Celtic Fire. Alex Archer

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      As the curate neared he took a single slow step back, allowing the tree trunk to come between them.

      When his heel came down it was on something harder than grass, but as he placed his weight on it a sound cried out.

      A strange noise...

      A voice calling?

      The curate stopped in his tracks, his head cocked on one side as he looked directly at the man even though he couldn’t see him for the protection of the shadows.

      “Hello?” The curate waited for a response, his eyes scanning the shadows for any sign of movement, which proved he couldn’t see the man hiding there. The man didn’t answer. “Who’s there?”

      The man held his breath, readying himself in case the clergyman moved closer.

      He would hate to have to kill him.

      Mercifully he stood still, too.

      He had no idea what had caused the “voice”—the sound of stone grinding against stone. Some sort of echo effect caused by being so close to the great cathedral?

      “If you need food or shelter you are welcome,” the curate called. “I can get you a hot drink as soon as I have done my duties inside. Would you like that? Tea? Coffee?”

      The man tried hard not to laugh.

      There was something about do-gooders that brought out the worst in him. Put them in the robes of the church—which they stupidly believed gave them a cloak of invulnerability—and they were insufferable. He decided to have some fun. “I could murder a cup of tea,” he replied in a voice more gruff and deeper than his usual tone. It masked his accent. “Thank you.”

      The cleric waved in his direction, the smile on his face broader than the simple act of boiling water warranted, and made for the main door of the cathedral with his keys jangling in his hand. The curate was clearly a trusting soul. But then why would he imagine the man would need anything more than that? Why would he conjure imaginary thieves intent on mugging him? Why indeed.

      No doubt there were processes and procedures in place to protect the relics—triggers that would dispatch a silent alarm to the police if anyone tried to force their way inside. That didn’t concern him. He had no interest in what was inside. None of the ritualistic paraphernalia held any fascination for him. It wasn’t about value. While there was a chance that what he was searching for lay inside the building, it was a slim one because by rights it would have been discovered long ago if that was the case. No. The only thing that interested him about this particular patch of hallowed ground was a long-lost burial plot he knew must lie somewhere within the property.

      And what was buried there along with the old bones was worth more to him than anything the church in Wales held precious: it was the final resting place of Giraldus Cambrensis, Gerald of Wales.

      Once he was sure that the curate was inside he waited another moment, then heard other voices carrying in the air as the holy man was greeted by his brethren. The man then ran as quickly and as lightly as he could to reach the car he had parked in a pay-and-display lot tucked at the bottom of an overgrown country lane a couple of hundred yards beyond the towering spires of the cathedral.

      He was intrigued by the “voice” and the curious stone that seemed to have triggered it, but it wasn’t worth the risk of returning in daylight. At least not today. A few days, maybe, to allow the curate to forget about the poor soul who was too timid to come in to claim his cup of tea.

      He started the car and drove carefully through the narrow lanes and one-way system until he found himself on the road to Haverfordwest. Once he reached Solva he pulled off the road to take advantage of the unobstructed—and spectacular—view over the bay, then settled back to catch a couple of hours’ sleep.

       Chapter 3

      Another day, another flight, another country.

      World traveler or not, Annja had flown enough long-haul flights to know she’d want nothing more than sleep when she reached her final destination, but more likely than not the room wouldn’t be made up. That was the problem with an evening departure from New York. It was great in theory, if you could sleep on the plane, but she couldn’t so she’d effectively been up all night without the joys of dancing and pounding nightclub bass to keep her going. That’d slow the whole body clock adjustment thing along with her screwed-up circadian rhythms. One thing she’d noticed was the older she got, the more difficult the adjustment was. A few years ago jet lag barely touched her.

      Through the window to her left she saw nothing but cloud below her, thick, white and impenetrable.

      She checked her watch. There was still about an hour until landing, which meant somewhere below her lay the endless deeps of the Atlantic Ocean. Soon enough they’d hit the change of air as they traversed Ireland. That was always an invitation to turbulence, like Greenland. It was something about the warm air and cold air colliding.

      Annja had been looking forward to this trip for a while.

      She’d already earmarked a bunch of places she wanted to visit to research possible segment ideas for Chasing History’s Monsters, not that she’d shared them with Doug Morrell, her producer on the show. As much as she loved Doug, there was a limit to how many times she could stomach her ideas being energetically talked over in favor of zombies and werewolves as seemed to be his usual habit.

      She’d made sure there was time for pleasure included in her schedule.

      There were places she wanted to revisit while she was here, places that she’d visited when she had researched the show on the legendary King Arthur, and even though she’d thought she had left little unsaid at the time there was something absolutely fascinating—and undying—about the Grail King. She wanted to revisit Glastonbury first, and climb to the top of the tor on a sunny day. She wanted to look down from the summit and imagine what it might have been like if the land around it had been flooded.

      Could the tor really have been the mythical island of Avalon?

      Anything was possible, of course, but she was experienced enough to put flights of fantasy out of her head. One thing Annja Creed prided herself on was that she dealt in facts. What the rest of the world didn’t know was that there were some facts that it was best they never learned.

      “Orange juice?” the flight attendant asked, disturbing her thoughts.

      Annja smiled and nodded, then happily let her imagination run away with her while she waited for the captain to turn on the fasten seat belts sign, indicating their descent had begun. She knew that she could spend a month over here and not see a fraction of the places she wanted to visit; the British Isles were a wealth of ruins and history waiting to be explored, of cultures to be rediscovered and ingenuity unparalleled. Her first stop on the itinerary was a place in Wales that had been getting some press on the archaeology discussion boards on the internet.

      She’d first heard about the Roman ruins in the small town of Caerleon many years before, but had never had the opportunity to visit. This time she was determined to put that right. Then it was only maybe twenty or thirty miles to Caerphilly, where a wonderfully preserved medieval castle still watched over the town and a number of faithfully re-created siege engines were on display and demonstrated regularly for the benefit СКАЧАТЬ