Ryder

by Nick Pengelley

  Niobe directed her light over the words incised, likely with a hot iron, at the place where the two heavy beams—cut down tree trunks—intersected. “In hoc signo Ians,” she read aloud. “From this sign thou shall conquer.”

  “Why is it here?” Caroline Frost asked her.

  “I can think of only one reason,” Joram responded. “The words on the cross go to confirm it.”

  “The treasure.” Ayesha’s pulse quickened.

  A broad grin spread across Niobe’s face. She ducked under one arm of the cross and rose on the far side with a fluidity of motion a professional dancer would have envied.

  Joram followed her, with almost as much ease. Ayesha went next. Her movements caused the lacerations on her leg to open; she felt the warm trickle of blood. She was followed by the vicar, who got down on all fours and crawled under, muttering about show-offs.

  The passage continued for perhaps fifty yards on the other side of the cross. It ended when, rounding a bend, they were confronted with a stone archway. Of a size and shape more like something that should have been in a cathedral, rather than a dank underground passage, the archway appeared to have been carved out of the walls and ceiling of the tunnel by a master mason. The unknown craftsman had also taken the time to carve an effigy of a knight into the wall on each side of the archway. The stone knights fulfilled a practical, as well as a decorative, function. Each had been carved to act as a torchbearer. There was no door or gate, simply the opening in the archway. Sufficient invitation, Ayesha thought, taking a step toward it, straining her eyes to pierce the inky darkness beyond.

  Joram put a warning hand on her shoulder. “Do you think it’s safe?” he asked Niobe.

  The archaeologist gestured to the sword Ayesha carried. “May I?” She swapped her flashlight to her left hand and held out her right.

  “I’m going first,” Niobe continued. Her tone brooked no argument. “It might be best if you all follow in my footsteps. And whatever you do, don’t touch any of those Templar seals.”

  Reluctantly, Ayesha handed Harold’s sword to Niobe. She felt naked without it.

  The archaeologist squared her shoulders. Holding the sword before her, she stepped forward into the archway. Nothing happened. She took another step. Still nothing. Ayesha, two paces behind, walking in her footsteps, could see the sweat on the back of Niobe’s neck, feel the tension emanating from her.

  Niobe stopped just inside the archway and swept her light across the space in front of her.

  Ayesha saw a roughly leveled floor, a vaulted ceiling like that in the crypt beneath the church, and, directly ahead of them, a few yards away, yet another archway carved from the natural rock. A wooden door blocked their view of whatever lay beyond.

  Niobe walked slowly forward, putting each foot down deliberately. After each step she waited for any reaction. Finally, she stood before the door. Propping the sword against the wall, she tried the massive iron ring handle that was set at waist height. To Ayesha’s surprise, it turned, although not without resistance. With a loud grating and grinding, akin to the opening of lock gates on a canal, the door swung back.

  Niobe retrieved Harold’s sword. She stepped through the doorway, her flashlight illuminating the darkness beyond.

  Ayesha caught a glimpse of the interior of the chamber over the archaeologist’s shoulder. Her heart jackhammering, she moved left, all thought of ancient booby traps forgotten.

  “Holy shit!” Niobe exclaimed.

  The vicar muttered something unintelligible and seemed to stagger.

  Ayesha might have been alone in the cave, for all she acknowledged their reactions. I’ve stepped into a fairy tale, she told herself. Allan Quatermain at King Solomon’s mines. Or Aladdin. This was real, though. Not a product of some author’s febrile imagination. She told herself that. But she still expected to wake up and find it had all been a dream.

  The cavern was not a vast space. It was, perhaps, fifteen feet to the rough ceiling, twenty-five or thirty feet to the farther wall, and somewhat less than that from side to side, although depressions and outcroppings in the sandstone walls made it difficult to give any accurate measurement.

  What also made it difficult to estimate the size of the cave, and what made it appear smaller than it was, was the fact that it was so crowded.

  Ayesha took another step forward. There had been some attempt at system, she thought, by the ancients who had placed the treasure in the cavern. Massive iron-bound chests were collected in one area, stacked two or three high in some cases. Statues, busts—Roman and Greek, emperors and notables, loomed in an almost museum-like display. Another collection was unmistakably Egyptian. Niobe was already poring over the carved ships, alabaster urns—and a full-sized chariot, covered in gold plate. Another collection was Moorish, from the time of the Crusades—Ayesha recognized elaborately detailed saddles, with gold furniture; gold and silver tea services. Still other collections were from the ancient civilizations of the Middle East. Persia. Assyria. Scythia. Babylon…Ayesha’s mind reeled with the effort of comprehending what her eyes beheld.

  “Incredible, aren’t they?” Caroline Frost asked. Her eyes shining with tears, the vicar inspected a collection of small carved figurines—Babylonian, Ayesha thought. She had just picked up an exquisitely detailed camel when an exclamation from Joram drew her attention.

  “What do you think these are?” The librarian had worked his way deeper into the treasure cave. He held up a long metal tube that glinted dully in the beam of the flashlight Ayesha now turned toward him.

  Niobe put down the silver menorah she was examining. Making her way to Joram, she almost tore the tube from his hand, her eyes wide with delight. “It’s copper! There’s more?”

  Joram gestured behind him, toward a series of shelves or niches cut into the rock wall. There looked to be hundreds more of the tubes.

  Niobe lunged toward the shelves. “It’s a library! The Templar library. Or part of it. This is how they would have stored documents. Religious works. Scientific texts. Philosophical works. Maps. There could be so much lost knowledge here. Things we’ve only speculated about. Lost plays. Scientific techniques lost to man for hundreds of years. Portolans, perhaps.”

  “Portolans?” The word was new to Ayesha.

  “Early maps. The Templars were known to have knowledge of sea routes well beyond what anyone else possessed at the time. It’s said they had secret maps of far greater accuracy than anyone else, and means of calculating latitude and longitude far ahead of their time. Some say it was possession of these maps that aided the great navigators and explorers: Henry the Navigator, Columbus, John Cabot, James Cook.”

  While Niobe was speaking, Joram moved about the cave lighting more of the rushlights that had been placed there by the ancients. They soon had a much better view of the treasure heaped on the cave floor, and on the ledges that the Templars, or those they had employed, had carved out of the sandstone walls. Inevitably, the great ironbound chests drew them. Ayesha tried the lid of the nearest. The hinges protested loudly as it lifted.

  A jumble of objects met her gaze. Reaching in, she lifted out the work of art that reposed on top, holding it up the better to admire it. It was a miniature church, crafted by a master, in gold, with enamel and ivory panels depicting saints, or holy men.

  “A reliquary,” Niobe explained. “Twelfth century. German, I think. I’ve only ever seen one like it—in the Victoria and Albert Museum.”

  “Reliquary?” Caroline Frost joined them. “For saints’ bits and bobs?”

  “That’s right. You find them in all of the great places of medieval worship. Some of them, well, most of them, are spurious. But a few of them really do contain the bones of saints, or even internal organs that have been preserved.” Niobe leaned over the open chest and lifted out a heavy golden cross, studded with brilliant gems, and held it up. “A monstrance. Look.” She pointed to a glass circle that covered an opening in the center of the cross. “There’s something inside.”
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  “A piece of wood.” The vicar squinted at the brownish, wavy glass. “In which case it’s probably supposed to be a piece of the true Cross.” She shook her head. “There’s enough of those floating about to build quite a whole forest of crosses. It’s unlikely any of them are the real thing.”

  “Don’t be too quick to dismiss this one,” Joram argued. “This reliquary was owned by the Templars. If anyone came into possession of the real thing, it would have been them.”

  Ayesha raised the lid of another chest. The contents were of little interest to her, compared to the cave’s other treasures.

  “Gold.” Joram peered over her shoulder at the dully glinting coins that filled the huge chest to capacity.

  Niobe scooped up several of the coins and examined them. “English noble,” she muttered. “Hmm. Scottish. French. Burgundian. Quite a mix. Just what you’d expect, though.” She let the coins trickle back onto the pile. “Make a good sound, don’t they? I think you might be able to get that new roof, Caroline.”

  Ayesha opened another chest. It, too, was filled to capacity with coins—gold and silver. Inspired, the others copied her and opened more of the chests, exclaiming at their contents. Some held coins. Others held precious stones: rubies, emeralds, sapphires, and gems none of them recognized. They found gold and silver plate, beautifully chased drinking vessels, and a multitude of religious artifacts: Christian, Jewish, and Moorish.

  Joram was curious about a collection of strange-looking instruments, neatly arranged in a chest that stood a little apart from the others. Niobe was excited at the find.

  “Remember what I said about the Templars being ahead in navigational discovery?” she asked. “I think this proves it. These are devices for measuring latitude and longitude. Compasses and chronometers. Inventions that did not come on the scene until decades, centuries after the Templars were disbanded.”

  “How did they come to have them?” Caroline asked.

  “We’ve no idea. That they had them at all has only been legend. Until now.” Niobe gestured toward the collection of scrolls in copper tubes. “Some of the answers probably lie in there. It’s going to take years to sort through it all.”

  “I’ve found something else!” Joram called from the shadows on the farther side of the cave.

  “What is it?”

  “A staircase.”

  “No argument there.” A flight of stone steps rough-hewn out of the living rock disappeared up through the roof of the cavern. “I’d say this is the way out.” Niobe placed a booted foot on the bottom step and climbed upward.

  Ayesha took a last look behind her at the Templar treasure. Then she tore her gaze away, hefted Harold’s sword, and followed the archaeologist.

  Chapter 44

  “What are you saying?” Susannah Armstrong threw back the covers and swung her legs out of the hospital bed. She stood up. With a low moan, she flopped back on the bed. “Dammit! I have to get out of here.”

  “You can’t,” Dame Imogen Worsley admonished her. “Not yet.” More than anything, she wished the prime minister was well enough to do as she wanted. Just let Susannah Armstrong get on her feet and back to Number 10. Better still, into the House of Commons. That would be the end of Balfour’s plans. Susannah’s face put paid to any hopes she may have had, however. It was very, very pale.

  Imogen had made a beeline to the hospital after her husband, the home secretary, had told her about the party room meeting that had seen the foreign secretary appointed to the position of acting prime minister. And at which he’d announced his intention of proceeding with the vote on Noel Malcolm’s bill to break up the United Kingdom. A call Imogen had taken from the coroner on the way had confirmed her suspicions about the foreign minister.

  “So Balfour is behind everything?” Susannah Armstrong lay back against the pillows, her eyes glittering. But with anger, Imogen was relieved to see, rather than illness. “Bebe poisoning me, too?”

  “It looks like it. A preliminary examination of Malcolm’s body indicates he was poisoned, too. Although in his case it was cyanide. He had a weak heart and years of bad living behind him. It killed him instantly.”

  “Why do you think it was Balfour?”

  “He lied about his intention to vote against Malcolm’s bill. He had motive. He obviously wants to be prime minister. The two people who stood in his way are now out of the picture. So he thinks. Also…”

  “Also?”

  “We’ve accessed his recent texts. He’s controlling Bebe Daniels. Demanding she bring him Harold’s sword.”

  “I seem to have been surrounded by vipers. Bebe Daniels. Malcolm. Balfour.”

  “We still need proof of Balfour’s involvement in the attempt on your life. Malcolm’s murder, too.”

  “Have you found Ayesha?”

  “No. We’re looking.”

  “How long before the debate on the bill?”

  Imogen checked her watch. “Three hours.”

  The prime minister pushed herself up in bed, reached across the blanket, and grasped Imogen’s hand in a firm grip, surprising her with its strength. “Imogen,” Susannah said, “this shall not pass.”

  Imogen returned her grip, and her gaze. Her confidence grew. “No. It shall not.” But how could they bring Balfour down? If only Susannah could get to the House of Commons. Imogen stared at her prime minister’s white face. She bit her lip. Ayesha, where are you?

  Chapter 45

  “There’s a lever,” Niobe whispered to Ayesha, from her position atop the stone staircase. “I’m going to pull it. Hold on.”

  Ayesha hissed a warning to Joram, right beneath her. Then she braced herself against whatever might come next. She did not have to wait long. A low grinding sounded from deep within the wall. It was horribly reminiscent of the sound that had preceded the collapse of the gate room floor.

  “Well?” Ayesha asked Niobe after several protracted moments had passed without any noticeable reaction.

  There was no reply. Niobe had vanished.

  Ayesha took a step up the staircase. Then two more. A small, square hole opened in front of her; gray light seeped through it. With some difficulty, easing Harold’s sword before her, she wriggled through the hole into a confined space that smelled strongly of burned wood and ash. A fireplace, fortunately not lit. She crawled onto the hearth and straightened up in a dimly lit, high-ceilinged chamber with stone walls and a stone-flagged floor that, from its uneven surface, had seen much traffic over the centuries.

  “We’re in the gatehouse,” Niobe explained, wiping her hands on a handkerchief. “It’s the oldest part of the castle. The treasure must be directly below us.”

  Massive wooden doors, at least ten feet tall, banded and studded with iron, stood open to the left and right. One opening disclosed the inner courtyard of the castle. A manicured green lawn was bordered with white gravel; a stone sundial, surrounded by bluebells, acted as a centerpiece. The other set of doors opened directly onto the stone bridge over the moat, across which Ayesha could see a small band of young people, dressed as warriors; fourteenth century, she thought. They were strolling toward the castle, laughing and talking loudly to one another.

  Joram emerged from the fireplace. He took a swift look around. Then he assisted Caroline Frost.

  As the vicar dusted herself down, a man stepped into the gatehouse. Mid-fifties, balding, he was immaculately dressed in a tweed suit and carrying a pint glass of beer in one hand. He was in the act of lifting this to his lips when he caught sight of the filthy group in front of the hearth. “What on earth—”

  “We—” That was all Joram was able to reply before the warrior students erupted through the doorway from the moat bridge in a noisy, cheerful group, weapons and shields slung over their shoulders.

  Not sparing a glance for those by the fireplace, the students streamed through the doorway from which the man in the tweed suit had emerged and from which, Ayesha now realized, loud music was audible—Cat Stevens’s “Lady D’Arbanv
ille.” She saw a sign over the door: THE HEADLESS DRUMMER. The castle had its own pub.

  As the last of the students disappeared through the doorway, the balding man found his voice. “Who are you?” He peered at the vicar, who was wiping dirt from her face. “Caroline?”

  “Hello, Simon. Just thought we’d drop in through your secret passage. Don’t mind, do you? These are friends of mine. I’ll introduce you in a second.” Not waiting for a reply, she breezed on. “Did you know you’ve got the Templar treasure down there?” She jerked a thumb in the direction of the opening in the side of the fireplace. “King Harold, too. You know, the one who got the arrow through the eye. Down the road, at the Battle of Hastings. That’s his sword.” She nodded in Ayesha’s direction. “Should do wonders for your next budget estimates. Attracting new students, too.”

  The man—Simon, evidently—continued to gape at Caroline. Then his eyes were drawn to the sword Ayesha carried. His eyes widened as he took in its obvious antiquity. Ayesha doubted that he’d taken in much of what the vicar had said. Joram came to the man’s rescue.

  “Joram Tate,” he said, extending a hand. “I’m with the Walsingham Institute.” The man automatically accepted his handshake; British politeness mandated nothing less. Then Joram gestured to the others. “This is my associate, Ayesha Ryder. You may have heard of her. Dr. Niobe Bagot is an archaeologist with the University of Sussex. The vicar it seems you know already.”

  “Simon Knollys.” The balding man had recovered somewhat, although he was clearly still baffled. “I’m the director here at the castle. I’m honored to meet you.” This was said with a nod to Ayesha, and a show of good humor, although she sensed the bewildered man was on autopilot. “Your exploits precede you. I’ve no idea what brings you here, but it would be wonderful if you’d stay for a bit and talk to our students.” He jerked his head in the direction of the open doorway behind him, from whence the sounds of raucous carousing could be heard. “Those in our medieval warfare class are having a drink after their siege of the castle. You’re more than welcome to join—”