by Win Hollows
It was gone.
She bit her lip to hide her smile from Ruben.
This—her position as an agent in the Hand of Charlemagne would be over soon, one way or another. Until then, it seemed as if the Earl of Eydris was once again meddling in her business. It wasn’t anyone else’s business if she rather preferred it that way.
Chapter Two
Sitting at the escritoire in his small room at the Kilted Unicorn, Max rubbed his eyes and reread the parchment paper again. He’d read it a million times over the past three years, but he kept hoping something would make more sense of the puzzle pieces he had to work with.
Bequeathed to His Lordship, the Marquess of Blackbourne, on this day September 2, 1538, entailed to the estate properties hereby set forth in the appointed Marquessate. Recovered from holdings ceded by King Malcolm III of Scotland in the Treaty of Abernathy dictated by His Majesty, William the Conqueror, care of the Lance of Longinus until such time as the Crown reclaims it, and all related items and monies held by Edgar the Ætheling within the treasury of Cairdygyn Hold.
He had done terrible things for this information. Due to his manipulations, his cousin, the Marquess of Blackbourne, had been declared insane just so Max could obtain this piece of paper. It had been located in a safety-deposit box with the Bank of Central London, sole access to it governed by the Marquess. For years, he had done the worst thing imaginable to his own family member, spreading rumors about Asher’s insanity and having doctors come for cranial exams at every opportunity so he could gain guardianship of the Marquessate and, consequently, the deposit box.
When it had finally happened, he had felt a guilt heavier than anything he’d ever experienced for something done in service to his country. The fact that his cousin did have mental issues was beside the point. He hadn’t wanted to ruin Asher’s life. No one deserved what Asher had been through because of him.
It didn’t matter now. He had what he needed, and Asher had been reinstated as Marquess quickly enough. He had even married that country girl who was a scientist. They had two children now.
Good.
Asher deserved to be happy and to never have to see Max again. That was the price for what the British Crown required of him. No attachments. No vindication for permanently cutting off the only friend he’d ever had.
He should have been used to it by now, but perpetrating Asher’s downfall had been a blow he still hadn’t recovered from. Over the years, he had often wished that Asher, for all his incredible intelligence, had deduced his game. That just one person could know or understand him. If Asher had figured out his true intentions, he could have shared at least some of himself with his only cousin. Perhaps Asher would have granted him access to the documents freely.
Wishing for things that couldn’t and hadn’t happened wasn’t going to change anything now. This mission was years in the making, and he couldn’t afford to let emotions derail his focus.
Max turned his head to look at the archives book. It contained the records of the treasury of the original Cairdygyn Hold. He had found out the hard way that it wasn’t going to be as simple as pilfering the Damarek from a tidy shelf in Cairdygyn Castle. The Damarek wasn’t at Cairdygyn Castle, nor was it mentioned in any records there. The castle’s current location, he had learned from a rather drunk townsman in Dumfries, was not the original Cairdygyn Hold. The original hold had been farther north, near Edinburgh, and was now a crumbling mass that was falling into the bitterly cold North Sea.
So what had happened to the blasted thing before the hold was moved to its present location?
The blasted thing. He probably shouldn’t be that irreverent about it. The Lance of Longinus, or the Damarek, as the Russians called it, was, after all, the spearhead had that pierced the side of Jesus Christ during the Crucifixion. It was one of the most valuable items of religious history in the world.
If he could find it.
It wasn’t going to fall into his lap, that was certain. Yet he couldn’t let it fall into Elorie Lavoie’s lap either. The futures of nations depended on the British Government finding it before the French did, for each country’s intentions regarding the artifact were vastly different.
A knock sounded at the door to his room. He picked up his gun from the table beside him and went to the wall to the side of the door. “Who is it?”
“It is I, Master Eydris,” a quiet voice from the other side answered.
Max holstered his gun and opened the door to let him in. A short, round man with a bushy beard that looked like it belonged to someone much older shuffled into the room. His robes covered every inch of him from head to toe, and an ornate cross bounced from the monk’s stomach as he walked.
“Have you had dinner yet?” he asked, looking around the room and then back at Max with a smile. “I found the inn’s lamb pie to be very delicious.”
Max raised a brow as he closed the door behind him. The lamb had been atrocious. “Losif, what do they feed you in that monastery?”
He frowned. “The Order of St. Bartholomew is less strict than some. Mostly lentils, vegetables, and salted fish.”
“That explains a lot,” Max mumbled. “Sit. What is on your mind?”
Losif chuckled, his round cheeks shining from beneath ebony eyes. “Usually, I am the one to ask such things. I oversee the placement of individuals seeking sanctuary at the monastery, and they often have tales to tell.”
“I’ll bet they do.” Max crossed his arms and leaned against the edge of the desk as the rotund monk sat down on the foot of the bed.
“Have you found anything in the Cairdygyn Hold records? If not, I’m very content to stay here and eat lamb pie for a while longer.”
Turning to the tome on the escritoire, Max flipped back a page. “As a matter of fact, I believe I have found something. Take a look.”
Losif hopped up from the bed and ambled over. Max pointed to an entry near the bottom of the page.
Monies and assets confiscated from Edgar the Ætheling hereby claimed by the Marquess of Blackbourne this day, June 21st, 1539. All ceded assets loaded onto the ship Orion’s Chase bound for Scarborough. One item belonging to the King of the Normans to travel by land at a later date under care of the Order of St. Bartholomew, so tasked by the Marquess of Blackbourne as their solemn duty in service to our Lord Jesus Christ.
The monk looked up at Max. “My order never had the opportunity to transport the Damarek. When they arrived, the monks were told it had already been taken to the Marquess’s lands by ship with the other valuables.”
“Which was clearly a lie,” Max said, scratching at the stubble on his throat. He straightened and began to pace the small room. “Someone there understood its value and didn’t want it in English hands. Or Catholic ones, more likely. The Marquess should have followed through and went back for it, but we know he died in battle less than a year later. He must not have had the chance to make his way back to Scotland. Perhaps his heir didn’t know or understand the import of it. Things get swept under the rug when estates change hands, especially if the heir is young.”
“So…”
Max stopped and looked at Losif. “So it might still be at the original Cairdygyn Hold.”
Losif tented his chubby hands over his stomach. “I thought it was just ruins now?”
“It is. But the reason it’s in ruins is because of the Burning of Edinburgh in 1544. According to these records, it was ransacked as the Earl of Hertford’s troops left Edinburgh. I’m sure it’s been thoroughly looted since, but a small item like a spearhead might have been left behind to rot if someone didn’t know what they were looking at.”
Losif beamed. “Wonderful! Off to the ruins then! Erm…” He looked around the room and then whispered, “Are there enough funds for the mission to purchase an extra slice of pie tonight?”
Max rolled his eyes and went to the clip of pound notes on his bedside table. Losif took the note Max offered, his face scrunched in a beatific smile.
“Have a
t it,” Max advised, showing Losif out.
“I-I won’t eat tomorrow night if that’s what’s required,” he assured Max as he walked into the hall.
“Losif, eat as much pie as you want. Eat all the pie. I don’t care.”
The monk’s eyes widened. Max smiled at him and closed the door in his face.
He sighed as the sounds of Losif’s retreat caused the floorboards to groan. He was used to working alone, but the head of the Order of St. Bartholomew had insisted someone come along to ensure the proper treatment and authentication of the artifact. The monk was a pain in his arse, but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t like the pudgy little man. Max was thankful he had more than enough money to ensure they had separate rooms during this venture. Losif was probably a little bored, not having much to do until they had something to authenticate. The monk had mostly been reading from his scriptures and trapping people in the taproom of inns to talk about everything from marine anatomy to Norse folklore.
A group of Russian and French monks, the Russians being part of The Order of St. Bartholomew, had come to the British government six years ago with information that could mean war between Russia and France. The French monks had become aware of discontent within the French monarchy over the Holy Lands in Turkey and had conspired with the Order of St. Bartholomew to see what could be done to avoid violence. Tsar Nicholas I and the Eastern Orthodox Church currently presided over these holy sites, but there were those in France who thought the sites should be back under Roman Catholic control. Skirmishes between French and Russian pilgrims visiting the sites had risen in number with the growing population of people seeking pilgrimages, and it would only become worse as the two religious sects fought for prime access to the famous sites where Christianity had its roots.
Personally, Max thought the whole thing was ridiculous. What was the point of Christianity if not to be kind and humble toward others? Fighting over Holy Lands that didn’t really belong to either country should have been a disgrace.
But that wasn’t the opinion of either Russia or France, it seemed. If France challenged Tsar Nicholas’s control of the Turkish lands, there would be war, one Britain would not be able to stay out of as France’s ally. The Russian monks had decided the best way to prevent the impending war would be to enlist Britain’s help to present Tsar Nicholas with something they knew he had greatly desired for a long time—the Damarek. If Tsar Nicholas could be convinced that the French wanted to negotiate with such a peace offering, perhaps the lands could be divided without conflict.
Which was where Max came in.
As the Earl of Eydris with connections to the Marquessate that controlled the last known location of the Lance, he had been tasked with finding it before relations crumbled between France and Russia. Finally having gotten hold of the Marquessate’s records, it had taken him several months to translate the whole thing from Old English, all for the one entry which mentioned the Lance of Longinus. More pressing missions had taken precedence over finding the Damarek the past three years, but it was time to end this as tensions rose.
Max fell back onto the bed and rubbed his hands over his face. It seemed most of his adult life had been focused on finding the Damarek. Now that it could be so close…
What would he do with himself after it was all over? He was weary of the intrigue, of being constantly alone, of missing his younger sister’s life bloom. Her come-out was this year, and he had missed it. What kind of brother did that make him?
When it was over, he would make it up to Camille a thousand times over. He would spoil her and take her to every ball from here to Wales. And he would take his mother shopping or to the seaside if she wished. It might be nice to be able to simply be with his family and manage his estates some of the time, live life as the person all of England thought he was.
Until then, he had better keep his wits about him. He closed the records book, shoved it under the pillow next to him, and doused the lamp. Tomorrow, they headed south to the ruins of Cairdygyn.
A stray thought entered his mind as he pulled his shirt over his head and threw it to the floor. After tomorrow, he might never see Elorie Lavoie again. If he found it, the French would abandon their pursuit of the relic, which they never intended to genuinely offer to Tsar Nicholas of their own volition without Britain’s involvement. That would mean Elorie would go back to France or be given another assignment, probably far from English shores. His abdominals tightened. Whether he saw the French spy again wasn’t the question that truly mattered. The question was: why did he care?
An answer niggled at the back of his mind, but he pushed it away. That couldn’t be it, for if it was true, he had to be the loneliest man on God’s green earth. And Maxwell Berisford would not be an object of pity, even to himself.
“Vipers,” he muttered as sleep took him.
****
“You’re staring at Eydris’s bum again,” Ruben commented from where he crouched beside Elorie in the Kilted Unicorn’s stables.
Elorie blinked and took her eyes from Maxwell’s form as he tipped the stable boy for readying his carriage horses. “I am not.”
“Are so. It’s like watching a dog salivate while his master eats a cut of roast beef.”
Elorie shot him a look. “If you don’t shut it immediately, I will sew your lips together in your sleep.”
He merely smirked. “You don’t have it in you to do such a thing. I would have no compunctions about it, however.”
Elorie pushed down her repulsion. He wasn’t lying.
Looking back at Eydris, she watched as he took a seat on the bright yellow driver’s seat and flicked the reins. Just as the horses started to move through the inn’s yard, a head popped out of the carriage window.
“Oh, Lord Eydris! Lord Eydris! Would you like a snack while you’re driving up there? I’ve saved some for you!”
Even from where she was, she could see Max’s jaw tick. “No, thank you, Losif. Just stay in the carriage, please. We’ve talked about this.”
“Yes, of course! Let me know if you’d like to trade off once we’re outside the city. It’s rather chilly.”
“Do you know how to drive a coach, Losif?”
“No, can’t say as I do.”
Max nodded once and looked skyward, as if for patience. “Thank you anyway, Losif.”
Elorie bit her lip. Her partner might be a bit evil, but at least she didn’t have a babbling monk following her around everywhere.
As the landau left the inn, Elorie let a few conveyances and carts get ahead of their horses to separate them. It would be hard not to tip off Max while they followed him, but she could at least be inconspicuous on the city streets if there was other traffic between them. After an hour’s time, they had left the city of Edinburgh behind, headed southeast along the road to Burnmouth.
There were fewer travelers on this fairway, so she fell further behind in case he looked back. Even if he did, he would only see two horses pulling a cart with a peasant couple and their “son.” A small, straw-stuffed outfit of clothes sat between herself and Ruben. From far away, it would simply look like a blond-haired boy leaning on his mother’s lap as they traveled.
She had been able to locate where Max was staying last night, but she knew it wasn’t wise to attempt a theft of the Cairdygyn records book while he had it so close at hand. Easier to let him plan the next move and follow him, though she didn’t like not knowing where they were headed or what he had found.
Ruben was right. The prudent thing to do would be to let Max figure out where it was and then take it from him. But that didn’t sit well with her. For one thing, she didn’t want to have to hurt Max, for all they were enemies. For another, it pricked her pride to simply let someone else do her work for her and then take what they had earned. Ruben had no conscience at all about such things, but she still tried to maintain her integrity.
There was no pride in being a lazy thief. Finding the Lance of Longinus, though? That would cement her position as th
e top agent in the French government for years. Her life depended on it.
The landau up ahead kept a brisk pace and was easy to follow, even when she let it get ahead a ways. It was bright yellow, after all, bobbing along the Scottish landscape like a cheerful dandelion on a desolate moor. Although she could never fully relax in Ruben’s presence, trundling along in the spring air while the scent of loamy earth filled her nose was pleasant. They never told you when you sign up to work for the Crown that it wasn’t all heists and gunfights. She relished these moments of peace when all she needed to concentrate on was following a yellow carriage down a road in broad daylight.
Max could be headed back to England, but a train would have been faster. Then she thought—could he be headed to the old Cairdygyn Hold site? Perhaps something in the records book had pointed to the Lance still being there. Or maybe it was an act of desperation, and he hadn’t found anything at all. She had already been to the ruins at Cairdygyn to see for herself if they still stood, and she highly doubted anything of value remained there.
Yet when he turned off the main road to head for Coldingham, it was confirmed—they were heading for the ruins. Now that she knew where he was going, she eased the pace of the horses. If he saw them following him down the lonely road, he might become suspicious. Better to not spook him and catch up later.
“I’ve enjoyed working with you these past several months,” Ruben declared as Elorie handed the reins over to him. His blond hair was nearly translucent in the morning sun. “Do you know why they assigned me to you?”
Elorie didn’t particularly want to have this conversation. “I have my suspicions.”
“You must know that your success rate has gone down lately. I know you came into the organization with a spectacular base of information, and your first few cases were highly praised, but Claude is worried about you.”
She knew all this. “What is your point?”
