“Fluffy Does France?”
“Fluffy Goes to France,” he corrected her. Then, grumbling as he stared out the window, “Fuck Fluffy, disgusting little mongrel!
“The little beggar hiked a leg on my desk the last time the author came in for a meet. It's an Eames desk, for God's sake! And she's coming to the office again Wednesday next. On second thought,” he said with particular delight. “I'll hand her over to Leonard.”
The new junior editor who had been angling for his own projects. Not nice, Kris thought, but she remembered the author she had first been given. Trial by fire.
“Or possibly adopt a Staffordshire,” he added. “Bring it into the office, comfort dog and all that? See how Fluffy likes to play.”
He really had his red up, Kris thought. She probably needed to arrange to be away from the office that day.
The village of Inveresk dated back to the time of the Romans. The road to the village was a single track off the main roadway, winding along an ancient stone wall. The village was a cluster of white-washed buildings with slate roofs and stone walls that dated back a mere three hundred years. St. Thomas church dominated the center of the village with its spire reaching over two stories into the leaden sky.
After Diana's analysis of the symbols and Latin words stitched in that last panel of the tapestry, countless church archives had been researched, along with the records of the burial grounds. From those hand-stitched words, the search had brought them to Inveresk.
Long abandoned, the older church at the far end of town with its stone wall surrounding the graveyard had deteriorated and crumbled to ruins. The grave stones in the kirkyard had been worn by time and the elements.
The abandoned church dated back to the twelfth century, at a time when Christianity was expanding throughout Britain. It was there, in that ancient kirk yard, the archeologists and historians from Edinburgh and France had narrowed their search. If the clues Isabel Raveneau had sewn into the tapestry were correct, then there was a good possibility this was where Isa had brought James to be buried.
Four days ago, after weeks of searching, carefully archiving each gravestone, each ancient grave, their infrared equipment found something unusual for a small, remote village graveyard—an intact grave slab more than a meter beneath the surface, in a place where those buried had been simply placed in the ground with a simple marker, or none at all.
Careful examination of the site had begun by archeologists, a representative from the National Trust, and the parish priest from the newer St. Thomas church at the town center. Diana had texted her the day before from the site.
“You must come. They have found something!”
The weather had been typical for Scottish winter—rain with more rain. And cold.
Pictures from Diana's cell phone had followed, as the excavation was approved and carefully continued, even through a light snowfall.
After weeks, months, and centuries, was it possible they'd found James of Montfort's grave?
The rain had stopped, the sun struggling through a heavy cloud bank as they arrived at the inn where Diana was staying. It was old, with stone walls, two wings that extended out around the car park, that typical slate roof, and a spiral of smoke from the second-story chimney. The research team had taken over the more modern inn built at the edge of the village to accommodate tourists during the high season.
She gave the clerk her credit card, then sent a text to Diana to let her know they'd arrived.
“The old parish church?” she asked the clerk.
“You'd be with them at the kirkyard, then?” the young woman asked. “Down the road, past the car park for the buses, on a bit of a rise.”
Her accent was thick, the word 'down' sounding more like ‘doon,’ and reminded her of James Morgan in that way that a turn of a word or a phrase slipped out and brought back a memory of those days in France.
She thanked the clerk, and grabbed her umbrella.
“Not even a wee dram first to warm the blood?” Alec suggested. Then something about ‘hard-hearted wench,’ as he caught up and fell into step with her.
“You know, there are times you can be very stubborn.”
It wasn't hard to find the parish church and the kirkyard. It had been turned into a village of its own—automobiles, trucks, vans, film crews, people hovered about in thick coats, while others brought in lighting on long poles, cameras to document everything, and Diana standing at the edge of the circle of archeologists and historians who had gathered around that corner of the graveyard.
She looked up and waived a gloved hand, then hooked her arm through Kris’s arm as they joined her.
“They've cleaned off the grave slab and documented everything,” Diana explained.
“Dr. Melrose from the university has dated it to the fourteenth century.”
Fourteenth century. Was it possible? Kris thought.
The kirkyard was a beehive of activity and anticipation as ropes were carefully secured around the grave slab that was etched with letters and images.
