Dead By Dusk (22 page)

“The earthquake, of course, was documented,” Carlo said, walking with Stephanie, Grant, Clay, and Liz around the expanse of the site. “The names of the Norman lords are documented, along with the battles they fought, and so on and so on. This was like a jumping-off place for the Holy Lands, so it was natural that tremendous forces came through here. As a matter of fact, to this day, you'll find that there are a number of French surnames here along with the Italian. A few English, a few Spanish . . . but then, of course, most of the English nobility was actually Norman, or French, so those rather combine. We know that there was a Norman lord named Conan de Burgh. We know he had conquered vast lands, and that the people hailed him as something of a hero—apparently, the conquering lord was better than the one they'd been born to serve. We know as well, it's documented, that François de Venue—a half cousin, or illegitimate brother or cousin—of the king of France came here as well. There was tremendous friction between them. De Burgh had finished with his battles and wanted to settle down to a life of prosperity. Nominally, he still served his king in France. De Venue apparently thought that de Burgh owed him homage. This we know through historical documentation. That they were both killed when the earthquake struck is assumed because their names disappear from the historic logs. The legends that abound are sheer romance, and yet, this dig may well prove that there was a lot of fact to the tales. An earthquake buried them all, and an earthquake is bringing them all back to light.”

“Fascinating!” Liz said.

“I agree. We've been stopped for the last few days, but as you can see—” He pointed. There were a number of different areas roped off low to the ground with differently colored ties, all indicating something to the archeologists, Stephanie was certain. People were working away in their little plots and areas. Some had apparatuses that looked like giant sifters—the type of equipment someone might have if they were panning for gold out West.

Some had small hoes or tiny, trowel-like shovels. And some had brushes. Small brushes.

“As you can see,” Carlo Ponti continued, “we are back to work.”

Despite his poorly masked antipathy for Clay, Grant changed at the site. Clay asked questions. Grant did love this work. He answered when he could.

Clay looked up at the cliffs that rose above the site.

“The final battle took place just above, then?” he queried.

“There, up above. The fighting was here, and all around,” Carlo told him. “Sometimes, it's hard to piece together exactly what happened, because the earth has shifted several times. The fighting was here. Conan de Burgh had a fortress just east and south of where the club is now—he would have ridden from there. François de Venue was inland. These cliffs are riddled with caves, so it's likely he kept arms, perhaps hid spies, and used some of the labyrinth within for various purposes. The orders from the king of France were for the men to divide the area. Most historians believe that de Venue never intended to obey such an order. He meant to dominate Conan de Burgh and seize control of the entire area. Since they clashed here, it's likely that was the case. Since de Burgh did put down the attack before dying himself, the status of the people here was maintained. The cliffs have been used for every war and insurrection since, naturally.”

“So, have you gotten into the cliffs yet?” Clay asked.

“No, we have found such a rich field here, where the armies fought, we have worked hard to find all we can before the earth decides to shift again,” Carlo said. “Eventually, we will get into the caves. But for now . . . it's slow work. Very tedious. Grant can tell you. And as for me, I am most anxious to find the body of Conan de Burgh, and we believe we are close. Naturally, we are also searching for the remains of de Venue—and his Valeria.” He grimaced. “So far, we've found nothing to suggest the remains of ‘demon' dogs—or even hunting dogs. But we imagine that de Venue must have had a pack of some kind of very vicious hounds that ran with his army. There were no automatic rifles then, so . . . imagine the damage that dogs, trained to kill, might have done.”

“Imagine,” Clay murmured.

“Well,” Carlo said, “please, there is a lot to see here, really, even beyond the actual ground, where, you will note, it is slow work. Grant is well aware of this. The scenery here is quite beautiful. Wander as you wish—areas where the integrity of the find are being preserved are clearly marked, but if you walk along the heights and look down, you can imagine the forces coming together. Be careful if you climb around any of the cliffs—the many earthquakes here leave areas that are not secure. But, please, enjoy. The campsite is there . . . chat with the workers, have water or coffee if you like. I'm afraid there is no refreshment stand as yet.”

They thanked him.

“Grant, may I have a moment? I wanted to ask you a few questions about your work the other day,” Carlo said.

“Certainly,” Grant told him. Then he glanced at Stephanie. “Maybe later—”

“Don't be ridiculous!” Stephanie said. “I'm fine, I love it here. I feel encapsulated by beauty and history. The afternoon is gorgeous.”

“He won't be long,” Carlo assured her.

“Don't worry, we'll be fine,” Stephanie told him.

“Stephanie,” Grant began.

“I'll be here, right here.”

“We'll just wander around, exploring,” Liz said.

“Stephanie . . . you can wander with Liz and Clay,” Grant told her. She had the feeling that he didn't actually want her to do that.

“I'm fine—just go!”

Grant nodded, and left with Carlo, the two heading for the campsite where a number of tents had been set up.

“I think I'd love to see the area from that little plateau, just up the hill,” Clay said.

“You two go ahead,” Stephanie told him. “I'll wait.”

“You sure? You probably shouldn't be alone in this area,” Liz said. “The ground could be unsteady.”

“I don't think it's just going to open up and suck me in,” Stephanie said. “I'll just wait for Grant, honestly. You two go ahead.”

Clay pointed to the rise about a hundred feet from them. It appeared that there was a trail that wove through the trees and foliage to a small plateau overlooking the immediate area. “We're going that way. If you need us, just give a call.”

“I'll be fine,” Stephanie assured them.

She watched as they started for the trail, and found herself wondering just what the relationship was between the two. They were obviously close, but—in front of others, at least, they were never demonstrative or intimate in any way.

There was a log near the area where cords and little numbered cards indicated little work areas. She sat and stared at them, and wondered what the numbers indicated.

It was beautiful here. The entire landscape of this part of Italy was stunning. Far below them now, the water shimmered in the dying sun with a beautiful array of colors. In the distance, she could see the rise of cities and towns on different cliffs; they were very old, for the most part, the majority having been built right into the mountainous terrain through the centuries in which European knights were making their way south to fight the Crusades. The medieval enchantment was picture-postcard perfect, and she reflected that the area should become a great destination for visitors, especially art students and those who simply loved the authenticity of the glorious places that did remain.

The afternoon was waning; she hadn't realized they had spent so much time with Carlo. Maybe it had taken them longer to get out here than she had thought, too.

She sank down to the ground in front of the log, leaning against it. The sky was lovely. She lay her head back against the log, felt the air sweeping around her. Her eyes closed. She couldn't believe it, but it was really so gorgeous and lulling . . . she was tempted to doze off while she waited. Even the log seemed to be making the most wonderful pillow.

The air . . .

The air here was so good. She'd felt it that first night she had come. As if there was something magic in the very breeze.

Magic . . .

Mesmerizing.

With her eyes closed, she felt the sweetest sense of lightness, as if the very ground offered a sense of warmth and security.

It was just the breeze. And her own weariness.

And there was no reason not to nod off . . .

 

 

They had come to the plateau.

Liz stood some distance back, watching.

Clay stood at the edge of the remaining ground, and Liz suddenly found herself imagining the scene that legend had passed down—a beautiful woman, on her knees, her executioner ready, her lover fighting to reach her . . .

And then fate, or nature, stepping in. The earth rumbling, and the ground disintegrating beneath them. Casting them all to their deaths.

Or had they all died?

Clay was tense, eyes closed, teeth grating. Tension gripped the length of him.

“Here . . . God, yes, the center is here . . . there is so much that I feel . . . and can't quite touch!” he said in frustration.

“There is a difference here,” she murmured.

He turned and looked at her, eyes vividly red-gold at that moment.

“It's Stephanie,” he said.

“But we don't know enough!” she protested.

“It's her. And I've waited too long,” he said.

“No . . . it's too soon,” Liz protested.

“No. The time has come.”

 

 

Stephanie awoke with a start.

Looking toward the hill and plateau, she saw no sign of Clay and Liz.

She glanced toward the area of the encampment, but saw no sign of Grant, either. She stretched, wondering if she shouldn't just head toward the tents and find him.

She realized then that she wasn't really growing restless. She liked being where she was. There was a very gentle breeze that day. The streaks of color in the sky as the sun began to settle in the west were magnificent. The nap had been deliciously refreshing.

She surveyed her surroundings again.

The ground around her had been well trampled, and she noted the spot where Maria Britto's body had been found.

By Grant.

Near it, there were other areas where bodies had been discovered. Some had been taken away. Some remained, shielded by tarps and the plastic cords that designated a find. Most of the bodies found had been reduced to bone, but some had yielded scraps of clothing, remnants of weapons, and, something that had deeply excited Carlo—an almost perfect pair of leather shoes circa the late eleventh century.

Bodies . . . bones . . .

It was growing dark.

She had an absurd vision of the bones suddenly rising from the graves, coming together, and staring at her from empty eye sockets.

She stood suddenly, having unnerved herself.

Still, she managed to laugh as she did so. Her vision hadn't really been all that terrifying; rather like a remake of Ray Harryhausen special effects; she saw Jason and the Argonauts battling the bones as they pursued their way through Greek myth.

And still . . .

She decided that it was time to find Grant.

She started along the path, then paused, certain that she'd heard her name being called.

“Stephanie!”

“Grant?” It was his voice, wasn't it?

But there was no reply.

“Stephanie!”

The voice was slightly different.

She turned around. “Liz? Clay? Are you two around here somewhere?”

Stephanie . . . Steph . . . Stephanie. Where are you?

Puzzled, she stood her ground for several minutes. She looked toward the encampment, and then toward the trail where Liz and Clay had gone. Once again, she was certain that it was Grant's voice.

“Just head to the encampment,” she told herself aloud, irritated.

But she felt the overwhelming desire to go the other way. Maybe one of them was in trouble.

Stephanie!

The last sounded like a weak and desperate cry of pain.

Was someone hurt, or was she imagining it?

There was still just a bit of light remaining.

She wasn't frightened. There were actually many people in the vicinity—the camp was not far away at all.

Tempted, she started toward the trail.

 

 

“There is always a balancing act between the needs of the living, the present, and the discovery and preservation of history,” Carlo said. He was deeply pleased, showing Grant a muddied piece of metal that meant nothing to him. “Much work was destroyed as well as delayed when the police were here, but . . . then there was this!”

Grant wanted to be as impressed and pleased as Carlo apparently wanted him to be. He nodded, looking at Carlo, waiting.

“This is a boot buckle!” Carlo told him.

“That's great.”

“Not just any boot buckle.”

“No, of course not. It's a medieval boot buckle, right?”

Carlo nodded, tenderly holding the piece. “Look . . . here. That is the coat of arms of the king of France, and there, beneath, the arms of François de Venue! Believe it or not, the police unearthed this gem for me in their search for clues to the circumstances of Maria's death and burial.”

“It's a fine discovery,” Grant said.

“It is your work area,” Carlo murmured. “I realize that events here have been disturbing, to say the least, and, of course, now you are involved with the theater. But hopefully, you will continue to work with us, and it's important that you realize just how dear every little discovery is. This means that François de Venue was definitely fighting right in this very area, and if he was killed, his remains must be very near.”

“He was killed in the battle, wasn't he?” Grant asked.

“That is the assumption, yes. He, Valeria, and Conan de Burgh were all reported to have died that day. They disappear from history, that much is certain, and de Burgh was hailed as a hero by the locals, who apparently went on to live for years in peace and prosperity. So far, we have found little proof of the fact that these men indeed came to great blows right here. And we have found many bones. But, ah! If we could just find the remains of the key players, then, what triumph !”