just so much nonsense. But he had a vague memory of Lovejoy saying something about a local legend linking some ancient Templar knight to the moat.
`Was that the Frog ye been lookin' for, gov'nor?' asked Tom.
Sebastian leapt up into the curricle's high seat. `He says he is.'
`Ye don't believe 'im?'
`When it comes to murder, I'm not inclined to believe anyone.' Sebastian gathered his reins, then paused to look over at his tiger. `Do you believe in ghosts, Tom?'
`Me? Get on wit ye, gov'nor.' The boy showed a gap-toothed grin. `Ye sayin' that Frog is a ghost?'
`No. But I'm told some people do believe Camlet Moat is haunted.'
`By the lady what got 'erself killed there?'
`By a twelfth-century black knight.'
Tom was silent for a moment. Then he said, `Do you believe in ghosts, gov'nor?'
`No.' Sebastian turned the chestnuts heads toward the road north. `But I think it's time we took another look at Camelot.'
Chapter 19
Alistair St. Cyr, Earl of Hendon and Chancellor of the Exchequer, slammed his palm down on the pile of crude broadsheets on the table before him. `I don't like this. I don't like it at all. These bloody things are all over town. And I tell you, they're having more of an effect than one could ever have imagined. Why, just this morning I overheard two of my housemaids whispering about King Arthur. Housemaids! We've heard this nonsense before, about how the time has come for the once and future king to return from the mists of bloody Avalon and save England from both Boney and the House of Hanover. But this is different. This is more than just a few yokels fantasizing over their pints down at the local. Someone is behind this, and if you ask me, it's Napoléon's agents.'
Jarvis drew his snuffbox from his pocket and calmly flipped it open with one practiced finger. `Of course it's the work of Napoléon's agents.'
Hendon looked at him from beneath heavy brows. `Do you know who they are?'
`I believe so.' Jarvis lifted a pinch of snuff to one nostril and sniffed. `But at this point, it's more than a matter of simply closing down some basement printing press. The damage has been done; this appeal to a messianic hero from our glorious past has resonated with the people and taken on a life of its own.'
`How the bloody hell could something like this have aroused such a popular fervor?'
`I suppose one could with justification blame the success of the pulpit. When people fervently believe the Son of God will return someday to save them, it makes it easier to believe the same of King Arthur.'
`That's blasphemy.'
`I'm not talking about religion. I'm talking about credulity and habits of thought.'
Hendon swung away to go stand beside the window and stare down at the Mall. `I'll confess that at first I found it difficult to credit that there are people alive today who could actually believe that Arthur will return, literally. I had supposed these pamphlets were simply tapping into the population's yearning for an Arthur-like figure to appear and save England. But an appalling number of people do seem to genuinely believe Arthur is out there right now on the Isle of Avalon, just waiting for the right moment to come back.'
Jarvis raised another pinch of snuff and inhaled with a sniff.
`I fear the concept of metaphor is rather above the capacity of the hoi polloi.'
Hendon turned to look at him over one shoulder. `So what is to be done?'
Jarvis closed his snuffbox and tucked it away with a bland smile.
`We're working on that.'
Sebastian had expected to find the moat overrun with parties of searchers eager for the chance to collect the reward posted by Gabrielle Tennyson's brother. Instead, he reined in beneath the thick, leafy canopy at the top of the ancient embankment to look out over an oddly deserted scene, the stagnant water disturbed only by a quick splash and the disappearing ripples left in the wake of some unseen creature. He could hear the searchers, but only faintly, the thickness of the wood muffling the distant baying of hounds and the halloos of the men beating the surrounding countryside. Here, all was quiet in the August heat.
`Gor,' whispered Tom. `This place gives me the goosies, it does.'
`I thought you didn't believe in ghosts.'
`This place could change a body's mind, it could.'
Smiling, Sebastian handed his tiger the reins and jumped down.
`Walk them.'
`Aye, gov'nor.'
A distinct scuffing noise, as of a shovel biting dirt, carried on the breeze. Sebastian turned toward the sound. The site was obviously not as deserted as it had first appeared.
The land bridge to the island lay on the eastern side of the moat. He crossed it warily, one hand on the pistol in his pocket. Sir Stanley had run his excavation trenches at right angles on the far side of the bridge, where at one time a drawbridge might have protected the approach to the now vanished castle.
The rushing sound of cascading dirt cut through the stillness, followed again by the scrape of a shovel biting deep into loose earth. Sebastian could see him now, a big, thickly muscled man with golden red hair worn long, so that it framed his face like a lion s mane. He had the sleeves of his smock rolled up to expose bronzed, brawny arms, and rough trousers tucked into boots planted wide as he worked shoveling dirt back into the farthest trench.
He caught sight of Sebastian and paused, his chest rising and falling with his hard breathing. He was a startlingly good-looking man, with even features and two dimples that slashed his cheeks when he squinted into the sun. He swiped the back of one sinewy arm across his sweaty face and his gaze locked with Sebastian's.
`You Rory Forster?' Sebastian asked.
The man slammed his shovel into the dirt pile and wrenched it sideways, sending a slide of dark loam over the edge into the trench.
`I am.'
`I take it Sir Stanley has decided to end the excavations?'
The man had a head built like a battering ram, with a thick neck and a high forehead, his eyes pale blue and thickly lashed and set wide apart. `'Pears that way, don't it?' he said without looking up again.
Sebastian let his gaze drift around the otherwise deserted site.
`Where's the rest of your crew?'
`Sir Stanley told 'em they could go look fer them nippers.'
`You're not interested in the reward?'
Rory Forster hawked up a mouthful of phlegm and spat.
`Tain't nobody gonna find them nippers.'
`So certain?'
`Ye think they're out there, why ain't ye joinin' the search?'
`I am, in my own fashion.'
Forster grunted and kept shoveling.
Sebastian wandered between the trenches, his gaze slowly discerning the uncovered remnants of massively thick foundations of what must once have been mighty walls. Pausing beside a mound of rubble, he found himself staring at a broken red tile decorated with a charging knight picked out in white.
He reached for the tile fragment, aware of Forster's eyes watching him. `Did you come out here this past Sunday?' asked Sebastian, straightening.
Forster went back to filling his trench. `We don't work on Sundays.'
`No one stays to guard the site?'
`Why would they?'
`I heard rumors you've had trouble with treasure hunters.'
