Accoutrements of the mass filled the shelves. Golden cups and saucers. Vials of holy oil. White robes and purple stoles hung on hooks. The heavy aroma of old incense drifted thick from dangling censers.
“Umm,” I moved to a dusty corner where an iron ring was set into the stone floor. “I think, at least, I hope, this leads down.”
Down a narrow, splintery set of steps lay the dank cellar. Cobwebs cloaked the wine barrels and jumbles of dusty crates. Bran located a pile of very old rushlights. He lit two with knife and flint, and we headed deeper into the vast subterranean vault. When we finally arrived at the farthest wall, an arched and ancient door stood partially ajar. Our light revealed a sweeping arc in the dust where it had recently been opened.
Beyond, a stone tunnel sloped sharply downward. Bran held his torch low to the ground. “Footprints. Recent.” he whispered.
I ground my teeth as claustrophobia slithered around my chest. Tunnels. Why does it always have to be freaking tunnels?
Unlit torches lined the walls beneath the low, barreled ceiling of the undercroft. The overpowering reek of mold and damp earth made my lungs constrict. Close beside me, I felt Bran tense at the scritch of tiny claws on stone.
“What?”
“Nothing,” he said. “Simply not a big rat fan.”
I gave an undignified snort that guttered the flame.
“What’s so funny?”
“You. Cringing at a few teensy mice.”
“For your information,” he said, offended, “I wasn’t cringing. I was merely worried we’d step on the sweet little fellows. Grind them to red paste beneath our boots.”
“Lovely image,” I said. “Well, just hold on to me, then. I’ll protect you.”
A little thrill pulsed through me as his grin gleamed white in the darkness.
The cold intensified as we moved down the endless system of corridors, following the scuff of footprints marring the long-undisturbed dust. When muffled voices sounded around a corner just ahead, Bran doused the torches and led us behind a low wall of stacked barrels next to a small alcove.
“I tell you, it’s here,” an irritated voice said.
Bran mouthed the name: Becket.
We edged closer to peek through the cracks. Thomas Becket’s back was to us, barking to two men in black and silver. I stifled a groan when I saw one of them was the odious Eustace Clarkson.
Perfect.
“But, Father,” Eustace complained, “Lady Celia said—”
“Lady Celia is gone. And though she claims the stone is not here, I am no longer certain she spoke truth. The old nun, Hectare, made her final confession to Father Jerome, right before she died.”
A stab of sadness hit me. Sister Hectare was gone, and the world was a little darker now. Bran’s fingers laced with mine and squeezed.
“Since I happen to know a thing or two about some of dear Father Jerome’s . . . habits,” Becket went on, “he gave me every word of the old crone’s confession. Apparently, she believed there is an object down here. Something precious. So, you shall search this place. Inside and out. Bring it straight to me and tell not a soul. There will be a reward for whoever finds it.” Thomas Becket hesitated. “For the church, of course.”
Bran and I exchanged a questioning look. What could he mean? Not the Source. That was a place, not an object.
Becket swept by us without a backward glance. Eustace Clarkson glared after him.
“Oh, we’ll find it, Father,” he spat. “And make a pretty penny, too.”
“But you heard him,” the other guard, all greasy black hair and cretinous expression, said. “The stone belongs to the church.”
I reared back, nearly dislodging the stack of crates. The stone?
“Bah,” Eustace sneered. “You want to live your life bowing and scraping to those above you? Then do as I say. Go that way.” He pointed in our direction. “And I’ll search down there.”
Eustace Clarkson stomped off down the corridor in the opposite direction. The other guard sighed, crossed himself, and headed straight toward us. There was no place to hide. As soon as he passed the barrier, he’d see us.
Bran pivoted. I saw the motion as he silently drew the curved blades from his belt.
“No,” I whispered. But it was too late.
Greasy-hair turned the corner. Bran launched himself at him, knocking him to the ground. The man’s sword spun away to land at my feet. I froze as the men growled and grappled in the dust. For a moment, Bran had him pinned, but the larger man shoved Bran away and slithered out from under him, then flipped him on his back and pressed a thick knee down on his neck. Bran’s arm’s flailed. His face turned purple as he gagged.
I slipped from the shadows, heart slamming as I picked up the guard’s sword. It was heavier than I expected, the leather grip still warm. I hefted it in both hands, trying to get the feel of it. But before I could do a thing, Bran’s fist came up and slammed into the guard’s temple.
The man toppled over and fell away, unconscious. Bran scrambled up, gasping and choking. I ran to his side, peering over my shoulder into the blackness, sure that Eustace had heard.