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“Right. It tells us Isabelle hid something when she was besieged at Chinon, something so valuable that she didn’t want the rebel barons to find it. At least we can infer that much. She asked for her jewel case, and then she asked for someone who knew the tunnels, and then she disappeared for nearly an hour with this Old Thomas, to where, nobody knew.”
I frowned. “But surely when the threat was over, she’d have got back what it was she hid.”
“Not necessarily. Chinon was hardly secure, remember, and John lost it completely not long afterwards, so Isabelle might never have had the chance. The chronicle,” he told me, “clearly states that in her later years our Isabelle spoke often of the ‘treasure without price’ she’d left in France. Put two and two together—”
“—and you’ve got your lectures packed with students for the term,” I teased him, smiling.
He grinned. “Not this term. I’m on half-time now, remember? One term off, one on. And this one’s off.”
“Nice work if you can get it.”
“Well, I need the time for writing. I’ve been working on this book…”
“Let me guess. Plantagenets.” That was no great effort to deduce. My cousin Harry had been potty for Plantagenets since we were both in the nursery. I’d paid the price for his obsession many times in childhood games, condemned to die a Saracen at Richard the Lionheart’s crusading hand, or playing Thomas à Becket, a role I thought was rather fun until I learned the fate of the Archbishop. The only truly juicy part I’d been allowed to play was that of Eleanor of Aquitaine, which I’d played often, until Harry one day locked me up in “Salisbury Tower”—an old bomb shelter at the back of his neighbor’s garden—and left me there till dinner time. To this day, it was all I could do to force myself to take the tube in London, or to spend more than ten minutes in my own basement.
My cousin smiled. “Not all of the Plantagenets—just John. A sort of revisionist approach to his biography. The misunderstood king. Which reminds me, did I show you what your father sent me?” Without waiting for my answer, he dug into his pocket and produced a circle of hard plastic, within which nestled a small and perfect silver coin. “That’s John himself, in profile. Must be worth a bloody fortune, but your father just put it in the post.”
I took the encased coin from him, turning it round. “Wherever did Daddy pick this up?”
“God knows.” My cousin shrugged. “Uncle Andrew has so many friends in odd places, doesn’t he? I sometimes think it’s better not
to ask too many questions.”
I agreed. “He doesn’t answer questions well, at any rate. He’d likely say he bought it at a car boot sale.” He’d say it with a straight face, too, I thought. My father was a charming liar when he chose—a trait that he’d acquired through his lifetime in the diplomatic corps. I’d learned the trick of it myself, these past few years.
“He says,” my cousin informed me, “you ought to ring him more often.”
I looked up, eyebrows raised. “I ring him every month. He is in Uruguay, you know—if we talked any more frequently I’d drain my savings, such as they are.”
“I know. I just think he worries about you, that’s all.”
“Well, there’s no need.” I flipped the coin over to study the reverse. “You’ll be off to France then, I expect, to do more research?”
“Yes, at the end of the month.”
“Just in time for the wine harvest.”
“Precisely.”
I took a sip of tea and sighed. “I’m envious, I really am.”
“So come with me.” He dropped the comment casually, then slid his eyes sideways to watch my reaction.
“Don’t be daft. You know I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Some of us,” I explained mildly, “do work for a living, you know, and I can’t just pick up any time I like and leave.”
“Give over,” was my cousin’s blunt response. “You work for my dad, for heaven’s sake. I’ll not believe that Braden Glass would fall to pieces if you took a fortnight’s holiday. Surely Dad or Jack could answer their own telephones…”
“And then there’s the house to think of,” I went on stubbornly. “I’m supposed to be looking after it for Daddy, not leaving it unattended so some burglar can break in and strip the place.” I saw his unconvinced expression, and I frowned. “Look, I’m sorry if you think I’m boring…”
“It’s not that you’re boring, exactly,” Harry corrected me, “it’s just that you’re not very exciting. Not anymore. Not since…”
“This has nothing to do with my parents’ divorce. I’m just getting older, that’s all. Taking some responsibility.”
“There’s responsible,” said my cousin drily, “and then there is responsible. Mother tells me it’s been six months since you so much as stopped in at the pub for a drink.”
