by Diane Darcy
But she couldn’t stop herself. Blame Jerry as she might, the man wasn’t there at the moment. At this point, she could camp out, guard the find, and call someone to come and verify. Sure, she’d get in massive trouble. But in her profession, trouble was an accepted, time-honored tradition. What she was doing at the moment was not. It was more on par with grave-robbing.
But she continued to wiggle the box gently back and forth. Focused, single-minded, no longer caring about rules whatsoever. Fancifully, she imagined Ian MacGregor egging her on with a smirk.
Finally, with a crumble of earth, the large box tugged free.
Samantha, head and shoulders down the hole, the stone monument above her head, the object in her shaking hands, stayed right where she was. She held the dirt-caked box, almost disbelieving it hadn’t rotted apart after all these years. The monument must have somehow kept the soil dried out. She’d seen this phenomenon in deserts, in arid and barren landscapes, but never in a wet place like Scotland. She felt she’d witnessed a miracle.
She turned the box over. She’d seen these before. Medieval caskets, often called Minnekästchen, were used to hold letters, documents, or sometimes jewelry. Was it deep enough for a crown? Maybe.
The carved wood seemed to be made of oak, or maybe walnut; it was hard to tell.
Any hinges, locks, or hasps were long gone. Likely they’d have been made of bronze and had fallen off, and were no doubt in the nearby earth. If she’d excavated properly, they’d have been discovered first. She could see the planks of the casket were fastened with iron nails. This was centuries old. Her hands shook harder. If she had to guess, she’d say it was over seven centuries.
The thing was covered in leather, and metal straps held it together, which may have accounted for the fact that the box hadn't fallen apart.
It occurred to her it could actually be Ian MacGregor’s mother’s remains. This was her monument, after all. She’d been burned at the stake and someone could have gathered up the last of her bones and Samantha could well be desecrating a grave. It wouldn’t be the first time, of course, but all the same, the thought gave her pause and she tried to rein in some of her excitement. The MacGregor would not be pleased.
She shined the light on the lid, smoothed a dry clump of dirt away, and tried to make out the carvings. She gasped as she realized it was a depiction of a heraldic shield sporting a lion.
She gulped in air.
The box was just about the right size to fit a crown.
Her heart pounded painfully.
The way she saw it, there was no reason to wait. She’d already done everything backward and was sure to get grief for her actions, but her hand was already in the cookie jar. She might as well eat the cookie, right?
She carefully tugged at the leather straps, then, taking the knife, wedged the tip between the lid and the top of the box. It creaked as it unjammed, the sound impossibly loud in the small space, and when it opened far enough to see a flash of gold, she gasped. She picked up the flashlight and shined it inside.
Her eyes widened. There could be no doubt.
The Crown of Scotland lay nestled in the box.
She’d found it.
The last person to see it was probably Ian MacGregor, Himself.
Her hand covered her mouth as she promptly burst into tears.
A few minutes later, in control of herself once again, she wiggled her way back out of the hole as she considered what to do. She wanted to fill the hole back in, carefully place the grass back on top and make it look as undisturbed as possible. Then she wanted to sneak back to her car, go directly to the airport, and fly home to her grandfather.
She might just do exactly that. She was already going to be in hot water for her actions. Why not go all out?
She considered a moment longer, then sighed. She really didn’t want to be arrested for stealing the crown out of the country. Her grandfather would definitely not approve.
Of course, her actions would probably be forgiven if she contacted the proper authorities right now, at this moment, and had them meet her out here. She might be charged with trespassing, and various other allegations, but she doubted it. Scotland would be so glad to get the crown back that her illicit actions would probably become part of the legend. The Scots were romantic that way. At least she hoped they still were.
Dipping her face to her shoulder, she wiped at the moisture still dampening her face. After a long, undecided moment, her training and sense of professional ethics kicked in hard. She sighed.
Fine. Okay. Whatever.
She would do the right thing. But darned if she wasn’t going to take a good, long look at the crown while she had the chance. She eagerly reached for her camera again. She’d take tons of pictures of the crown still in the box for her grandfather to see. No one had seen it in over seven hundred and fifty years, and since she was the first one to set eyes on it, she was going to enjoy the moment.
~~~
After she’d taken a ton more pictures from every imaginable angle, she stared at the crown. With the beam of the flashlight, she studied it from all directions, aching to touch it, but not quite daring.
An artist had painted Alexander III, the young King of Scots, wearing the crown, but it had appeared larger in the portrait, the jewels bigger. She smiled. Apparently even then, size mattered.
Three thick, sharp-looking prongs jutted upward, each with a good-sized ruby anchored at the tip. The circlet of gold was probably fitted with an iron band, and she counted twenty-five gemstones, recognizing garnets, amethysts, precious stones, and pearls. Three fleur-de-lis alternated with four strawberry leaves up each prong. A large cross decorated in gold, black enamel, and pearls graced the front.
It was breathtaking.
Mesmerized, she couldn’t take her eyes off it. Again she thought of the fact that Ian MacGregor must have been the last person to see this. He’d probably died within a few months of burying the thing. For some reason, that thought made her chest ache.
She propped the flashlight against the monument, knelt, then finally worked up the guts to gently, carefully lift the crown out of the box. Solid and hefty, she was amazed it had held up so well. Many artifacts had to be pieced back together, restoration experts often guessing at how the original had looked. But this...this looked to have stepped right out of history. She stood, held it up to the moonlight, and admired the piece. Simply amazing. This slice of history had—
The crown was snatched out of her hands!
Her scream was both fear and fury and she scooped up the knife on the ground and slashed out at the figure in the dark.
“Hey, watch it. If I hadn’t jumped back, you would have cut me.”
She lifted the knife high, but it only took a moment to recognize the entitled voice, and her hand stilled. “Jerry? Give that back or there will be a big gaping hole where your throat used to be.”
Jerry laughed. “You might be wicked competitive, but you aren’t bloodthirsty.” He promptly proved he believed his words by turning his back and shining a cell phone flashlight on the crown. He whistled. “This is amazing. I can’t believe you actually found it.”
While she wrestled with the decision of whether to plunge the knife into his back, he smiled over his shoulder. “I mean, I know you’re good, but come on. No one, not even the Scots, has found this in centuries of looking. You’ll need to explain your process. I read your notes on the airplane, but none of it made much sense. How did you know? How did you figure this out?”
Heat roiled in her stomach and she could feel her face flushing. “Give me the crown, Jerry.”
“Ah, ah, ah.” There was a smile in his voice. “No can do, Sammi.”
She gripped the knife harder. “Get your big, fat, grubby hands off it and give it to me, now.” She could feel a vein throbbing in her forehead.
He finally turned back toward her to see the knife, high in the air. He laughed. “Let me tell you how it’s going to go from here. Where are your permits? You
r witnesses? Your documentation? Do you know how much trouble you’re going to be in?”
“I think finding the crown itself is going to earn me a lot of forgiveness, don’t you?”
“You found the crown? I think not. You’re going to share credit with me. We’re going to rebury it and document finding it step by step. We’ll write it up together. Of course, my name will always be first whenever the find is mentioned. Do you understand? If you don’t—”
The anger that had been welling high and tight in her chest seemed to find a bit more room to expand and the hand holding the knife actually shook with the effort not to plunge. Her heart pounded in her ears and pretty soon all she heard coming from out of his big fat head was blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.
Share credit with this thief? When she’d done every bit of the research? When she’d been the only one in the last seven hundred and fiftyish years to make the effort to understand Ian MacGregor and make the connections necessary to find the missing crown? When she’d stolen it first?
She’d rather die.
Actually, she’d rather Jerry died. At her feet. Right now.
She watched him lift his cell phone flashlight and stare at the crown once more, avarice and a greedy joy in his expression, and she threw the knife to the ground before she actually followed through and committed murder.
She didn’t need to stab the scrawny rat. If he wouldn’t give her back the crown willingly, she’d take it, and kick his bony little derriere in the process.
Samantha lunged at Jerry and gave a hard shove. The crown flew out of his hands and landed with a dull thunk a few yards away. Jerry fell forward, arms flailing. His phone spiraled crazily in the air, light spinning momentarily like a deranged disco ball, before landing in the opposite direction.
Samantha was already moving, rushing toward the crown, latching onto it, and continuing to run toward the gate. She only made it about ten steps before she was tackled from behind and the crown flew out of her hands to roll on the soft earth in front of her.
“Do you really think you’re going to cheat me of this?” Jerry growled the words into her ear, his voice harsh and panting. “Do you really think I’m going to let you get acclaim for yet another find? You’re lucky I’m even willing to share credit with you.”
“Share credit?” She wasn’t sure her breathlessness was due to sheer incredulity, or due to his crushing weight upon her back. Probably both. She struggled beneath him, his weight and the wretched dress stifling her movements. “Get off me!” She gasped out. “Who do you think you are to try and claim credit for my find?” She wiggled until she could breathe again. “Where were you as I’ve been doing research on this for the last two years? Where were you when I made the connection between Ian MacGregor and King Alexander when everyone else had given up on that line of inquiry? Do you honestly think you can have credit just because you want it? Because you followed me and tried to steal it?”
He climbed over her and reached for the crown. “That’s exactly what I think.” He tried to shake her loose as she grasped his leg and held on, her fingers digging hard into his calf.
“Ow! Let go!” He wiggled his leg, trying to shake her off. “Who is everyone going to believe, anyway? You? Who can’t string an intelligible group of sentences together because you’re either too blunt or else living inside your head? Or personable me who everybody loves?” He continued to struggle. “By the time I’m done telling the story about how I put everything together, and while you’re jumping around in the background, sputtering incoherently, they’ll be glad to acknowledge me as the discoverer. Plus I’m more fun to trot out at conventions and fundraisers.”
When he kicked at her, she grabbed his foot and twisted. He screamed, rolled, tried to free the leg she lay on, but she had him trapped and twisted his foot again.
He hollered. “Get off me, you frightful cow. That hurts. Let go of me.”
She twisted once more and smiled when he screamed. “You’re lucky I don’t break your leg.” She released him, stood, hiked her dress, and ran for the crown.
He grabbed the back of her skirt, throwing her off balance, and, swinging his legs around, he tripped her to the ground once more. He tried to crawl over her, but she threw out her arm and blocked him to keep him from gaining ground.
Her dress was trapped again and she was ready to tear the stupid thing off. “Get off me, you skeletal bag of bones.”
“Why? Afraid you might like it?”
Her scream of rage had him rolling off to one side and scrambling forward, but Samantha grabbed hold of him and dug into his right thigh with pinching fingers.
“Ahhh.” He screamed, twisted, and tried to shake her off. “Let go! Let go!” With a shove at her face and shoulders, he dislodged her and rolled to the side, panting wildly.
She army-crawled, reached for the crown, and dug her fingers into cool gold crevices at the same time Jerry did.
She glared at him in the darkness as they both froze, afraid to damage the crown. “Let go, Jerry. I mean it.”
He tightened his hold. “You have everything, Samantha. Would it hurt to let me have this? Your job is secure. Somehow you find something new all the time. Make connections that others don’t. It’s like you have a talent for it. I’m a decade older than you. I need this. I could go my whole career without another find with this to my credit.”
She tugged, but not very hard, fear for the artifact uppermost in her mind. They lay facing each other, both of them breathing hard, the crown between them, all of their fingers enmeshed in the curlicue gold of the prongs. The gold was sharp, cutting into her fingers, but his were no doubt suffering the same damage, and she didn’t let go. “Did you ever hear of hard work?”
“I do work hard.” His tone was hurt. “You’re so busy with your own endeavors you don’t have any idea how much time and effort I put into projects. It’s not my fault I haven’t had any big finds. Even you have to admit you’ve had better luck than most people. Please, Samantha. Can’t you give me a break here? This would mean the world to me.”
Her lips curled back in a sneer. “Look at you slathering your oozy, oily charm. I’d have thought you’d have understood, after you tried to use me to further your career when we first met, I’m immune to snakes.”
“Fine.” He tugged, not hard, but enough to cut deeper into her fingers.
“Fine.” She wrenched back, hoping his own digits suffered a similar fate.
“We’ll break it,” Jerry said. “Gold is soft. Is that what you want?”
She stopped moving, but didn’t let go. If they damaged the crown, both their careers were over and they knew it.
He sighed. “Let’s stand up and discuss this like civilized people, okay?”
She nodded. “On the count of three. One, two, three.” Fingers still gripping the crown, they both knelt, then stood. Her dress untwisted, which was a relief.
They faced each other. “Now what?” Samantha asked.
“Now we talk about this like civilized people. This is your last chance, Samantha. Divide the credit and we’re good friends for life, sharing the find of the century, our names linked for all time. Don’t agree to divvy the glory and we’re not friends anymore. And if you’re not my friend, you’re my enemy. I mean that. I’ll not only get full credit for this find, I’ll ruin you completely in the process.”
She didn’t say anything, just considered how to get the crown away from the blabbering fool. Once she had it, she’d have to climb the gate. But if she could gently toss the crown over, throw her keys, and perhaps even rip off her dress, she could possibly scramble over the fence and run to her car.
“Well?” he rasped out.
“Give me a moment to consider,” she said, buying time.
“Let’s move over by your flashlight. I want to see your face.”
The flashlight was a good idea. Maybe she could bash him in the head with it.
In tandem, walking sideways, they approached the monument. When
the glow of the flashlight softly illuminated their faces, Jerry’s eyes widened, and he yelled, “I don’t trust you,” and wrenched at the crown.
Samantha cried out, her fingers catching and scraping on the gold as he tore it completely out of her grasp.
His expression desperate, he placed the crown on his head, blood from his torn fingers smearing his forehead, then, with both hands free, he captured her wrists and shoved her back against the monument as she made another grab for the crown.
She lifted a knee to do some damage and he blocked her.
“So help me Samantha, if you kick me, I’ll knock you into next week.”
Sudden light blinded her.
Jerry made a sound of distress and bent his head.
She hid her face against his shoulder for a moment as she tried to figure out what was going on. Floodlights? Had they triggered some sort of alarm? Police with spotlights? She squinted and her eyes watered a bit and she could see people stopping in mid-stride to stare. A lot of people. Men, women, and children.
Security? With their families? In the middle of the night? Dressed for a reenactment? She’d worry about that later. Right now she had to stake her claim to the crown before Jerry declared it his own.
She’d gladly accept any consequences for her actions rather than give Jerry credit for the find. Anyway, in her profession—with all its secrecy, cloak and dagger shenanigans, and suspicious conspiracy theorists—unprofessional behavior was mostly rewarded with a slap on the wrist rather than any real penalties. Especially when the find in question was turned over to the proper authorities.
Samantha wrenched a hand free, slippery with Jerry’s blood, and reached for the crown with claw-like fingers, ready to yank it off Jerry’s fat head, but he reared back.
A large man stepped forward and said something in what sounded like Gaelic.
