“No,” he snapped.
“Do you believe me now?” she asked. Her head was still throbbing a bit, but at least she could think now.
Heath just stared out the window, then he turned to her.
“What do we do?”
“I don’t know,” she said.
“Why wouldn’t that Gyles guy just come at us right now?” asked Heath. “Now that he knows the burial site is here.”
“He might.”
“Obviously, we can’t tell the police,” he said. “It’ll just mean more people who know about the Ancestor. We need to get those manuscripts back. They’re like a goddamn time bomb out there.”
“We?”
“You and me,” he said. “You, because you owe us. Me, because I don’t trust you. None of us trusts you.”
“You have no idea what you’ll be getting yourself into.”
“I’m already in.” He paused, took a deep breath, and stood silently for a moment. She watched him staring out the window, thinking hard.
Suddenly, he shivered slightly, turned, and moved toward her.
“I may have an idea,” he said. “The tribe isn’t going to like it. I don’t like it. But I think it may be the only way.”
“What is it?” she asked.
“We have to move him,” said Heath. “Him and everything in that burial site. Leave no trace he was ever there, and put him somewhere far away. Even without the manuscripts, treasure is treasure. That guy will come. And as long as those manuscripts are out there, my tribe is in danger—physically and historically.”
Heath was right. This was the answer, at least to the Mattakeese’s problems. It was the only way to keep Gyles away from them and protect their secret.
“The big question is where to take him,” said Heath.
She thought for a few moments. Then the answer formed in her scrambled mind and she smiled, in spite of her pain.
“I know where,” said Carys.
8
Sunday, July 1
Carys walked several paces behind Heath through the deep sand, her head still aching but not enough to keep her from this moment. It should have been Harper here. Not her. But she insisted that she be allowed to attend, in exchange for everything she was about to do, every risk she was about to take, the sole purpose of which was to protect the lives and the secret of the Mattakeese Tribe of the Wampanoag Nation of the Algonquin people. Forever.
After he’d left her hospital room, with Clark’s permission, Heath had called an emergency meeting with the other councilors at Clark’s home—the tribal office was still a crime scene—to tell them what they intended to do. They needed to take the Ancestor, and everything in his grave, and leave.
One day, when they had the sword and manuscripts back, they would lead authorities to the King’s body and treasure. Harper and Nicola would be credited with the find. That was Carys’s promise to them both. For the Mattakeese, no link would ever remain of the Ancestor’s place in their history. Their secret would remain safe for all time. But they had to make sure Gyles knew that there was no longer a treasure buried on Mattakeese land. Draw his attention toward her and Heath, make him follow them, and keep him away from the tribe.
At first, the councilors refused. There would be no further discussion, they said. They insisted that there was nothing that anyone could say to change their minds. But Heath explained that the threat now facing them was far graver than the revelation of their true history. This threat could end them, literally.
The councilors, especially the two oldest, said they would willingly sacrifice their lives to protect the Ancestor’s burial site from being pillaged. But when Heath asked them if they would be willing to sacrifice the lives of their children or grandchildren, they finally agreed to the plan. They knew that they were not prepared to stand in defiance of an evil that would happily do whatever it needed to do to achieve its ends.
Climbing through the dunes, the elderly, gray-haired female councilor carried a long wooden staff topped with an iron object that looked like a spear point. It was probably something off one of Morfran’s boats, left as a gift when half the crew sailed away those centuries ago.
Five of them trudged through the sand—four members of the tribal council and Carys. Clark, recuperating in the hospital, had given them her blessing. They had been walking for forty-five minutes. The surf pounded the beach on the other side of the dunes. Ancient scrub brush surrounded them. A breeze was kicking up, and wind-driven sand pelted their faces from time to time. No one spoke.
The five walkers crested a large dune and half stumbled down its steep back side until they stood on a section of ground that was oddly flat. In the center of the plateau were four ancient, gnarled cedar trees, weathered and broken down, with trunks the width of a man’s torso, each about three feet high, arranged in a square. Two of the councilors had brought old wooden brooms, and they began to sweep the sand between the trees.
Slowly, the sand parted to reveal flat, perfectly round, sea-smoothed black stones. After more sweeping, it was clear the stones formed the shape of an ancient cross with its four equal-length arms and a circle. With the stones revealed, the burial site was as obvious as it would have been if it had been marked by a formal headstone.
The elderly woman moved to the top of the cross and drove the staff deep into the sand so it stood on its own, like a sentinel. Each of the three other councilors stood next to a tree. They waited until the moment when the sun was at its highest point.
When the appointed time came, the old woman raised both of her hands to the sky and began to chant, and the councilors followed each chant with a response. It was an ancient language, as old as the Latin that Carys immersed herself in each day, and it cut back through the hundreds and hundreds of generations that had conducted this ritual for fifteen centuries.
The wind nearly drove away the sound of the councilors’ chant. When they were finished, they bowed their heads and spoke quiet incantations, each in turn. Heath had explained that they were going to offer thanks to the Visitor, the great Maushop, father of them all. They also spoke to the Ancestor, the great father in the ground, telling him that they were honoring their promise and would continue to do so. No one had disturbed this site since the day the final stone was placed in the cross.
But they would disturb it today.
The four councilors began to remove the stones, one by one, and place them in a clay jar, a jar that was nearly as old as the tribe itself. When they were all removed, the middle-aged male councilor, Cedric, and Heath continued to sweep away the sand. It took about an hour, but eventually, a new pile of rocks, smaller and very tightly packed, revealed themselves. Again, the four councilors removed the rocks, slowly and reverently, placing them around the clearing in a perfect circle where the cross had been.
Finally, after a few more minutes, the elderly woman picked up a rock, and beneath it was the skeleton of a hand. It pointed north, toward the star Arcturus. Carys gasped. On the middle-finger bone was a ring, dulled by time, set with an emerald flanked by two sapphires. The old woman began to weep silently.
In two days’ time, at 8:00 a.m., Heath and Carys were scheduled to board a merchant vessel departing Bourne with two very large suitcases and a rollaway steamer trunk. Neither they, nor their luggage, would be searched, thanks to some of Heath’s connections at the dock.
The trip would be long. By the time they got where they were going, which no one but she and Heath knew, JJ could be anywhere with the manuscripts and sword—he could have sold them a hundred times over. But it was more important to get the King and his treasure away from the Mattakeese. She’d find JJ and the manuscripts after she had protected these people.
She made another vow as well. When they landed on the other side of the ocean, she would finish what she’d started. She’d make things right with the people who had died on this sear
ch: Nicola, Harper, and her beloved Dafydd. Whom she would never forget.
And she would bring the King home.
acknowledgments
Although this book is a work of fiction, it includes many facts gleaned from years of research. I drew inspiration, plot twists, background, foreground, and information about rare-book collecting, Native American history, and the potential identity and history of the legendary King Arthur from many sources. They include: A Gentle Madness, by Nicholas A. Basbanes; The Story of Britain, by Rebecca Fraser; Journey to Avalon, by Chris Barber and David Pykitt; The Discovery of King Arthur, by Geoffrey Ashe; Arthur’s Britain, by Leslie Alcock; 1491, by Charles C. Mann; and interviews with the rare-book curators at the British Library, the Widener Library at Harvard University, and the Boston Public Library.
I owe an enduring debt of gratitude to the readers who gave so generously of their time, energy, ideas, and insight: Barry Schuler, Jenna Blum, Richard Fifield, Janice Lombardo, and Benjamin, Natalie, and Stephanie Rotstein. A special thanks to Christopher Castellani, Eve Bridburg and the team at Grub Street Writers in Boston, and the team at The Writers Room in New York City, two crucial resources that helped me bring this book into being.
To my manuscript editor, Claire Wachtel; my agent, Richard Abate, and his assistant, Rachel Kim, at 3Arts; and my editor at Post Hill Press, Debra Englander, all of whom believed in this project—I thank you from the bottom of my heart. To my cover artist and brilliant author in her own right, Whitney Scharer—a million thanks for your creativity and patience. To all the people who, over the many years it took to write this book, have been on Team Ghost Manuscript—each page is for you.
Lastly, I couldn’t have done any of it without the support and love of my husband, Andrew Robinson, the best man I have ever known.
about the author
Kris Frieswick is a journalist, editor, humorist, teacher, and author whose work has appeared in national magazines, newspapers and books for over twenty years. She is an avid cyclist, cook, and traveler. She lives on Cape Cod, Massachusetts, and St. Croix, USVI, with her handsome Welsh husband.
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