Bewitching the Knight: (A Medieval Time Travel Romance) (6 page)

Glancing around again, feeling like a fool, she took another breath and dragged the two shovels closer. She left the light off as she carefully dug into the grass so as to remove the section just below the symbols, painstakingly, so she could replace it later, and it would look relatively undisturbed.

This was not normal behavior for her. Typically, she would have witnesses. A crew. Specialists with ground-penetrating radar equipment. But she just
knew
it was there. And after reading her notes, so did Jerry.

No way would she let him find it first.

Chapter Three

After a couple of hours of digging at an angle underneath the gigantic boulder, Samantha had made a decent-sized hole. She was exceedingly careful. If there
was
an ancient artifact in the soil, she didn’t want to damage it with a sharp, modern shovel.

The hard-packed earth imitated cement, and she dug, a little at a time, through the compacted soil. Lying half-inside the hole, covered in dirt and sweat, she hit something. She poked with the tip of her shovel, picked up the flashlight that lay in front of her, and aimed the beam at the spot.

She couldn’t really see anything. She gently poked with her shovel, and again, something even harder than the dirt remained unyielding.

Excitement built in her chest even as she cautioned herself that it could be a rock. It probably
was
a rock.

She lay on her stomach and set the flashlight in the hole. With the tip of her smallest hand shovel, she dug carefully, scraping and lifting small scoops of dirt. The feeling of excitement built. It might be wood. After a few minutes of digging she trembled and had to remind herself to breathe as it became obvious the object was not a rock, but a box of some kind. She carefully dug around the perimeter until she could grip the edges with her fingertips.

She stopped, backed out of the hole, and retrieved her camera. She was well aware the object could, and probably would, crumble when she tugged at it. She climbed back in and took a picture and the flash blinded her momentarily. She lay back down and dug a bit more; took another photo. As she slid further into the hole, her dress tightened against her shoulders and she paused to gather her skirt, then wiggled until she was in a more comfortable position.

She carefully grasped the edges of the object and gently rocked it back and forth to loosen it from its niche. The archaeologist in her cringed. It anyone in her profession saw her doing this, they’d be appalled. Hobbyists would be outraged. Even average citizens would, no doubt, be disgusted. She’d be drummed out of the field, and rightfully so. The moment she’d identified that the object was not rock, she should have stopped and waited until she could notify the proper authorities. The object should be carefully cleared of dirt, photographed, and filmed with proper lighting.

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? Your 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.”