Page 132 of The Language of Love

“Is that where you’re planning to go on your trip?” she asked.

“That’s one errand.”

Paying a visit to the bank and inspecting the contents of the safe was on a long list of chores to take care of over the next few weeks. Henry doubted there was anything of value in the bank safe as his cousin and uncle before him, had sold off everything they could sell years ago.

“Has anyone ever tried to steal the relics?” she asked.

“Oh yes, there have been three attempts that the family is aware of, the last one a mere seventy-five years ago. Apparently, the steward at the time took the idea into his head. He got as far as Bristol when he was apprehended, and the relics recovered. I believe that was the most successful attempt. The other robberies were foiled before the items could be taken from the vault.”

“Are you sure you should carry the key on you? What if somebody were to steal them again? Wouldn’t they attack you?”

Henry pulled back the painting that hid the vault. “According to the terms of the will, I’m supposed to carry the key on my person at all times.” He smiled at her. “Don’t tell anyone, but I usually keep it in a hollowed-out space beneath one of those andirons.” He gestured to the wrought iron dogs in the enormous fireplace.

Annis gave a nervous laugh. “I wish you’d not told me, Henry.”

“Why? Are you not to be trusted?”

“Yes, but I’d still rather not have such information.”

Henry inserted the key and turned it until there was a dull clunk and pulled open the heavy door.

Annis cooed softly when she caught sight of the reliquary. “It’s beautiful.”

Henry reached in with both hands and lifted the gem-encrusted box with a grunt.

“Is it solid gold?”

“I wouldn’t be able to lift it if it were, but there is enough of it,” he said, setting it down carefully on a sturdy trestle table that was there for that purpose. He lifted the lid off and set it aside.

Annis stood close beside him, like a girl on Christmas morning. “You’re right; the reliquary itself is a work of art.”

He handed her the beveled glass box.

She took it in careful fingers, staring at the splinter inside in awe. “Why, it looks just like a regular splinter of wood.”

Henry laughed. “Indeed. A person has no way of knowing whether it was from the cross Jesus Christ carried up Golgotha or from one of the many rotten beams that riddle Stoke Castle.”

She stared at it in silence, and Henry knew what she’d say before she said it. “If it is genuine, then it is a piece of wood that was touched by the son of God.”

“Do you want to touch it?”

“No!” She cut him a horrified look. “Have you?”

“No. It didn’t seem right,” he admitted.

She handed him back the glass box, her hands shaking slightly.

He gave her the gold goblet next. “This is said to be the Diocletian chalice of St. George—allegedly a cup the saint drank from before he rode off and slayed whatever it was that he is alleged to have slayed.”

“It’s heavy.” She hefted it in her hands and examined the sapphires and diamonds set in the soft gold.

Next was a ruby-encrusted cross. “This is the only one of the four relics that is well-documented. It was acquired during the Crusade led by Richard of Cornwall.” He gave her a wry look. “My guess is that it wasn’t given freely to my ancestor.”

The last item he handed her was a small gold-framed painting. “This is St. Oswald.”

She held the small wooden portrait in both hands. “It is very heavy. Is it gold, too?”

“Yes, and those are rubies, not garnets.”