The Doomsday Code

The others nodded. Made sense.

‘So, what you have then is a page of isolated letters … you write the rest of some meaningless or innocent- sounding message that incorporates those letters.’

He clicked on a menu and pulled another dropdown of editing options. ‘But quite often, in between these two stages, you might be writing with a different pot of ink.’

‘It’s the same colour,’ said Maddy, pointing at the image on-screen. ‘It’s black … well, dark blue now you’ve lightened it.’

‘Every pot of ink is slightly different. You made your own ink back then.’

Cabot nodded. ‘This is right.’

‘It’s home-made ink, not factory made. Every time you make it, it’s ever so slightly different. To our eyes, yes, it’s all black ink, but in Photoshop, just one variation of the RGB value …’

‘RGB?’

‘Red, Green, Blue — essentially, tone … hue,’ said Adam, ‘and we can separate it out. Exaggerate it enough to see.’ Adam zoomed in close on the writing, then selected another menu option producing a slide bar. The mouse cursor dragged the slide marker and moved it slowly along the horizontal bar. The image started shifting tone, the paper easing from vanilla to amber to pink. And the ink sliding from a deep blue to a deep green to a deep ochre.

‘Oh my God,’ whispered Maddy.

The upside-down letter that Cabot had identified was a slightly yellower ochre than the rest.

‘Zoom out,’ she said quickly. Adam did so, pulling out until the whole of the captured section of text was on the screen. Among the page, several hundred characters stood out distinctly from the rest — as distinct as minstrels at a banquet.

CHAPTER 73

1194, Nottingham

John struggled with great difficulty to keep the trembling to a minimum. He knew his nervous tic must be showing: that slight jerk of his head now and then, the impulsive stroking of his chin. No way of hiding that. But the rest of him was hidden beneath flowing robes. Richard would know he was terrified of him, but the other barons, earls and dukes were only going to see him from afar.

His sheriff, the very strange Liam of Connor, and his even stranger squire, Bob, walked with him along the dusty track leading out through the gates of Nottingham towards the small burgundy-coloured tent erected on its own in the middle of no man’s land.

He waits in there.

Beyond the tent, Richard’s army stood in battle lines, a row of six gigantic catapults behind earthworks, ready to bombard the walls of the city. An endless sea of glinting helmets and chain mail, pikes and pennants watching silently as they approached.

‘Relax, Sire,’ whispered his sheriff. ‘Remember, you have in your possession … the thing that this is all about. Right?’

John’s head nodded quickly. A good man, this sheriff. He offered Liam a faint flickering smile as they came to a halt outside the tent’s portico. Two soldiers were standing guard outside.

‘Only him,’ one of them growled insolently. No reference to John’s titles, no honorifics.

John gently tapped the sheriff and his large one-armed man to indicate they should stay where they were and stepped forward towards the tent’s entrance.

He pushed aside a drape of heavy velvet and entered the cool dim interior of the tent.

He saw a small wooden table with a flagon and two cups on it, two collapsible campaign chairs of oak and leather and Richard sprawled casually in one of them.

‘So, my little brother, you dared to come out to see me yourself, instead of sending a lackey.’

John nodded. ‘Y-yes.’ He hated the strangled warbling in his voice. He sounded like a woman beside the deep masculine growl of Richard’s drawl.

Richard snorted laughter. ‘You better sit before you collapse.’

John obediently settled into the other of the two chairs.

Richard sat forward, the chair creaking under the weight of the man in his chain mail and armour plating. ‘I’m ready for a fight, little brother. Are you?’

‘I — yes — I’m …’

Richard laughed again. ‘Ha! You little runt. You couldn’t fight your way off a nursemaid’s teat!’ He picked up the flagon and poured some watered-down wine into his cup. ‘But I am not here to punish you this day.’ He emptied the cup with one swig, spilling wine down his thick blond beard.

‘Now, I’ve been hearing rumours, since landing on these Godforsaken shores, that something very precious to me has been lost by you. You know what I’m talking of, don’t you?’

John nodded. Although whether it stood out as a nod instead of another involuntary tic, he wasn’t sure.

‘I know you are a fool, dear brother, but not that much of a fool to lose it. So … I can only presume this is a fiction.’ Richard smiled for the first time. A cold smile that meant absolutely nothing. ‘It seems you have grown a backbone after all. This is your attempt to bargain with me, eh?’

John could see that smile wavering. He could see it turn into a snarl in a heartbeat, a snarl, a sudden whiplash of movement and a blade sunk deep into his throat. Richard could do that and not think twice of the consequences.

Be very careful.

‘I … I have it, brother.’

‘Excellent! Of course you do. And now, I thank you for keeping it safe these last two years. You will hand it over to me and perhaps — perhaps — I will overlook your reluctance to pay my ransom. I will overlook your many attempts to undermine my authority while I have been away fighting for Christendom.’

John felt his legs trembling beneath his robes, felt his bladder loosen, his stomach flip and churn.

Be strong.

‘It is safe, Richard. I–I shall …’

‘You shall what?’

John swallowed drily. ‘I shall h-hold on to it for n-now.’

The smile froze on Richard’s face. He reached for the flagon and topped his cup up again. ‘Your pitiful attempt at defiance is almost amusing. But I have no time for that now.’

‘I am s-serious, brother,’ John uttered, the words stumbling out of his mouth like a drunkard from an inn at closing time.

Richard’s eyes narrowed. ‘I … I … I am s … s … serious, b … b … brother,’ he mimicked cruelly in a shrill, high pitch. ‘I will not be bargained with by you, you pitiful woman!’ He shook his head at the very thought of that. ‘You are a child, a baby. You always have been. You play at being king while I have been away. And now you dare — you dare to play with this?’

‘It is just a scroll of words,’ said John. ‘It means nothing.’ But almost the moment he said it, he regretted it. He expected his brother to leap off his chair, to slap his face with the hard back of his hand. But instead Richard’s response was measured, calm.

‘It is God’s instructions … instructions meant for me and me alone.’

John looked at his eyes. They glistened with a frightening sense of glee, purpose.

‘You stand in the way of the Lord’s intentions, brother. A very dangerous place to be.’

John took a deep breath, steadying the churning in his stomach, hopefully steadying the unfortunate tremor in his voice. ‘Disband your nobles and their men, leave Nottingham … and I shall g-give you the Grail.’

‘No.’ Richard looked down at the ground. ‘These are the choices I present to you. Surrender the Grail immediately, and I shall consider some leniency. I am, after all, known for my mercy. If I have to take Nottingham to obtain it, I will have your