He walked away, striding fast and nimble over the rough and rocky ground until he disappeared around the sloped curve in the hillside.
*
“Mr. MacBride maybe right, Christina,” John said later. “This looks like a great useless pile of stones.” He sat on a boulder watching as she continued to poke and prod the earth using a stick. “Though you are not likely to concede that point.”
Christina sighed, feeling discouraged as she surveyed the confusion of rocks around her. The task was enormous, and MacBride’s discontent troubled her more than she would admit. “I understand his dilemma, but I have a job to do in all fairness.”
“True. And over and above treasure trove law, I suspect you hope to find something that supports Uncle Walter’s work.”
“I do, to be honest. There may be something to that here. This is the general area, and this could well be from an early century.” Bending, she picked up a piece of dark rock that had broken away from what seemed to be the ruin of a stone wall. As she turned it in her hand, a thought flashed, eluding her.
“So you do not think this is a black house?”
She shook her head, examining the broken stone piece. “I do not agree with Sir Aedan. I just have a feeling there is something to this place—but I am not sure yet.”
John nodded and resumed his sketching while Christina walked a little further along the shoulder of the hill. A fast, cool wind whipped past, rippling her hat ribbons, fluttering her skirts. She surveyed the chaotic rubble at her feet and looked out over the rounded, bleak hills.
This place held something of importance. She felt it like the chill and push of the wind. A trace of evidence, an artifact, the smallest inscription or carving could mean the differencebetween the remnants of an ordinary stone wall and a significant old ruin.
Years ago, Reverend Walter Carriston had translated documents that hinted at a specific location close to Dundrennan with some connection to Arthur, the warrior-king who had become the stuff of legend, and who likely existed in the sixth century. Her uncle’s discovery of some early Scottish references to Arthur had become the basis for his life’s work. In books, articles, and lectures, he had strived to prove that Arthur the warrior-king had links to Celtic Scotland—and could even have come from Scotland himself.
His theories were not widely accepted, but he never doubted his conclusions. Christina respected his work and believed he had discovered something important. Now this old wall gave her hope.
Certainly it was very old. The glassy greenish-black surface of the stone in her hand was indeed ancient, and its gloss indicated that it had been subjected to tremendous heat and fire long ago.
What if King Arthur had been at Dundrennan? And what if Dundrennan’s legendary princess had been a contemporary of the great king? Evidence that supported her uncle’s conclusions as well as local legend would be astonishing. It could add to the understanding of Arthurian history and even alter the interpretation of the Arthurian legends.
Those scholars that rejected Carriston’s theory felt his work threatened what they regarded as gospel truth—that the Arthurian tales had roots in the Welsh, English, and Cornish traditions. Scholarship allowed that the historical Arthur, a sixth-century warrior briefly mentioned in early chronicles, may have crossed into Scotland to conquer it.
But her uncle theorized that Arthur came from a Scottish Celtic tribe, which was seen by English scholars as a scandalous, unacceptable suggestion with no basis in fact.
“If I could find proof of Uncle Walter’s theory,” Christina told John, “his work would be redeemed. The truth is here somewhere. I just have a feeling.”
“Your stubborn nature is a fine asset.” John got to his feet and came toward her. “But do not expect the impossible.”
“I must try. You know that.”
He sighed. “Well, if you are determined, so be it. But you’ll have to find proof before Sir Edgar arrives to take over.”
“True. I must ask Sir Aedan for a shovel.” She laughed bitterly. “Perhaps he will refuse and just tell me it is not important enough for one of his shovels. But itisimportant.” She studied the chunk of rock in her hand. “I’m sure of it.”
“I doubt he is that much like Mr. Dickens’s old Scrooge! But it will take more than one shovel from a miser.”
“Two, then, if you can help.”
“I will try. But Sir Aedan has a number of men on his work crew, and the work may need to stop. I wonder if he would spare workmen as well as a few shovels.”
“John Blackburn, you are a genius! I will ask. Will you come or wait here?”
“I’ll wait, and guard your precious site while I make more sketches.”
“Could you make some sketches of those stones?” She pointed. “We need an artist to record what we find.” As she spoke, she felt a shudder in the earth beneath her feet. Small stones rolled past her feet. “What was that?”
John looked around. “It felt like an explosion.”
“That wretch!” She set the fluttering brim of her hat as she walked off.
“Where are you going?”
