CHAPTER FIVE
It was well after sunset. The knight’s possessions had been safely tucked away for the night in David’s tent and Bud would not have been surprised if the man had stayed up all night admiring the treasure. The only artifact Peck didn’t have was the journal, and that piece of property was currently in Rory’s company.
Even now, as Bud made his way to her tent, he knew exactly what she had been doing for the past several hours; pouring over the ancient pages with a zealous fervor. And he could hardly blame her.
He was pleased to see he knew Rory as well as he thought he did. Ringing the little set of brass chimes outside her door, the first thing he came into contact with was her smiling, bespectacled face.
“Hi,” she said jovially, pulling him into the tent. “Do have a reply from Becker?”
He nodded. “A few minutes ago. Fastest reply I’ve ever received from him, considering I only sent word of the find three hours ago. Seems the old man is absolutely thrilled with the discovery and we have his permission to do whatever necessary to bring our crusader home.”
Rory cocked an eyebrow. “Home where? You realize that when the British get wind of our find, they’re probably going to demand that he be returned to England.”
Bud shrugged, lowering himself into a rickety chair. “They have no legal grounds to do it, of course. We found the body and by the laws of international salvage and domain he belongs to us. But I did give Becker the knight’s name. He’s going to contact the British Consul personally to inform them as a courtesy.”
Rory’s smile faded. Moving to the small table covered with disjointed notes, she sat heavily and removed her reading glasses. Bud watched her closely.
“Hey,” he said softly. “Don’t worry about it. Unless they’re willing to start another revolution, they can’t take him away from us.”
She nodded vaguely, staring at her hands, the floor. “I know. But you know the British; if this guy has any living descendents, they’re going to act as if we’ve stolen a close relative. Whether the knight died five years ago or five hundred years ago, you know how the English are about their relatives and bloodlines. Possessive as hell. They might turn this into an international incident if we refuse to turn over one of their own.”
Bud pondered her words, being very careful with his reply. “And you don’t think it would be acceptable if Sir Kieran was returned to Britain, to be displayed in the homeland he died for?”
Rory looked up from the floor, defiance written all over her face. “Good Lord, Bud, he isn’t even out of the ground yet. Why do we even have to discuss this? He’s our find and we’re going to keep him!”
He maintained his calm tone. “I realize he’s our find, but the idea of returning him to England will undoubtedly come up at some point. I have a feeling you’re already pretty attached to the guy and it might be better if we talk about this now, while you’re still rational, and not wait until I have to separate the two of you with a crowbar.”
She pursed her lips wryly. “You may never get the chance. I may just run off with him and live happily ever after, far away from his selfish countrymen.” She scratched her arm in a fidgety gesture, digging her heels into the dirt floor. “It’s just that he’s our find, Bud. Sir Kieran belongs to the university and not to a stuffy British museum.”
“He’ll be among his peers.”
“They have enough knights. He’d get lost in the masses.”
“He’s part of the masses, Rory. He and twenty thousand other crusaders who came to the Holy Land to fight for the righteousness of Christianity. If it were up to me, I’d return him to the country he was born in. The one he loved enough to risk his life for.”
Rory was fully prepared to defend her claim when she realized, more than likely, Bud was right. Still, it was difficult to visualize turning her precious find over to strangers who couldn’t possibly give it the love and attention she could.
With a heavy sigh, her gaze trailed to the mound of papers on the small table. “Oh, hell. I suppose Sir Kieran would look out of place among the Sumarian and Dead Sea artifacts in the university’s museum. We don’t even really have a British section to put him in.”
Bud smiled faintly. “We could always donate him to the Huntington Library Foundation and they could display him along with their works of Chaucer and Shakespeare. That way, he’d still remain in Southern California. And close to you.”
She met his smile, ironically. “But I’d be here, with you, still looking for my crown.” With another sigh, she scooted her chair closer to the cluttered desk. “Besides, he’s so big he’d probably scare the daylights out of the visitors who go to the Huntington Library looking for tame entertainment. Like something out of a bad horror movie.”
Bud laughed softly, his ice-blue eyes moving to the pile of papers at Rory’s elbow. “Well, we don’t have to decide anything right this moment. Like you said, the guy isn’t even out of the ground yet.” He nodded his head in the direction of the clutter. “So, what have you found out from his journal so far? You’ve been hold up in your tent since before supper.”
Momentarily distracted from the subject of the knight’s destination, Rory focused on the paperwork. As Bud hoped, it was enough of a diversion to lighten her mood and she perked up as she collected a few of her notes.
“This journal has been an absolute treasure, Bud,” she said enthusiastically. Holding out a couple of translated pages, she watched him scan her work. “As near as I can figure out, Sir Kieran was from a noble Saxon family who practically ruled Nottinghamshire. He came to the Holy Land a full two years before Richard the Lionheart and lay siege to Acre with Guy de Lusignan’s French army. He’s very poetic, actually, talking about the conditions of life during the siege of Acre. Considering it was probably one of the most hellish campaigns in history.”
Bud looked up from her pages. “If I remember my facts correctly, about one in two knights died during the siege from either wounds or disease. Pretty terrible odds.”
Rory nodded, gazing to the open journal. “This is the most amazing account I’ve ever read. An actual first-hand description of the fall of Acre is more than most scholars ever dream of.” She leaned forward and put her reading glasses back on. The parchment reflected in the lenses as she scrutinized the faded writing. “He also speaks quite frequently of a knight named Simon de Corlet and refers to the man as his brother, although I can’t determine if he means literally. And he also makes it quite clear that he knew King Richard on a first-name basis.”
Bud cocked an eyebrow, laying the pages back on her table. “Do you think he’s being truthful?”
She paused thoughtfully, chewing on the end of her pen. “Considering the size of the man and the beauty of his sword, indicating wealth and status among other things, I would wager to say that he probably did know Richard the Lionheart personally.”
Bud shook his head in wonder. “Absolutely amazing.”
“I know,” she grinned. “Now I remember why the crusades fascinated me so much in the first place. With my focus on the crown of thorns, I’d almost forgotten the power and mystery behind the greatest quest of all.”
He chuckled softly, patting her hand in a friendly gesture. “Welcome back to the real world, kiddo. A place where hard fact often proves more rewarding than chasing the improbable.”
Her smile faded. “Now you’re starting to sound like Dave.”
“Am I?” His features twisted with exaggerated horror and Rory laughed. She couldn’t help it. “Christ, I didn’t mean to. I guess what I mean to say is that I’ve spent my entire adult life on one dig or another, dealing with the tangible evidence of archaeology. This is the first dig I’ve ever supervised where we’ve been searching for something a lot of people believe to be purely legend.”
Hazel eyes glittered at him in the dim illumination of the tent. “And you?”
He met her gaze. “You’re very convincing with your facts.”
“That’s not what I asked. Do you believe I’m searching for a myth?”
He stood up, shoving his hands in his pockets. “If I did I wouldn’t be here. But I have to say that I’m a lot like Dave in some respects; an old school guy like me is partial to hard evidence over tales written by God-fearing monks.”
“So you have difficulty putting faith in Ottis’ manuscript. I can appreciate that. But do you disbelieve the Bible as well?”
Bud scratched his head, trying fervently not to say anything that would offend her. When discussing her passionate beliefs, it was easy to send her off into a rage with a single misspoken word.
“I was raised Protestant,” he said after a moment. “I guess I’ve always grown up knowing that I should believe. But being a scientist… well, sometimes it’s difficult. Especially when we’re digging up pre-humanoids hundreds of thousands of years old. How does that Bible explain the existence of something like that?”
Rory smiled faintly. “It does if you look in the right place. For example, the book of Genesis, verse 2, lines 1 and 2; ‘Thus the heavens and the earth were completed, and all their hosts. And by the seventh day God completed His work which He had done; and He rested on the seventh day from all His work which He had done.’” She leaned forward on the cluttered desk, her chin resting in her hand. “God said it took seven days to create the heavens and the earth, Bud. But he didn’t say how long the days were.”
“A day is a day. Twenty-four hours.”
“Maybe not in God’s time. Considering He believes the life of a man to be barely a breath of air before it’s gone, there’s no telling what God considers to be a day’s length.”
Bud’s perfect teeth gleamed in the soft light. “Dave was right. You’re one hell of a theologian. I really pity your theology professor.”
She grinned, leaning more heavily on her arm as her fatigue deepened. “Old Dr. Hayworth, head of the Theology and Philosophy department. I gave him a brain hemorrhage, I think. The guy retired right after I graduated.”
“That’s because poor old Louis was probably having nightmares of the beautiful student with the cunning of a barracuda.” Somewhere outside of the tent, a dog bayed in the distance and Bud turned toward the canvas opening, gazing out over the encampment. He wished that he didn’t have to go back to his own tent and sleep alone in his cold, hard bed.
“Tomorrow we should remove his helm and figure out how to get him out of the grave,” Rory said from behind him. “I’d like to do some tissue analysis if possible.”
Bud turned to her. “We’ll be doing an autopsy. Why do you want a preliminary analysis?”
She shrugged and stood up, moving to stand beside him as they both enjoyed the gentle breeze. “Do we really need an autopsy? I think it’s pretty obvious how he died. We could simply do a physical and a few tests to determine his health and other factors.”
Bud crossed his arms; he had to. It was either that or pull Rory into a crushing embrace. “It’s fairly standard to do autopsies on intact corpses. I don’t think there’s any question that we should, for a myriad of reasons.”
Rory’s expression darkened as she looked out over the distant settlement. After a moment, she lifted her shoulders uneasily. “I don’t know… I mean, I’ve never agreed with that particular aspect of excavation. So what if we cut this guy open and find out that he had heart disease and tapeworm? It’s just so undignified to hack him up when he’s survived all of these centuries intact.”
Bud toyed with his chin, noting her sincerity as she spoke. She was so damn sensitive, concerned for all things great and small. “Autopsies have told us a lot about how ancient people lived. They’re a very enlightening process.”
“We know how he lived, fighting off starvation and disease when he wasn’t battling Saladin. Couldn’t we just x-ray him? It would be a lot less intrusive.”
Bud nodded after a moment. “I suppose we could. Radiographs will tell us just as much. Maybe more.”
She smiled gratefully. “Thank you, Bud. You really aren’t such a bad guy, after all.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “I hope you remember that.”
Rory watched him stroll from her tent, his hands dug deep into the pockets of his jeans. “What is that supposed to mean?”
He cast her a long glance but continued walking. “When the time comes, you’ll know. Now get back to work on that journal. I want to know every gory detail of Sir Kieran’s life by morning.”
Rory watched him go, smiling to herself. He really wasn’t such a bad guy, after all.
*
Midnight came and went. The camp was dark, devoid of any activity except for an occasional security guard. Bud and David were long since asleep, much needed rest after a night and day of continuous digging.
Only Rory seemed to be awake, so deeply immersed in Sir Kieran’s journal that she hardly realized it was the middle of the night. Once she got past the beginning of the knight’s trip to the Holy Land, sailing on a ship crowded with mercenaries and horses and weapons, the true scope of his adventures came to light and, like any good book, she couldn’t put it down.
Surprisingly, Kieran didn’t seem to be the arrogant sort. He was frank, brutally opinionated when he had to be, but for the most part he seemed to be even-tempered and rational. He spoke with appalling honestly when he described heathen women, hairy wenches with a powerful smell as he had so kindly phrased them. They clung to him like leeches, he said with genuine puzzlement, wondering why they found him so attractive. With his size and alien coloring, he had expected nothing less than naked fear.
As Rory read into the night, she found herself visualizing the warrior wrapped in coarse cloth and buried in the ancient Grecian temple. He had a droll sense of humor and more than once Rory found herself chuckling over something he had commented on. But even more than the humor and vivid descriptions of deplorable life in a land under siege, she came to realize that Kieran had a good deal of modern insight to the world around him.
It was a sensitivity that ran deep as he described giving heathen orphans food from his own stores, or preventing his comrades from ‘doing as they soe pleased’ with a female captive. Rory, in fact, was amazed by his altruistic ideals; so many of the crusading knights were corrupt that she found it astonishing that Sir Kieran possessed the scruples to distinguish right from wrong. To deter a rape and feed hungry children was an example of commendable, and nearly unheard-of, standards.
The Turkish evening passed in heated silence; still, Rory remained riveted to the pages of Sir Kieran’s journal. The more she read of the man and his exceptional ideals, the more she found herself liking him. And the more she wished she could rouse him from his eternal sleep to ask questions until he ran out of answers. Engrossed in the man and his tales, Rory realized that Sir Kieran Hage was a knight taken straight from the pages of a fairy tale. Strong, chivalrous, and exceptionally brave.
It was close to dawn when she neared the last pages of his journal. Rory had long since stopped transcribing the text, instead, thoroughly absorbed in the stories. There would be plenty of time later for translating and she was to the point where she could actually read an entire page of medieval script in less than five minutes.
The complete journal was no more than forty pages, but the beautiful sketches had slowed her progress down considerably. Staring at their faded quality was an invitation to daydream of a time gone by, and Rory was entrapped in their spell. In fact, she had been scrutinizing a particularly lovely drawing of a crumbling citadel when an odd notation, hastily written, caught her eye.
Acre, it said. Somewhere by the bottom of the page she caught the name of the all-mighty Saladin and another strange name she couldn’t quite make out. El-Hadid or Jadid, she thought. Curious, she rubbed her eyes, trying not to grind mascara into her corneas, and tried again.
A Christian offering of Peace. That much she could decipher. But she couldn’t figure out if Sir Kieran meant the Christian armies offering a truce or Saladin’s army offering a gesture of harmony. The writing was smeared, as if he had written in haste and failed to properly sand the ink before it could dry. El-Hadid’s name came up once more, directly linked to Saladin, and Rory’s interest was piqued.
Turning the page, she was distressed to note it was completely blotched, almost illegible. Squinting at the smeared writing, she picked up her pen and began to transcribe the page letter by letter, hoping to make some sense of it. In the distance, she could hear a cock crowing, announcing the onset of a bright new day. But she ignored the rooster and everything else around her; all that mattered at the moment was the message Sir Kieran had had such difficulty writing.
Again, a mention of an offering a peace. A Christian offering. El-Hadid had offered, Kieran had accepted. But like the pieces to a puzzle that didn’t quite fit, Rory put the pen down and started to read aloud, hoping she would be able to better sound out the words. A syllable here, a word there, but nothing that made a great deal of sense. Sir Kieran was trying to tell a story, a story that had been mussed and faded by the passage of time, and Rory felt her frustration mount.
And then came the name Simon again. This time, the words surrounding the name were biting and angered. She thought she came across the word ‘betrayed’, but she could not be sure. The further she read down the page, the more she began to realize a change in Sir Kieran’s attitude. No longer was he the tolerant knight she had come to know; his fury was evident, a disbelief in what had become of his glorious mission to rid the Holy Land of the Muslim insurgents.
Even with the volatile emotions Rory was sensing, still, Sir Kieran never rambled and he was very exact in what he wished to say. If only she could make sense of it. Nearing the end of the journal, she came to suspect that he had somehow been double-crossed by Simon, but the exact circumstances had yet to make themselves clear. El Hadid was mentioned again, but almost in passing. More muddled ink, a few water stains and brown splotches she thought might be blood.
Confused with the tale to the point of frustration, Rory hunched over her collapsible desk as her tent began to warm with the first rays of a new sun. As she sounded out several more words, writing a few of them down for future reference, she came across a clear reference to Jesus Christ. Not God, as he had referred to his Lord throughout the chronicle, but Jesus Christ himself. And words pleading forgiveness from God’s only son.
Rory took off her reading glasses, the hazel eyes circled with fatigued and her brow permanently furrowed as she struggled to read the final passages of the journal. The last page was completely illegible, so she focused on the bit of comprehensive text preceding it. Finishing the lines, she read them again. And again. Then she simply stared. Suddenly, as if a fire had been lit, her eyes bulged to the point of exploding and she stood up so quickly that her chair toppled.
Staring at the volume still clutched in her hands, Rory tried to read the passage again but realized she was shaking so badly that such a feat was impossible. Taking a step back, away from the table, she stumbled on her overturned chair and scrambled from the tent.
The journal remained clutched against her chest as she struggled across the sand, shoeless, striving for the grave on the crest of the hill. Blinded to all else around her, she knew she had to make it to the grave. She had to see him. Knowing he could not respond to her, but still, it was imperative that she reach the man if only to see the truth for herself.
Good Lord… was it really possible?
Bud was just emerging from his tent when he saw Rory racing up the rise. It took him less than a second to realize she was barefoot, half-dressed, and staggering unsteadily. Tossing aside the towel he had been using to dry his face, he took out after her.
The entire camp was awakening to the sounds of shouting, the workers in an uproar as Dr. Osgrove and Dr. Dietrich headed for the dig at break-neck speed. David bolted from his tent, struggling to put his glasses on as he caught sight of Bud half-way up the hill, his shirt hanging out of his pants and his boots untied. With a muttered curse, he followed.
Rory was oblivious to the cries of the workers or to the sand burning her tender feet. All that mattered was that she had to reach the grave, to demand answers from a man who was incapable of replying. But a sleepless night spent immersed in the crusader’s chronicles had muddled her thought processes and after reading the last startling passage, she was hardly able to think rationally.
She was only aware of her need to discover answers. But the moment Rory laid eyes on the knight’s eternally slumbering face, all thoughts of disbelief and astonishment faded. Embracing the journal to her breast, she sank to her knees as Bud raced up beside her.
“Rory!” he gasped, putting strong hands on her shoulders to steady her. “What’s the matter? What hap…?”
She thrust the book at him and he had to take a step back to avoid being hit. His ice-blue eyes were wide with confusion, concern, and he could see even as she held the journal up that her hands were shaking terribly.
He took the book, eyeing David as the man came to a panting halt beside him. “Rory, what’s wrong?” Bud demanded softly, urgently. “Why were you running up here?”
Rory continued to kneel by the edge of the grave, her long hair askew, tendrils blowing softly in the early morning breeze. It was a moment before she was capable of answering.
“He knows where it is, Bud.”
Bud was understandably baffled. “Who? Who knows where what is?”
She didn’t say anything for a moment. “Second to the last page. The final passage. Read it.”
Brow furrowed, Bud did as he was asked with David hanging over his shoulder. After several tries, he shook his head. “I can’t read this stuff, honey. It’s too muddled.”
David took the book from him, hoping he could make a better attempt.
“I see the word Jesus,” he said, comparing it with a more-clearly written representation of the word on the previous page. “Here, let me give this a try; ‘Forgive me Lord Jesus that my… mis… mis….”
“Mission.” Rory’s voice was barely audible. After a moment, her knees creaked softly as she climbed into the grave. Straddling the body, she suddenly balled her fists and brought them weakly against the chest of the knight as if to beat the truth out of him. A gesture of frustration that she could scarcely contain.
Her voice, when she finally spoke, was nearly a groan. “The passage reads like this: ‘Forgive me Lord Jesus that my mission in Thou’s Name hath been thwarted. The diadem of Thou’s sacrifice entrusted into my hands is forever sealed, hidden so that no man can pilfer Its beauty or omnipotence. Until such time that I can safely transport It to the land of my birth, Its whereabouts shall remain my knowledge alone.’”
David was still looking at the smeared words she had so eloquently repeated. Bud stared at her, however, a disturbing twinge of recognition flickering in his eyes. A growing ember that seemed to bloom as Rory remained bent over the knight, her fists against his chest and her eyes closed.
“Rory,” his voice was hoarse. “You don’t think…”
“Yes, Bud, I do.” She lifted her head, the hazel eyes rolling open to focus on him. She was terribly pale, ashen with defeat and exhaustion. After a moment, she simply shook her head. “Don’t you see? He’s speaking of the crown of thorns. How much more obvious can it be?”
David looked up sharply from the yellowed parchment. “What in the hell are you talking about? He’s speaking of Jesus’ diadem of sacrifice, not a wreath of thorny vine. His words could be purely symbolic. You can’t possibly think…”
Rory removed herself from the knight, throwing herself at the edge of the grave. Reaching out, she grasped David by the ankle and nearly pulled him to the ground. Hazel eyes blazed into surprised, bespectacled brown.
“Not this time, Dr. Peck,” she snarled. “I’ve spent fourteen months listening to you refute every theory I’ve ever entertained, but I refuse to allow you to reject the truth of Sir Kieran’s words. He’s speaking of the crown of thorns, for God’s sake. Ottis was right all along when he pinpointed Nahariya as the crown’s location because somehow, he came into the knowledge that a crusading knight buried along the Pilgrim Trail was in possession of Christ’s diadem. Don’t you get it? By word of mouth or by smoke signals, somehow, Ottis heard the rumor and wrote it down!”
Dave was struggling to keep his balance. “Hell, Rory, how would he hear such a thing? What you are suggesting is so far-fetched, it’s absurd even for you!”
“The world was a smaller place back then. News and rumor traveled by word of mouth and it would not have been unusual for the story to be passed along, divulged to a scholarly priest by a passing traveler.”
Peck tried to pull his leg free without much success. “You’re talking about a two hundred year lag between Sir Kieran’s acquisition of the crown and Ottis deciding to put the information to parchment. Two hundred years for this rumor to be floating around!”
“Time and conditions didn’t move as quickly as they do today. Stories were kept sacred, told and retold. If one didn’t know how to write, which most people didn’t, oral recitation was the only way to pass along vital information.”
David shook his leg again, nearly tripping. The frustration in his voice was evident. “All right, all right, so the old priest heard the rumor and wrote it down. But that still doesn’t explain or justify Sir Kieran’s mysterious words. He doesn’t mention the crown by name, Rory. His journal open to interpretation, just like the rest of your holy manuscripts.”
She was possessed with certainty. “He says the diadem of Thou’s sacrifice, David! What else could he mean but the crown worn by Christ when he sacrificed his life for the sins of Mankind?”
Bud knelt beside the grave, prying Rory’s fingers off David’s leg. Holding her hands tightly, his expression was gentle and concerned at the same time. As crazy as this quest had been from the onset, it seemed to be growing in power and mystery. Bud was coming to wonder if there weren’t greater forces at work around them, arranging the happening of events with appalling coincidence. He just didn’t know what to believe any more.
But it was apparent that Rory had interpreted the knight’s journal to suit her own failing ambition. Smiling gently, he brushed a stray piece of hair from her eyes.
“How can you be so sure your knight had the crown?” he asked. “There has got to be more to it than one solitary passage. Did he allude to it at any other time?”
She shook her head unsteadily. “No… I read the whole journal, Bud. Sir Kieran was a powerful knight with a good deal of intelligence and principle. Toward the end of his chronicle, the pages became very difficult to read, but I came to understand that he had either been entrusted with an important task, or possibly that he was a part of a group involved in an significant mission. At any rate, it had something to do with Saladin himself and one of Saladin’s generals. After that, I could make out very little because the ink was so badly smeared.”
Bud was caressing her hands in a comforting gesture. “So why do you think he’s speaking about the crown of thorns?”
She shrugged faintly, struggling to reclaim her composure. “Because he kept eluding to his sworn duty of God’s choosing. How he was the only man worthy of such a task. At the conclusion of the journal, his attitude changed dramatically as I came to understand that his brother Simon betrayed him regarding this particular duty. I don’t know the details of the treachery. But clearly, a holy relic is enough to kill a man over. Even one’s own brother.”
“Even if that’s true, it still doesn’t explain why Saladin and his general would be involved with a Christian relic,” Bud pressed gently.
The madness was fading from her eyes as fatigue took its toll. “Oh, hell, I don’t know,” she murmured, removing her hands from Bud’s warm palms and putting them to her head. “Nothing about this guy has made any sense from the beginning. In his journal, he kept talking about a Christian offering from Saladin’s general, never clear as to what the offering was, but it suddenly seemed to make sense when I read the last passage of the journal. Saladin’s general gave Sir Kieran a Christian offering of peace. A holy relic.”
Bud cocked an eyebrow, waiting for Peck to leap into the conversation with his usual petulance. And knowing for certain that he would break the man’s nose if he did. “The crown of thorns?”
Rory nodded faintly, the pain of years of research in her eyes evident. “Yes,” she whispered. “All along, Ottis’ manuscript described finding the crown of thorns buried within the ruins of a Muslim mosque. But what if it wasn’t the actual crown, but the very man who could tell us where it was located? Maybe through the process of translation, the facts became twisted. Maybe we really were looking for Sir Kieran all along because he knows where the crown is.”
Bud watched her closely as she spoke, noting how tired she was. Maybe what she needed was eight hours away from Sir Kieran and his mysterious journal to give her a fresh perspective. But from the passage she had repeated, he honestly couldn’t fault her interpretation. Especially when, oddly enough, it seemed to make sense.
“It wasn’t as if Sir Kieran had the power to stop the war by accepting a peace offering. But he could have been a part of a peace delegation sent to retrieve a token of truce. And when the offering was presented to King Richard, it would have undoubtedly had a powerful effect. Maybe enough to end the siege.” Not surprisingly, Bud was intrigued. But he was also concerned for Rory’s health as she lingered unsteadily by the edge of the shallow trench. Pushing his theory aside for the moment, he focused on her exhausted face.
“Look,” he said softly. “We don’t have to get into a heavy philosophical discussion right now. Why don’t you get some sleep and let Dave and I hold down the fort for awhile. You’ll feel better when you wake up.”
Rory was reluctant, looking to the knight once more. “‘The diadem of Your sacrifice entrusted into my hands…’”
Bud reached down and grasped her by the arms. “Really, I love a woman with a photographic memory, but you need to sleep and Dave and I need to eat breakfast. Come out of that hole before you become physically attached to it.”
He lifted her out of the grave with assistance from David. Exhausted and muddled, Rory took the journal from Peck’s hands. “I’m not done yet,” she mumbled, refusing to look him in the eye. “I… I’ll finish when I get up.”
“Sure, Rory, whatever you say.” David let her take the precious artifact as Bud put his arm around her shoulders. Together, they made their way down the hill as the sun broke free of the eastern sky, signaling the start of a bright new day.