A low methodic hum from one of the tents and two black cables snaking a path into the mountain signaled a generator. An assortment of footsteps were framed by scattered snow, all leading into the mountain. The entrance tunnel was surprisingly wide, which helped with his distaste for enclosed spaces. Lightbulbs tacked to the rock dissolved the darkness, revealing rough walls, sharp in places, the floor a mixture of sand and gravel.
“This chute is natural,” Goulding whispered. “From lava eons ago.”
They exited into a room about forty feet square with a high, vaulted ceiling. At the far end, illuminated by a stand of halogen lights, was what appeared to be an altar, a rectangular slab of blackened stone supported by two stone pillars, the structure elevated by a platform hewn from the rock. Goulding was drawn to the altar and began to focus on knotwork designs behind and above on the chamber walls.
“Celtic. The symbol of man’s eternal spiritual growth. But there. See it? Overlays of Christianity.”
Spaced behind the altar were carvings of a man, lion, calf, and eagle.
“Man symbolizes Matthew. The lion, Mark. The calf, Luke. And an eagle, John. The four evangelists. Pagan caves like this eventually became churches.”
A cross caught Malone’s attention, in a shadowy niche off to the right. A circle filled its center, the lower arm longer and wider than its two sides. The circle was quartered and ornamented, giving depth and definition to an otherwise flat face.
“It’s Celtic,” Goulding said.
His nerves were alert. Where were the men who’d staked out the camp? Then he noticed something. Across the chamber, on the rock floor. He stepped over and bent down. Dark splotches. Dried. Hard to tell.
“Is it blood?” Goulding asked.
“Could be.”
Two gauges marred the sandy floor, about a foot apart, leading in a straight line into another tunnel, as if something had been dragged, heels down.
He found his Magellan Billet–issued Beretta.
“Stay behind me,” he said to Goulding.
“Should I be worried now?”
“Good question.”
They entered the far tunnel. More bulbs lit the way. The passage wound a path with no offshoots until ending at another chamber, this one smaller than the first but nonetheless Celtic—the same knotwork designs dotted the stone face. On the far wall, a bulb illuminated writing.
EFFIGIEM CHRISTI QUI TRANSIS PRONUS HONORA—ANNO MCCCVI “You who are hurrying past, honor the image of Christ—AD 1306,” Goulding said, reading the words.
The tracks in the sand moved through the chamber and out another of the three exit tunnels. The same one where the cables fed. They followed, the new passage narrower than the first two, its walls sharper and lighter in tone. Bulbs were sparse, about thirty feet apart. The air was colder, truly like a tomb, their condensed breath leading the way. They passed openings that led into the pitch dark. Man-made niches appeared periodically in the rock face. Latin inscriptions were chiseled into the stone of a few.
The dual tracks continued ahead.
Was he being led?
The tunnel snaked a path deeper into the mountain. Their level changed twice, and the route rose steadily. The passage ended in another cathedral-like chamber, this one with a towering ceiling of jagged rock cast in a bluish tint by steaming halogen floods. A stone plinth dominated the center, about twenty feet square. Celtic symbols decorated the edges, along with more Latin letters.
But it was the bodies that drew their attention. Three men. Dressed in heavy coats and boots. Bullet holes to the head.
“Now you can be worried,” he said.
But he wasn’t surprised. The mess had to be cleaned. Nothing could be left.
“That’s horrible,” Goulding said.
Thanks to the cold, it was hard to tell how long they’d been dead.
He turned his attention to the chamber, concerned that they may not be alone. But they were too far involved now to turn back.
Had that been the idea?
“Is this Arthur’s grave?” he asked.
Goulding knelt before the plinth. “The writing talks of Christ, the Virgin, and the sanctity of a sovereign. But Celts never would have buried a chieftain in this manner. Their graves are more personal. Intimate.”
His internal clock told him they’d left Keflavik three hours ago.
“Look over there,” the professor said.
He saw it, too.
Another power cable, disappearing into a wall cleave. They moved closer and examined the exit, then he led the way inside. Twenty feet and they came to a man-made doorway, created from block fa?ades carved into the rock. Celtic designs decorated its base.
The chamber beyond was lit.
They entered.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Yourstone made his way into the castle. He’d been summoned earlier, surprised that the queen was now west of London, at Windsor. Once the massive fortress had been her favorite retreat, but as Parkinson’s slowly consumed her muscles it had become increasingly difficult for her to travel in comfort. Nonetheless, for some reason the court had fled the city and was now in residence at a place royalty had continuously occupied since the time of William the Conqueror.
He was still dismayed over the events of yesterday. News reports continued to speak of an errant military drone plunging into the Thames. The military had accepted full responsibility. Some members of Parliament were calling for an investigation.
But he doubted that would occur.
Whoever was controlling the spin of this story would squelch any official inquiries. Something bad was happening. He needed details. But Eleanor had not returned to the town house, and his attempts to telephone the voice he’d many times spoken with had been futile. Andrew had proven the most annoying. Unaware of the connection between the missile and Albert, his son had pressed for the details of how he would become king.
But there was none to tell.
“Lord Yourstone.”
He stopped at the mention of his name and turned to see Richard strolling down a carpet runner that bisected the wide loggia. The prince was dressed casually, as there was no danger of a prying press here.
“I need to speak with you.”
Concern filled the heir’s face.
He was led into a nearby parlor, the room paneled with beveled glass windows. Richard closed the door behind them.