The priest extracted his elbow from Adam’s grip, straightened his jacket, and stood as tall as his diminutive frame would allow. “Well, why did you not just say so in the first place?”
Adam began to answer the question but thought better of it. Instead, he nodded. “My mistake, Mr. Fudge. Now about that grave.”
The priest nodded and eyed the broken bottle at his feet. He sighed. “A terrible shame, that.” Then he engaged Adam again. “Follow me.”
Adam and the others hurried to keep pace as Mr. Fudge walked swiftly from the chamber, down the length of the assembly hall, and out the front door. He was forced to trot as the priest led them to a graveyard abutting the side of the building. Mr. Fudge halted before a curious collection of stones.
“Here we are. Giant’s Grave. A heathen’s tomb, if ever there was one.”
Adam moved carefully alongside the stones in perusal. A set of four unmarked upright semicircles of stone protruded from the earth in two parallel rows. At either end of the rows, perhaps fifteen feet apart, two obelisks of stone soared upward to about twice his height, as if monuments to a minor pharaoh.
“Vicar,” he said, “is this the grave of the Giant of Castle Hewen, then? The Bad Baron of whom your cousin spoke?”
The priest sniffed disregard. “So say the locals. They claim the giant lies interred between the obelisks, and that his height is equal to the distance between the stones.”
“But you do not believe this?”
“No. Giants are for fairy tales.”
Jane appeared again at Adam’s elbow. The brush of her arm startled him. However, she seemed unaffected by the touch, likely due to her clear desire to make a point.
“Mr. Fudge. What of the Bible, then? Were there not giants in the Bible?”
The vicar raised a finger and opened his mouth but stopped. He frowned in brief contemplation. “Yes. However, none stood fifteen feet in height.”
“Oh, yes. Of course.”
Adam could not help but smile at her sarcasm. He moved a step toward the vicar, primarily to liberate himself from Jane’s uncomfortable proximity. He offered the priest a warm smile. “Who lies beneath the monument, then?”
The vicar shrugged. “Nobody knows. Perhaps a Danish king. Perhaps a local chieftain. Or perhaps a lesser giant.”
Jane snorted. “It seems Penrith did not lack for giants.”
Mr. Fudge peered at Jane, apparently prepared to take offense. However, he simply sighed. “It would seem so.”
Adam stifled a laugh and smiled again for the unsettled priest. “Are there no records of the interment, then?”
“No. The monument predates the church’s founding in the twelfth century.”
Adam felt the tug of his coat at the elbow. He turned his head to find Jane still standing much too near. Her eyes communicated mild reprimand. “Mr. Ashford. It matters not who lies beneath the stones. It matters only that the writer of the letter believed it to be a giant. And it further matters only that we have, indeed, found the supposed giant’s grave. On hallowed ground, one might say. Now, if only we might speak freely.”
She cut her eyes discreetly toward the lingering priest. Adam arched his brows and nodded. Jane’s assessment of what was important restored his focus. He reached for the vicar’s hand and shook it vigorously. “Thank you very much, Reverend Fudge. You have proven most informative and cooperative in this matter. We will be sure to take a positive report back to the bishop.”
Mr. Fudge’s eyes grew wide and he gasped with alarm. After coughing out a few unintelligible words, he fled the grave to scurry toward the church entrance. This time Adam did not restrain him, but merely smiled at the retreating form. He laughed aloud when the vicar offered one final defense before disappearing around a corner.
“I was merely testing the wine! Nothing more! My parishioners are miserable liars, the lot of them!”
As the defense faded from earshot, Adam glanced down to find Jane regarding him with amusement. “Well done. You begin to rival Mr. Barlow at spinning stories.”
Adam raised his chin with mock pride. “Thank you, Miss Hancock.”
“I wonder what stories you have spun for me,” she added.
He hesitated, giving great care and consideration to her question. Then he smiled. “None, Jane. And I never will. It is the least I can do for a sworn enemy with whom I shall never be friends.”
Chapter Seventeen
Jane blinked with bewilderment. In the Hancock Book-of-All-Things, the name Ashford was synonymous with serpent. To trust an Ashford was to invite disaster. Adam had just promised never to deceive her. Every fiber of her being vigorously instructed her to ignore the promise. However, the more she tried to resist, the more she awakened to a surprising revelation. She did, in fact, trust Adam. Why, she could not say for certain. However, something of his character drew her regard. Something of his demeanor imbued her with confidence. She gritted her teeth at the revelation. She was supposed to hate him. The man was making it terribly difficult for her to maintain open animosity.
