Spiral: Book One of the Spiral in Time (11 page)

“I’m not sure, but there has to be some reason why Aubrey lugged these books all the way up here. He always trusts his instincts, but it’s still a mystery to me. These two are the only books about Maiden Castle. The others are just for reference.” Except one—
The Seven Daughters of Eve—
and that was for her. They had talked about it at dinner last night. She would have to read it and see how it fit into her own book’s research.

Inserted in the most recent book about Maiden Castle was a large, folded sheet of paper Aubrey had apparently photocopied from the book. Spread open, it revealed a strange map of the interior landscape of Maiden Castle. It was a magnometer survey, a reading of soil that had been disturbed by fires or ashes. Any burning on the surface converted the weakly magnetic iron oxides present in the subsoil into strongly magnetic iron oxide. A reading taken over a deep feature, such as a pit or ditch, gave a higher than average magnetic reading, whereas readings taken over walls or cairns would read lower. It was one tool, out of many, archaeologists used to see beneath the ground without digging.

“It looks like there are hundreds of pits and even some unidentified walls.” He opened the book and found the page with the smaller version of the map. He cleared his throat and read aloud. “The survey shows the bank and ditch of the earliest Iron Age defenses are visible, as is a small, unknown, enclosure near the middle of the hillfort.”

“It might be a house,” she said. Her voice sounded distant.

He squinted at the map and pointed. “The Celtic hut site was close by.”

Sacred!
The word flashed through her mind, again.

She looked carefully at Sir Mortimer’s diagram of the same area. He didn’t have access to modern technology, like magnometer surveys, and his drawings showed what he thought were grain storage pits. The pits were in the same places on both surveys—the one from over seventy years ago and the other, just a few years old. On Sir Mortimer’s map, a large pit lay right next to the site of the old Celtic hut. It explained why the explosion went so deep; the ground was already loose from the concealed pit.

Everything was the same, except for one thing—the new magnometer survey showed a faintly rectangular structure, deep in the ground. Maybe a wall or a fence enclosure, she thought. Her heart gave the same strange lurch she had felt when she first saw Maiden Castle.

Germaine could almost hear Aubrey’s booming voice telling her “pay attention!”

Conan’s voice interrupted. He was outside the tent talking to one of the crew. She looked fearfully toward the tent opening, torn between wanting to know about Aubrey and not wanting to hear any bad news.

As though he could read her mind, Nicholas said, “Now maybe you’ll know how Sir Aubrey is doing.” He gently held her hands. “Don’t worry. He is getting the best of care.”

“Well, hello there,” Conan said as he entered. His eyes were on Nicholas, still holding onto her hands. Conan gave him a strange look and a cool nod.

“No news yet about Sir Aubrey, but I would take that as good news at this point, and Lord Dorset thinks there is a way to continue the excavation and satisfy the pagan community. He said we’ll invite the Druids to come bless the remains and English Heritage will promise to rebury them in the same place as they were found. With ceremony.” A flash of disdain crossed Conan’s face.

Germaine gave him a guarded look. Right now, she only cared about Aubrey. No news could also mean things were still tenuous.

“I’ll take that back to HAD and the Druids,” Nicholas said. “It sounds like a good compromise.”

Conan ignored him; all his attention was on Germaine.

“The best news is yet to come! Come look at what the shovel bums have uncovered while I was gone. It’s getting late but I think we have enough sunlight left. You can come, too, Nicholas, if you want to,” he added, in an offhand way.

Greenwood gave him a puzzled look, as though trying to figure out something.

“I told them to go as fast as they could without being careless,” Conan said, as they descended into the pit.

Germaine’s temper flared. On whose orders? She had not given him that directive. He had issued the order on his own. Did he think that just because he knew Lord Dorset he could take Aubrey’s place? They would have a talk, later. She was Aubrey’s director, not him.

It was already dark down below, and the crew had rigged up an electrical droplight. Hanging over the middle of the site, it gave a harsh light, deepening the shadows, making everything look sharp edged, as though etched in black ink.

Germaine gave a short gasp. They had uncovered a section of the same kind of stones found earlier, and it was clearly a wall. Set at the very edge of the pit, it ran over six feet, disappearing into the undisturbed soil beyond. The rock wall and a wooden structure behind it had crumbled, leaving an opening midway—a wide black hole—at the bottom of the wall. Germaine knelt and gave it a quick scrutiny, her fingers testing the rocks around the opening.

“It looks like the explosion blasted away some stones and an interior wall collapsed,” Conan said, and knelt beside her.

A three-foot section of the timbered wall was partially revealed and gaping open before them was a place where two timbers had come apart. It looked big enough for a person to enter. Germaine tried to see inside. It was pitch dark.

“Give me some light,” she said. But the flashlight was not much help, for just inside the opening, a piece of timber blocked the way. Germaine uttered a sound of dismay.

“I know,” Conan said. “I looked. I’m afraid if we push the timber out of the way it might cause other things to fall.”

Germaine pursed her lips. The compulsion to see what was beyond the fallen timber was overwhelming. She wanted to go in there right now. But that would be foolish. It would be totally dark outside in a few minutes and down here she needed every bit of ambient light available.

“I still think it’s a burial,” she said. “I thought so earlier. And I would guess it’s an important one with this much care taken to protect the burial site. There is no way to tell what that piece of timber was for until we push it out of the way.” She paused and directed the flashlight’s beam into the opening again. “I think it’s just part of a wall enclosing the burial and not a support beam.”

“I want to go in and see.” She stood up, brushing chalk dust off her hands.

Everyone looked at her in varying degrees of concern. Nicholas gave her a strange look, and his eyes tracked her every movement as thought she might suddenly jump up and disappear into the opening.

Conan shook his head. “No. The safest thing to do is slowly dig our way in. I can have Ian and two other shovel bums start on it tomorrow morning. One person slides in a little way and removes whatever rubble is in the way. The other two clear the debris out of the way and pull him out if anything goes wrong.”

Germaine knew that was the safest approach, but, risky or not, she felt possessed by a need to do it herself. “Right. I agree to have two others as backup, but I’m the one who’s going in first.”

Her mouth closed in a tight, firm line. She was stubborn. Aubrey had given her this excavation; it was her chance to secure the high public profile that would follow from making an important archaeological find. The tenured position at the university floated through her mind with all its alluring promise of security and prestige. It would be hers!

Maiden Castle was already an international news item with the explosion and the pagans and Druids demonstrating about ancestors’ rights down in the car park. The media was already in place. As first in, with a light and camera, she would be on all the news programs around the world.

“The opening looks unstable,” Conan said. “Ian has done this sort of excavation before so I think he should go in first. It’s not a job for a woman.”

Not a job for a woman!
Germaine felt her heart rate soar. That was the most sexist statement he could have made, and usually guaranteed a blistering response. But this was not the time for a discussion of woman’s rights. Just stick to the facts, Germaine, she reminded herself.

“Well, Lord Dorset charged Sir Aubrey with directing this site and, in his absence, I am in charge.” She felt the heat of anger rush through her body.

She was not going to give in. The bronze scabbard with its extraordinary engravings, the skeletal remains and broken sword, were signs that something rare lay beyond this wall. Whoever was first in could claim historic notoriety. The world still remembered the drama of archaeologist Howard Carter being the first to enter the fabulous tomb of Tutankhamun in Egypt and she wanted that kind of spotlight on her. Her jaw set a bit tighter.

Conan was smiling; one cheek had a beguiling dimple. It was quite charming and she felt sure he knew how to use it—she had watched him charm Moira at the conference. Was she overreacting? Perhaps. She still remembered Julian’s way of using his charming smile from her distant marriage.

But something significant was in the balance here, and she was not about to give up. Germaine silently cursed her quick tongue again. The thought of her grievous response to Nigel Mallory about the Celts burned in the back of her mind. Damn! Would she never learn?

She had reacted to Conan’s challenge without thinking. It would have been better to talk this over in private. She looked at him and then tilted her head, looking up at the fading light, as though thinking about what he said. She didn’t want to alienate him. It would create an impossible work situation, if they were constantly arguing and vying for power.

She drew a deep breath and smiled in a benign way.

“You may be right. I’ll think it over.”

It was a somber group that climbed out of the site. Germaine had never felt this excited and worried, all at the same time.

“Are you staying up here tonight, Dr. O’Neill?” Nicholas asked.

“Yes, I need to be where I can quickly hear how Aubrey is doing. We have an army field phone, and they promised to call as soon as the doctors made a diagnosis.”

They sat at a small table outside the main tent and watched Conan speaking to Ian, the tall shovel bum who seemed to be in charge of the tea kettle and kitchen—a primitive camp setup. Two Coleman lanterns cast a warm, yellow light that lured pale, delicate-winged night flyers to immolation; a faint buzz marked each fatality as it fell in the flame. A small generator provided a limited amount of electricity. There were two hot plates, and several ice chests served as refrigerators; nothing more elaborate was needed yet. The smell of coffee drifted in the air.

Conan’s voice raised and though they could not clearly hear his words, the tone sounded angry, like an argument. Then he raised his arm and shoved Ian back against a table! There was a mild scuffle, mostly pushing, and Ian stomped out of camp, over the path to the rampart.

“I guess Ian did something wrong,” Germaine said.

Nicholas’s head straightened, alert. He drew a loud, sharp breath. Germaine glanced at him. She was shocked by the look on his face. For a second, he looked as though he could attack Conan. Then the fearsome expression vanished.

He stood up and moved around the tent, casually testing the ropes, looking inside, watching the crew mill around the kitchen area fixing dinner.

Fascinated, Germaine watched him. He acted like a loyal guard on patrol. Somehow, that was reassuring. His shoulders were surprisingly large; he could easily hold his own with any man here. For someone who walked with a cane, his body looked muscular. Maybe he worked out to compensate for his leg? She considered asking, but decided it would be rude. If he wanted to talk about his leg, he could choose the time, not her.

A night breeze had picked up, and it grew chilly. They moved inside and sat at the work table, still covered with Aubrey’s books.

“It’s getting late, I’ll stay here to keep you company if you like. You must be worried.” His voice was firm, but soft, and not intrusive. A small frown crossed his forehead.

“You always liked being the protector,” Conan said, standing in the tent’s opening. “Like you protected Anna? Your dear wife ... my dear sister.”

There was a hostile note in his voice, and a surprisingly mean look flashed across his handsome face. He slammed down a mug on the table. It splashed onto the open magnometer survey and the smell of whiskey filled the tent.

No one spoke. Then, with a heavy sigh, Nicholas said, “You know that was an accident and one we both paid for ... and I’ll always remember.”

“Yes, well you’re alive, and she is not.”

Conan turned toward Germaine. “Sorry, Madame Director. It’s some old business. Nicholas and I go back a long ways. He was married to my sister.”

She looked from one face to the other. What just happened? The air was electric with tension. She thought they were friends. Was he drunk?

Conan pulled a short, thin cigar from his pocket and struck a match on the sole of his boot. The sharp smell of sulfur and expensive Cuban tobacco drifted over the table. His bright blue eyes narrowed and fixed on Nicholas as he exhaled.

“Some other time, Nicholas. Just don’t cross me, I’m not in the mood for anymore interference tonight.” He grabbed his mug off the table and left.