“And where are you pledged to deliver it?”
“Again, that tale is not mine to surrender.”
Royce flung out a hand. “But you must know your destination!”
“And clearly I vowed not to confide it in another. The one who dispatched it knows, and the one who awaits it knows. That is sufficient.”
Royce heard the implied threat. “And if it does not arrive as intended?”
The Scotsman’s smile broadened. “Then it will be sought, of course, and woe to any who have interfered in the great goodness of this plan.”
There was something chilling about the Scotsman’s manner. Surely he could not have had this prize granted to him by the divine.
But he could have been entrusted with the delivery of it by some man acting in the name of God. A bishop. An archbishop. The pope.
Royce licked his lips and considered the golden reliquary again. It was a prize worthy of the attention of such a great man. He could believe that it might be dispatched in secrecy, the better to protect it from theft.
Yet he had stumbled into possessing it, quite by chance. He could see no advantage to himself in letting the Scotsman continue on his quest. For all Royce knew, the Scotsman had stolen it from some other emissary!
“Saint Euphemia,” Royce said, making a show of reading the inscription. “I have never even heard of this saint. Perhaps her relics have little value.”
“So might a man suggest who did not believe in her powers.”
“Which are?”
The Scotsman shook his head, as if in pity. “The ability to distinguish between right and wrong. Perhaps it is no mystery that she is unknown in this keep.”
Gaultier glowered at him but Royce raised his hand to halt his Captain of the Guard. He closed the distance between himself and the prisoner. “I know the difference between right and wrong,” he said in a low, silky voice. “Which is why I do not believe you. No man alive with the power to dictate the direction of such a treasure as this would surrender it to the custody of the likes of you.” The Scotsman’s eyes flashed, and Royce took satisfaction at having irked him. “I say you lie. I say you stole this yourself from its true custodian. And I say that such a man as you should be cast in darkness and abandoned until you die.”
Gaultier seized the Scotsman with satisfaction and spun him around roughly, pushing him back toward the door.
“But what of the reliquary?” the Scotsman demanded. “Surely you do not imagine that you can keep it for yourself?”
“What I can or cannot imagine is of no concern to you,” Royce declared. He gestured, and Gaultier shoved the Scotsman out of the chapel, even as Royce looked back into the rich gold of the reliquary.
It was a prize beyond compare.
It was a treasure that awakened every covetous urge within him.
But the Scotsman was right. Someone would seek it. Someone would kill for it. And no one could find it in Royce’s treasury.
Nay, the best way to put this prize to work was to give it away. It would make a fine token of esteem for King Henry, for example, the perfect indication of obeisance from a loyal baron.
He would send it to Winchester with the tithes and his fondest regards.
But first, Gaultier and his men must ensure that the remainder of the party that had just left his gates were hunted down and silenced.
Forever.
He heard Gaultier’s footstep behind him and did not turn to address him. “What of your men?”
“They are ordered to pursue the vagabonds to the borders and then return to report on their course,” the Captain of the Guard replied. “I expect them before the dawn, with the party captive.”
Royce drummed his fingers on the board. “I hope they succeed,” he had to content himself with replying. “For your sake and that of our guest.”
“They will not abandon him,” Gaultier said with confidence. “Even if they outrun the knights, they will circle back for him.”
“Double the sentries on watch,” Royce commanded. “If we are surprised again, you will pay the price.”
