sheened his body.
“What are you doing here? Why are you digging? How long have you been here?”
Edmund eased down beside her on the rock. “Too long. It is getting annoying and tedious, but we should be done soon.” He looked at her curiously. “Perhaps it is good that you came. Robert was trying to tell you at the end. Reginald heard him speaking one night, not aware that you weren't beside him. Heard enough before he stopped so we know it is here. Why don't you tell us the rest, Reyna, and spare everyone further trouble. At this point I am even willing to share.”
“You speak in riddles,” she said with exasperation, getting to her feet. “You had best leave at once, Edmund. You swore to take Reginald away, and if Ian finds—”
He pulled her back down with a hard yank. “Is he with you? Did your English knight come too?”
She didn't like his dangerous tone. His fingers gouged her arm. “Nay, he is not here.” But he would come. He had not wanted her to do this alone, and would not wait long for her to return.
Edmund looked at Reginald and jerked his head toward the passageway. Lifting a battle-ax from its place against a stone, Reginald lumbered off into the darkness.
“What is he going to do?” Reyna asked.
“He will make sure that you speak the truth, and get rid of Ian if you do not.” He released her arm and looked away, his eyes squinting thoughtfully, his mouth a red slash. The flaming light shadowed his cheeks and eyes. He appeared very different from the way she remembered him, and not just because of the light.
“What are you digging for here?”
He smiled in that gentle but superior way he had. “Treasure. Why else would men live like beasts for weeks on end inside the belly of this donjon? Robert put it here. Hid it when he returned from France, and then moved it to this place after he wed you. He told you about it, didn't he? When he was ill, before he died. Wanted you to take it to the bishop, as he had planned to do. Reginald read Robert's letter to Glasgow, you see, so we know about that part.”
“Oh, saints have mercy, Edmund. It is not here. The books are where they have always been, in the solar. That is what he sought to give the bishop. Those are the valuable objects he brought back from France.”
Edmund's shocked expression held a moment, and then his face cracked into a mocking smile. “Books? Books? You think that this is about those books?” He grasped her face. “What is buried here far surpasses those few books. It is gold, lots of it, and jewels. Enough to buy hundreds of books.”
He examined her, his eyes holding a hot expression, his fingers squeezing her cheeks. “Tell me what he said, Reyna.”
“He never spoke of this place to me, not even while he was dying. He was barely conscious most of those days.”
His hand fell away. “Then you are of no use to me at all anymore.” His flat to
ne made the skin on her neck prickle and her blood pulse frantically. “Whatever brought you here, it was the devil's doing.”
“What do you mean?” she asked, but a sick feeling spread through her.
He ignored her. “Such a damn good plan too,” he muttered. “If Robert could have just died in his sleep like most old men, and taken this secret to his grave—if he had just let things lie here as they were, I would have gladly waited. Then you would have come north and this land would have been yours and we could have looked at our leisure after that. But he had to write that damn letter, and your knight had to go and marry you— well, there is nothing for it now.”
He clamped his hand down on his knee and patted her cheek with the other. His utterly casual attitude chilled her.
“I will find a way that doesn't pain you, except it will need to look like an accident, or someone else's doing. Aymer perhaps. Aye, that would work. Reginald and I watched that little siege here from the waste above. Good thing that we had left to get supplies, but then none of you came inside, anyway. Perhaps we can make it appear that the Grahams punished you for marrying that English—”
“Nay.” a voice boomed.
Reginald loomed at the light's edge. “You'll not harm her. You said if I did this you would give her to me.”
Edmund rose to his feet with a sigh of exasperation. “I have explained this again and again. We can not do it the way we set out to, can we? Not with Fitzwaryn taking the lands, and her married to Ian.”
“All the same, I swore to Robert to protect her.”
“Hell, you poisoned the man. In comparison, for-swearing the oath you made to him is a small thing.”
Reyna gasped. Reginald? Not Aymer, but Robert's trusted man?
“You made me do it,” Reginald said.
“I made you do nothing. You wanted her and the gold, and you told yourself that he was old and would die anyway. Then you didn't even follow my instructions with the potion correctly, and so everyone knew he had been poisoned.” Edmund turned apologetically to Reyna. “It was supposed to be quick, I promise you. It should have looked like a natural death.” He shot a scathing glance at his brother. “At least the idiot had the sense to hide the herbal when people began suspecting you.”
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