Celtic Fire (Rogue Angel) Page 2

  “Hello?” The curate waited for a response, his eyes scanning the shadows for any sign of movement, which proved he couldn’t see the man hiding there. The man didn’t answer. “Who’s there?”

  The man held his breath, readying himself in case the clergyman moved closer.

  He would hate to have to kill him.

  Mercifully he stood still, too.

  He had no idea what had caused the “voice”—the sound of stone grinding against stone. Some sort of echo effect caused by being so close to the great cathedral?

  “If you need food or shelter you are welcome,” the curate called. “I can get you a hot drink as soon as I have done my duties inside. Would you like that? Tea? Coffee?”

  The man tried hard not to laugh.

  There was something about do-gooders that brought out the worst in him. Put them in the robes of the church—which they stupidly believed gave them a cloak of invulnerability—and they were insufferable. He decided to have some fun. “I could murder a cup of tea,” he replied in a voice more gruff and deeper than his usual tone. It masked his accent. “Thank you.”

  The cleric waved in his direction, the smile on his face broader than the simple act of boiling water warranted, and made for the main door of the cathedral with his keys jangling in his hand. The curate was clearly a trusting soul. But then why would he imagine the man would need anything more than that? Why would he conjure imaginary thieves intent on mugging him? Why indeed.

  No doubt there were processes and procedures in place to protect the relics—triggers that would dispatch a silent alarm to the police if anyone tried to force their way inside. That didn’t concern him. He had no interest in what was inside. None of the ritualistic paraphernalia held any fascination for him. It wasn’t about value. While there was a chance that what he was searching for lay inside the building, it was a slim one because by rights it would have been discovered long ago if that was the case. No. The only thing that interested him about this particular patch of hallowed ground was a long-lost burial plot he knew must lie somewhere within the property.

  And what was buried there along with the old bones was worth more to him than anything the church in Wales held precious: it was the final resting place of Giraldus Cambrensis, Gerald of Wales.

  Once he was sure that the curate was inside he waited another moment, then heard other voices carrying in the air as the holy man was greeted by his brethren. The man then ran as quickly and as lightly as he could to reach the car he had parked in a pay-and-display lot tucked at the bottom of an overgrown country lane a couple of hundred yards beyond the towering spires of the cathedral.

  He was intrigued by the “voice” and the curious stone that seemed to have triggered it, but it wasn’t worth the risk of returning in daylight. At least not today. A few days, maybe, to allow the curate to forget about the poor soul who was too timid to come in to claim his cup of tea.

  He started the car and drove carefully through the narrow lanes and one-way system until he found himself on the road to Haverfordwest. Once he reached Solva he pulled off the road to take advantage of the unobstructed—and spectacular—view over the bay, then settled back to catch a couple of hours’ sleep.

  Chapter 3

  Another day, another flight, another country.

  World traveler or not, Annja had flown enough long-haul flights to know she’d want nothing more than sleep when she reached her final destination, but more likely than not the room wouldn’t be made up. That was the problem with an evening departure from New York. It was great in theory, if you could sleep on the plane, but she couldn’t so she’d effectively been up all night without the joys of dancing and pounding nightclub bass to keep her going. That’d slow the whole body clock adjustment thing along with her screwed-up circadian rhythms. One thing she’d noticed was the older she got, the more difficult the adjustment was. A few years ago jet lag barely touched her.

  Through the window to her left she saw nothing but cloud below her, thick, white and impenetrable.

  She checked her watch. There was still about an hour until landing, which meant somewhere below her lay the endless deeps of the Atlantic Ocean. Soon enough they’d hit the change of air as they traversed Ireland. That was always an invitation to turbulence, like Greenland. It was something about the warm air and cold air colliding.

  Annja had been looking forward to this trip for a while.

  She’d already earmarked a bunch of places she wanted to visit to research possible segment ideas for Chasing History’s Monsters, not that she’d shared them with Doug Morrell, her producer on the show. As much as she loved Doug, there was a limit to how many times she could stomach her ideas being energetically talked over in favor of zombies and werewolves as seemed to be his usual habit.

  She’d made sure there was time for pleasure included in her schedule.

  There were places she wanted to revisit while she was here, places that she’d visited when she had researched the show on the legendary King Arthur, and even though she’d thought she had left little unsaid at the time there was something absolutely fascinating—and undying—about the Grail King. She wanted to revisit Glastonbury first, and climb to the top of the tor on a sunny day. She wanted to look down from the summit and imagine what it might have been like if the land around it had been flooded.

  Could the tor really have been the mythical island of Avalon?

  Anything was possible, of course, but she was experienced enough to put flights of fantasy out of her head. One thing Annja Creed prided herself on was that she dealt in facts. What the rest of the world didn’t know was that there were some facts that it was best they never learned.

  “Orange juice?” the flight attendant asked, disturbing her thoughts.

  Annja smiled and nodded, then happily let her imagination run away with her while she waited for the captain to turn on the fasten seat belts sign, indicating their descent had begun. She knew that she could spend a month over here and not see a fraction of the places she wanted to visit; the British Isles were a wealth of ruins and history waiting to be explored, of cultures to be rediscovered and ingenuity unparalleled. Her first stop on the itinerary was a place in Wales that had been getting some press on the archaeology discussion boards on the internet.

  She’d first heard about the Roman ruins in the small town of Caerleon many years before, but had never had the opportunity to visit. This time she was determined to put that right. Then it was only maybe twenty or thirty miles to Caerphilly, where a wonderfully preserved medieval castle still watched over the town and a number of faithfully re-created siege engines were on display and demonstrated regularly for the benefit of tourists.

  What was doubly interesting about Caerleon, though, was that it was also one of the possible sites of Camelot, the fabled court of King Arthur, according to the writing of Geoffrey of Monmouth in the twelfth century. There was also a reference to Arthur fighting a battle against the Romans in the “City of the Legion” according to Nennius in his Historia Brittonum; this could easily have been Caerleon, home of the Second Augustan legion. This was why she loved archaeology; it was more than just digging things out of the ground. It was all about sifting through the clues buried in early writings and using them to locate important lost sites. It was more than just history. It was akin to lore and legend in the absolute nerdiest sense.

  Annja hadn’t even realized her breakfast had been placed in front of her as she had been so caught up in her thoughts. She wouldn’t reach the small Welsh town until tomorrow, but she had given herself a few days to stay. She wanted to make sure she saw everything there was to see in case the chance to return didn’t come around again.

  She picked at the food without any real appetite and drained the orange juice. There would be plenty of time to grab something else to eat later; she’d promised herself a traditional English breakfast of s
ausage, bacon, eggs, potatoes, beans and fried tomatoes. She knew a great little greasy spoon just around the corner from the station. The locals called the specialty “the heart attack on a plate,” but it was nothing compared to some of the stuff they served back home.

  She looked through her papers one last time before packing them away for landing, studying the photographs and maps of the area around Caerleon. She skipped past the pages on Caerphilly, slipping those back into her folder. There were another half a dozen folios like this in her case—the other places she planned on visiting on her trip—but they could wait.

  When the plane finally touched down she was ready for the shuffle-race to the exit with everyone standing up and crowding the aisles long before the cabin doors were open.

  By the time she’d collected her luggage from the baggage carousel, and gotten through customs and passport control, the clouds had begun to break up. It wasn’t exactly glorious out, but it was a good morning and it looked like it was going to be a better day, which meant the drive into Wales should be easy, as long as tiredness didn’t mean sleeping in a lay-by somewhere near the River Severn.

  Annja claimed a hire car from the desk, then went on an expedition to find it. She scoured parking bays that went on forever in a recursive loop of identical hire cars until a click of the key fob resulted in a flicker of lights identifying her ride.

  She sat inside the car for a few minutes, trying to familiarize herself with the right-hand-drive position before pulling away. She repeated, “They drive on the left” like a holy mantra as if she really needed any reminding from the minute she hit the open road of the M25.

  It felt good to be driving once she got to the motorway rather than crawling through the airport’s one-way system. She rolled one shoulder after the other to free it from the kinks that still lay in her muscles from the flight.

  The sun was behind her and the steady flow of traffic away from London moved at an even pace with vehicles peeling off and others joining at every junction.

  In an ideal world she would have made the journey a little more slowly, but her speed was dictated by the cars and lorries around her. Annja was caught in a stream where each vehicle moved at the same speed as the one in front so she cranked the radio up, choosing volume over taste, and wound the window down. It was summer, after all.

  Eventually the discomfort of sitting still for so long after the flight left her with no choice but to pull off at a motorway services area and go in search of coffee and the chance to stretch her legs. The decor was bad, the coffee was worse. She wound up getting back in the car and heading toward the motorway less than fifteen minutes after she’d pulled into the rest stop. The next signpost promised that Cardiff was less than fifty miles away. The turnoff for Caerleon would come some time before that.

  Chapter 4

  An engine fired up beside her, gunned quickly into life and was followed by the crunch of tires on gravel as the car pulled away. Awena knew that it was safe to move at last. She’d lain still and silent, listening to the wail of the museum alarm as it carried on into the night air, and then drifted off after it fell silent, one hand on the stone artifact she had liberated from the glass case. She liked to think that she’d saved it from being transferred to some dusty old vault somewhere where it would have been hidden away until doomsday, completely forgotten about. That would have been a bigger crime than anything she’d done.

  She hadn’t realized what she’d been looking at the first time she’d laid eyes on the exhibit—why would she have?—but there was something about it that had brought her back to it again and again, until she was finally convinced that it was mislabeled. The card had described it as a quern—a hand-grinding stone for grain—but it clearly wasn’t; it was too large and too heavy to be one of those. Once upon a time she might have pointed the mistake out to one of the staff to let them know how clever she was and basically how stupid they were for screwing it up. She’d grown up a lot since the days wasted in museums with her easily embarrassed twin, Geraint, who frequently turned a darker shade of red than their flame-red hair while he tried to pretend he had no idea who she was. It never worked. Now, thankfully, she was comfortable with the idea that she was the sharpest person in any given room she walked into. It wasn’t arrogance; it was just a fact. It didn’t matter who else was there, Awena was ferociously intelligent.

  Once the sounds of the car had faded into the distance she eased herself up a little to scope out the lane. A glance through the rear window revealed a blanket of mist across the rugby field, shrouding it with a soft white in the early-morning sun. There was no sign of anyone else around. She’d reached the point of no return. If she waited too much longer to make her move, traffic to the heritage site would increase and it’d be difficult to slip out of the car to stretch the kinks out before getting back into the driver’s seat without anyone noticing.

  She opened the door.

  The air was colder than she’d expected. She used the discarded blanket to cover the stone. A dog came bounding toward her along the lane, its owner calling after it, but it wasn’t slowing down. It raced with its tongue lolling between open jaws, full of excitement. Awena wasn’t afraid of dogs, but it was the kind of encounter the mutt’s owner would remember, and the last thing she wanted was to be memorable. With the dog still thirty feet away, she slipped back behind the wheel and slammed the door. The confused animal stopped dead in its tracks and stared at her for a moment, wounded, like it couldn’t understand why she didn’t want to stop and play with it, then looked back in the direction it had come from before it took off into the mist-shrouded field.

  Awena waited a moment before starting the car, watching the dog’s owner shrug helplessly and follow after it into the field, then pulled away.

  The streets were dead. She reached the end of the lane, putting on the blinkers to indicate she was turning right. She couldn’t see any policemen outside the museum, though she had half expected a guard to have been posted.

  Alongside the building where her Land Rover had parked she saw a white van.

  She pulled out into the road, driving slowly and straining to catch a glimpse of the writing on the side of the van: a twenty-four-hour locksmith. She smiled. Typical—shut the stable door after the horse has well and truly bolted.

  She followed the road as it arced right, curving around a big old Gothic school building, and took her beyond the police station. There was no sign of anyone coming or going. Any panic or rush of excitement at the break-in and the resultant flurry of activity had died down and life had settled back into the normality of its daily routine.

  Awena turned left at the end of the street and followed the road through a series of villages that fed one into the next. Eventually, she picked up a faster road and was able to put her foot down on the gas.

  She allowed herself to laugh as she felt the rush of speed and the excitement of her plan falling into place. She’d done it. Simple as that. She’d won. She couldn’t wait to show Geraint her trophy, even if he still had doubts about what it was that she had stolen. She’d just have to convince him. Awena desperately wanted to call her brother, even though the digits on the dashboard reminded her that it was barely 7:00 a.m. He wasn’t an early riser.

  She’d almost forgotten that he’d stayed the night in London.

  She was going to enjoy the look on his face when he laid his eyes on the treasure.

  Like the old commercial said...priceless.

  Chapter 5

  The Welsh seemed intent on charging Annja to enter their country—or was it the English charging her for the luxury of leaving theirs? She wasn’t entirely sure, but it was the first time she could remember being charged to cross a border. Signs at the side of the sweeping bridge that carried traffic over the River Severn warned that tollbooths lay ahead, clearly marked with the cost for each type of vehicle. It’s highway robbery, she thought, a
nd grinned at her own dumb joke.

  Brake lights glowed in the distance; there was a long queue to the control booths taking the money.

  Annja reached for her purse as she joined the back of one of several snakes of cars that had formed and pulled out a crisp ten-pound note fresh from the currency exchange office.

  A quick glance to the left confirmed she was already on the far side of the river. To her right she could see the supports of a second, older-looking bridge.

  Cars edged forward slowly, and as was the way with queues, some moved faster than others—which really meant all of them seemed to be moving faster than hers. As she neared the front, she realized that some of the booths were actually automated, self-service barriers while the queue that she was in relied on someone giving change.

  The guy in the next car flashed a smile across the lanes to her, but Annja was more interested in the car ahead. It wasn’t that she didn’t like drawing grins from strangers; just like everyone else she found them flattering, and his smile did draw a smile from her, but she didn’t want him to see it and think he’d somehow made her day. She was contrary like that. Plus, his queue was moving faster than hers. He’d have another driver to flirt with in a moment.

  Eventually her turn came. She smiled to the tired-looking teller, trading money for less money, and he raised the barrier with a snatch of something she didn’t understand but assumed was the Welsh equivalent of Have a nice day or Drive safe.

  She pulled away as cars raced into the bottleneck of decreasing lanes, each driver looking to secure one of the three lanes ahead of them before it became a mad scramble. The merging was surprisingly smooth, all things considered, with cars filtering in and drivers allowing one another enough space for safety. It wouldn’t have been like that back home, she thought, letting a black Jaguar XJS slip into the lane ahead of her. It was only when the traffic had eased to a steady fifty-five pushing sixty that she realized how tightly she’d been gripping the wheel. Annja relaxed her grip and eased back on the accelerator, signaling to move into the slower traffic of the left-hand lane.