right fist, still clenching the cosh, into the guard’s jaw. It was a solid impact and the man’s head snapped back. Thomas hit him again, hard, and with a deep grunt he stumbled, tripping over his upturned stool so that he crashed on to the floor. He lay blinking, still holding on to his dagger, and then passed out. Richard stepped round the body and made for the dungeon entrance, a thickly timbered door studded with iron nail heads and with a small grille in its surface.
‘We need to find the keys,’ Thomas muttered.
Richard shook his head. ‘I doubt the guards will be troubled with them. ’ Reaching into his haversack he felt for something and then pulled out a set of small metal tools on a brass ring. The corners of his mouth lifted slightly as he saw Thomas’s enquiring expression. ‘Tools of the trade.’
He shifted to one side to allow the light of the candles to illuminate the lock. He chose two of the tools which he inserted into the lock and probed gently, delicately exploring the mechanism. Thomas watched him with the faint admiration of those witnessing an arcane skill. Then his attention shifted from the lock to the rapt concentration on the young man’s face.
There was a series of soft clicks from the lock and then Richard withdrew his tools and lifted the latch. The door edged open soundlessly on well-greased hinges and a waft of cooler air came from the dark space beyond.
‘Get the candles,’ Richard instructed.
Thomas fetched them from the wall brackets of the guardroom and passed one to Richard.
As soon as they stepped through the arch, Thomas sensed the vastness of the space, even before the wavering glow of the candles began to reveal its dimensions. The ceiling arched overhead and the walls were lined with sturdy buttresses to take the weight of the fort above. The ceiling was low but the dungeon was long and wide and interspersed with stout columns that divided the chamber into two. Rows of wooden shelves stretched out before the two men, beyond the loom of the candlelight and on into the darkness. The shelves were laden with baskets of scrolls, ledgers, logs and chests, many of which were sealed with wax to keep the contents safe from dampness. There was a slight movement in the air and little of the musty odour that Thomas had been expecting and he realised that the dungeon must be ventilated to prevent the onset of mould.
‘There must be hundreds of chests here . . . thousands,’ Richard muttered. ‘We have to search quickly, before the sermon ends and the rest of the garrison returns.’
‘Then you take this half of the chamber,’ Thomas decided. ‘I’ll search the other.’
They separated and began to work their way along the narrow space between the shelves, crouching now and then to see what lay on the lowest levels. There were many chests amongst the archives, and Thomas carefully checked each of those that were black or constructed of dark wood with brass fittings, looking for the crest on the lid. All the while he was conscious that time was running out for them. Depending on the passion and stamina of Robert of Eboli, the sermon might last for two or more hours. But given the weariness of the defenders it might well be concluded earlier.
At the end of the first row of shelves was a caged area with thick iron bars that were set into the floor and extended to the ceiling. The door had two locks, with thick bolts and sturdy receivers. Beyond lay dozens of small chests and by the wall were stacked thick bolts of silk that shimmered in the faint glow of Thomas’s candle. On a rack to one side hung a collection of scimitars with jewel-encrusted guards and handles of gold and silver. This was the treasury of the Order, Thomas realised, looted from the ships and coastal towns and estates of the Islamic world. A fortune to rival the treasures of any of Europe’s monarchs. Paid for with the blood of hundreds of knights and tens of thousands of soldiers and common people, all for the sake of their religion. Thomas felt a tingle of nausea as he beheld the riches and contemplated the centuries of suffering it represented, right up until the present moment, and the weeks and months to come until the siege was resolved. Even then, the conflict would be handed on from generation to generation until the end of time. Or until mankind cured itself of religion.
If there was a divine presence in the world, it would surely look 011 the works that were carried out in its name in abject horror, Thomas reflected. He had never felt such a presence, never sensed it in the slightest; he was only aware of the heedless elements of a natural world that embraced men, animals and faiths with abiding disinterest. Such thoughts were dangerous, he knew. More than dangerous, lethal. So he tried to keep them at bay, and even prayed along with the faithful as if in an attempt to hide his true thoughts from himself as much as other people.
Something clattered to the floor a short distance away and Thomas flinched and turned towards the sound. A glow amid the shelves revealed Richard’s position.
‘Richard?’ he called out as loudly as he dared.
‘I think I’ve found it. Yes. . . Yes! Over here.’
Thomas hurried round the end of the lines of shelves and saw his companion bent over a chest he was pulling out from the lowest rack in front of him. As Thomas approached, he saw the crest of the ill-fated Sir Peter de Launcey in the light of the candle Richard had placed on the shelf above. It was neatly painted on a shallow relief, carved with some skill. The gleam of the lacquer was visible where Richard’s fingers had wiped off the decades of dust that had accumulated in a dull skein across the lid of the chest. Sturdy brass straps bound and protected the fine craftsmanship. A small, delicate- looking lock sat in the front of the chest and Richard fished out his picks again.
‘Hold your candle over the lock. And hold it steady. This one’s going to be something of a challenge, I fear.’ Richard selected one of the finest of his picks and carefully inserted it in the keyhole. His face was frozen in concentration as his fingers made tiny adjustments to the tool. ‘Can’t quite feel the tumblers . . . It’s as fine a piece of work as I have ever encountered . . . Damn.’
He eased the pick out and chose another, the smallest on the ring, and tried again, closing his eyes as he felt for the mechanisms that would release the lock. Thomas watched for a moment and then glanced anxiously in the direction of the entrance to the dungeon.
‘How long do you need?’
Richard paused and opened his eyes. ‘As long as it takes. Now, please, let me concentrate.’
‘Fine. But hurry.’
Richard focused on his work for a while longer, teeth gritted as he tried to build up some picture of the workings inside the lock. At length he extracted the pick and wiped his hand across his brow.
‘I can’t do it. The locksmith who built this was a better man than I. It’s a work of genius
‘Perhaps, but genius is no match for steel, as Archimedes discovered.’ Thomas drew his dagger and squatted beside Richard. He set the point into the slight gap between the lid of the chest and main body.
‘What are you doing?’ Richard demanded.
‘This.’ Thomas balled his left hand into a fist and pounded the haft of the knife with all his strength. There was a sharp metallic snap and the blade leaped into the gap as the lid suddenly lifted. ‘There.’
Richard glared at him. ‘Oh, very well done indeed! Anyone who looks at this will see the lock has been forced.’
‘Who’s going to notice? From the dust I’d say no one has touched this in years. Now get what we came for, put the chest back in place and let’s get out of here.’
Richard bit back on his anger and eased the lid back. The light from the candles revealed a small leather purse, tightly packed with coins. The small opening at the top revealed the warm lustre of gold. Beside it lay a gold cross on a chain, with a ruby set in its centre. There was also a Bible, some letters and a leather tube. Richard picked the latter up and inspected it. A cap at the end of the tube was sealed with wax which had been imprinted with a design. He nodded and muttered, ‘This is it. This is what we came here for.’
Thomas’s eyes were fixed on the seal. ‘That’s the royal seal. The Great Seal of England.’
Richard made no reply but quickly and carefully placed the leather tube in his haversack. ‘Let’s go.’
He closed the lid and eased the chest back on to the shelf. He made a minor adjustment to its position so that it covered the clear area it had screened from long years of settling dust. Then he straightened and retrieved his candle. ‘Come.’
After Richard had locked the door behind them they hurried out of the dungeon and past the two men sprawled beside the table. One of the guards moaned feebly for a moment then lapsed into silence. His assailants set down their candles and left the room, padding back along the passage to the main guardroom and then up the steps into the courtyard. They paused to ensure that it was deserted as before and then left by the main gate where the sentry still lay in the shadows, breathing in faint shallow gasps. Their haste to get away from the fort
