The Digger's Rest (34 page)

When he got to her door, he knocked, softly
at first; then harder when he got no response. It worried him. Lady
Madeline was definitely not the kind to, first, oversleep, and
second, sleep though a loud knock like his, so he headed back to
the inn for help, hoping for the ridiculous, that she slept with
ear plugs in her ears.

On the way back, he bumped into Fi and asked
her if she could come to Lady Madeline’s with a room key and they
rushed back. Once the door was opened and they saw that Lady
Madeline wasn’t even in the room, Mitch gave a great sigh of
relief. “Maybe she got up and went out early for a walk.”

Fi, on the other hand, being a woman and
noticing things only a woman would notice, pointed to the dressing
table. It was empty. “Shay’s gawn,” she said and walked freely into
the room to check around. She went straight to the closet and
opened it. It was empty. “Shay’s left,” Fi said to Mitch and
shrugged. “Look, bed ain’t even been sleapt in,” she said as she
went to the bathroom. “Aynd look. Shay’s taken everythin’ out of
‘ere, too.”

Mitch looked around with his hands on
his hips, astounded.
Where could she have
gone…and why?
he thought to himself but said
nothing.
What the fuck is going on around
here?

Having no choice but to go back to the
inn and tell everyone, Mitch struggled with himself.
First Sandrine has a fit, now Lady Madeline
disappears without a word, and according to Fi’s observations, of
her own free will.
Everything seemed to be falling
apart and just when they were starting to make some headway. His
confusion started to turn to anger and frustration.
Doesn’t anyone understand how fucking important
this is to me, to the world, to history?

When he got back to the table, everyone
looked at him expectantly. “She’s gone,” he said simply.

“
Gone?” they all repeated, looking at
him. “Gone where?”

“
She’s just left, packed her bags and
left. Simon, please do me a favor. When you email Jack tonight tell
him that Lady Cotswold has unexpectedly abandoned the project and
that that we’ll go on with it by ourselves, along with my usual
message. Then try and contact Lord Cotswold and see if he knows
anything. This is fucking ridiculous,” he said taking a deep
breath, frustrated.

“
Yes, sir,” Simon replied, knowing
Mitch well enough to see how he upset he was. “Is there anything
else I can do?” he said, looking at Mitch with his big blue eyes,
wanting to help him somehow but not knowing what to do.

“
Nah, that’ll do for now. Just don’t
you go running off on me, okay?” Mitch said kidding, shaking his
head and rolling his eyes to heaven.

“
I would never…” Simon replied
seriously, saying the only thing he could think of to try and
reassure him.

“
No, I know you wouldn’t,” Mitch said,
putting his hand on his back. Simon flinched only slightly but
enough for Mitch to pick up on it. “You still achy?” he
asked.

“
Just a little,” Simon answered, then
continued quickly. “I guess I’m not used to all this physical
stuff,” and he smiled and shrugged, fighting back the urge to wince
as he moved his shoulders.

“
Well, we’ll make sure you don’t have
to do anything too physical today. How’s that?” Simon nodded and
blushed. He would never get over loving the way Dr. Bramson made
him feel special, cared about and valued, never as long as he
lived…or died.

“
Okay, men, we might as well carry on,”
Mitch said, waving his hand for them to follow him out.

Back at the site, Mitch let Malcolm go back
to his pit with instructions to continue clearing the space down to
the floor. He was going to work with Deck to start counting and
numbering the extraneous sandstone blocks that had fallen both
inside and outside of the perimeter wall. Simon was to canvas the
other side of the central building floor with a metal detector to
see if he got any readings and flag them if he did.

When he was done he could work back and forth
between the three of them photographing everything they found
before and after numbering, and in Malcolm’s case, before and after
anything was moved; and they set to it.

***

Because Mitch and Deck were spending so much
time outside of the perimeter of the castle structure, none of them
could hear Malcolm as he dug, continuing to clear the floor area
that he’d started. That damn pesky fly was back, buzzing and
humming around his head; whispering in his ear.

He swatted at it as he had the day before,
but also as the day before, it couldn’t be persuaded to go away.
Malcolm heard the owl cry again, and when he looked toward the
sound, he could see it in the tree above his head, staring at him,
studying him.

Before long he was digging and talking to
himself again. “No, no, no, no!” he said, waving his hands around
his head. Then his spade hit something, hard, making a sound like
it might be more wood. He forgot about the fly, concentrating
instead on the object he’d hit, cleaning around it gently with the
spade and a paint brush. He knew as soon as he saw it that it
wasn’t wood.

Still more than half buried in the dirt,
there were curved and rounded parts, but blackened like the wood.
He quickly began to dig around them finding that they had a form
and knew then what they were. They were bones, but not human bones.
They were the bones of an animal.

He decided to keep it to himself until he had
uncovered the entire form, and he dug on. About half way through,
he could tell what kind of animal it was. It was a large dog, maybe
a Great Dane or a wolfhound. He pushed forward, redoubling his
efforts to uncover the whole thing before he called anyone
over.

Energized by the prospect of having found
something significant, he tore at the dirt with his spade then
struck something else, something that gave off a thick metallic
sound. His mind went wild, he had something here. He really had
something.

He grabbed a short twig from outside the pit
and began clearing an outline around it. It was long and definitely
metal; narrow with one end seeming to be larger than the other and
slanted, as if it were deliberately driven into the ground, but it
was the end that was closest to him that told him what it was. It
was a sword. Someone had run the animal through with a sword and
left it there.

Suddenly he heard the owl in the tree start
to screech, screaming, bloodcurdling screeches, as if it were being
torn to pieces, and the fly was back, buzzing around his head
furiously, then dozens of them. He swatted at them wildly. “No…no,
no, no, no, no!” What it was saying made him so angry he could
kill.

The blood pulsed in his veins, throbbing in
his temples; a second heartbeat. He started tearing at the dirt
with his bare hands, throwing clumps of it behind him as he worked
furiously to uncover the beast before anyone else could come by and
see it before he was done.

He uncovered the enormous head and knew it
was no dog. By then his eyes were bulging with fever, saliva
dripping from his mouth as he struggled to free the creature. He
saw its fangs, long and sharp; a wolf. He sat up on his haunches,
looked up to the sky and started to call out, his mind swimming in
a vortex of chaos, losing himself. “Is there anybody there? Deck!
Ivy! Can anybody hear me? Help! Help!”

Deck was the first to hear him call and he
ran, Mitch was next with Simon following behind. When they got to
the pit, Malcolm was standing above it, covered with dirt from head
to toe; smiling proudly and pointing down at what he’d found.

They all peered into the pit. “Simon,
photograph it, quick,” Mitch said as he scratched his head, staring
down into the pit.

“
What the bloody hell is that?” Deck
said, amazed at what he was seeing.

“
It’s Canis Lupus, but a much larger
species than I would ever think we’d find in Europe,” Simon said,
backing away. Mitch jumped down into the pit.

“
Well, what do we have here?” he said
pointing to the handle end of the sword. “Simon, come get a close
up of this before I pull it out, will ya?”

Simon went over hesitantly, snapping it from
all angles then stepped back with the camcorder to catch the moment
on video. Mitch grabbed the handle of the sword and slowly pulled
it out, holding it up to the sky triumphantly, his hair blowing in
the light breeze, reminding Simon of a warrior returned from the
Crusades.

***

After dinner Mitch went straight his
room to begin cleaning the sword.
This
could be it!
he’d been thinking ever since he realized
what it was.
If what Lady Madeline said was
true and the ruin predated William’s invasion of England. This
could very well put a date on it and bring me one step closer to
the date I need. Jeez, Jack I wish you were here. It’s not the same
without you.

Downstairs Simon waited impatiently for the
voice. He sat at the bar and had beer after beer waiting for it to
come, needing it to come so he could tell about that afternoon.
“Another beer, mate?” Malcolm asked, smiling kindly. He didn’t look
well. He was flushed again; small beads of perspiration forming on
his forehead, and his eyes had this glassy, faraway look. Simon
nodded. Then from next to him, Simon heard another voice.

“
A beer please, Malcolm,” it said.
Simon looked over. It was the long blonde-haired guy looking at
Malcolm and smiling. Malcolm froze for a moment, not knowing what
to do, then turned away.

“
Deck!” he called out and walked to the
other end of the bar. Deck showed up a few seconds later and drew
the young blonde man a pint from the tap.

“
Please, Alec, if you want a drink just
come to me. You must know by now how it upsets Malcolm when you go
to him…just come to me or Ivy,” Deck pleaded with him.

Just then Simon looked up to see Malcolm at
the other side of the bar, glaring at the man Deck called Alec;
that same glassy, faraway look in his eyes. It scared Simon and he
looked down wishing with all his might that Mitch would change his
mind and come down for a drink or that the voice would speak to him
and tell him what to do.

When he looked up again, Ivy was over with
Mal and had her hand on his forehead. Simon couldn’t hear what she
was saying but he could imagine by the look in her eyes and her
body language that she was going to send him to bed early again and
take his shift, and he was right.

Simon watched as Ivy took Mal by the arm and
led him back around the long way to the kitchen door. When she came
back through, she didn’t have her apron on and took Malcolm’s place
at the bar, smiling and pouring drinks for the customers.

Simon waited for the old man, or the voice to
come, but they never did. By then he’d had a few pints and was as
exhausted from the day as everyone else, so he decided to go to
bed, feeling…unfinished, and turned to go. He was stopped dead in
his tracks. The black-haired woman was standing in front of him,
blocking his way. He tried to pass but she was taller than he was,
and faster.

“
Stop! Do not resist me,” she
whispered, and took Simon by the arm over to the corner of the
room, practically pinning him to the wall. “Old Amos is ill
tonight, too weak to even…speak to you,” she said, peering into his
eyes. “He sent me to see you, to tell you to take care and not
interfere until he’s well enough to lead you again. If you find
yourself in peril, call on me,” and she turned to go.

“
Wait! Let me come with you. I know how
to help him,” Simon said, taking hold of her arm. She turned back,
smiling, her black eyes sparkling without the reflection of
light.

“
As do I, child. Only you had the
fortune to be born with a man piece between your legs and I
didn’t,” she said pointing her finger at his crotch. “I will serve
you as I have always served him, as did my mother and her mother
before her, little one,” she said, pointing her finger at his face.
“But test me not. I’m Gayle, his great-granddaughter,” and she
disappeared as if she had never been there, leaving Simon appearing
to all outside eyes to be talking to himself.

***

While Simon was talking to himself in the
pub, Mitch was in his room carefully pulling and prying flakes of
dried mud from the handle of the sword; spraying it with a mixture
of mild detergent and water, slowly rubbing it. As each layer of
dirt came off, his heart beat stronger. Would this give him the
proof he needed to date the castle to the 6th Century? Little by
little his gentle cleaning began to pay off. He could see the hilt
was made of gold engraved with an intricate pattern and was, in
part, encrusted with semi-precious stones. He held his breath. It
was more than he could hope for to find some identifying mark, a
family crest or a traceable name.

He got out his Q-Tips, metal cleaner, jewelry
cleaning cloth and magnifying glass, taking the shade off the lamp
to give him the brightest light possible. He gave it a good clean
and polish until it looked like it had just come out of a museum,
then held it up to the light. “Damn!” he said out loud to himself.
It was beautiful, it was priceless; it would draw crowds when it
was on display at the Met because it was at least a thousand years
old and it might predate William, but not by much because engraved
on the underside of the hilt were the initials HofR, House of
Revelstoke. It belonged to a member of the family or someone in
their service or debt who last lived in the castle.