Felicity took some simple precautions to thwart anyone who would want to follow her. Upon entering her room at the Hotel in the Opera district she clicked the dead bolt home to avoid interruptions from helpful hotel staff. She unzipped the large bright red valise from which she extracted a smaller soberer black tote bag and pulled from it an intense red wig, which she carelessly adjusted at the entrance mirror. The ankle length skirt was quickly stuffed into the suitcase, the legs of her jeans unrolled and a heavy wool sweater slipped over the sober blouse in which she had registered at the hotel. Not bad, she thought, hardly recognized myself.
Other than the disdainful inspection from self appointed fashion mavens that haunt expensive hotel lobbies, no one gave her a second look as she made her way to the street, the large tote bag, not much bigger than the huge handbag substitutes that had recently come into fashion, slung over her shoulder. She walked the three blocks to Boulevard Haussmann and stopped at the rental agency to pick up the car she had reserved on-line before leaving Montreal. She would drive to Quiberon, at the end of a small Breton peninsula on the Atlantic coast, about 500 Kilometres east of Paris, stay the night at a hotel and then drive to the prearranged rendezvous at Locmariaquer, about 30 kilometres inland.
At midmorning the following day, the fog shrouded Gulf of Morbihan all but invisible from the shore, she set out and drove the short distance to Locmariaquer, deliberately arriving over an hour and a half early. She would make her way to the spot described by Abelard and monitor it from a distance just to be sure all was at it should be. How Abelard could have known about this place she had not the slightest inkling. It was the French version of Stonehenge, with huge chiselled boulders laboriously placed in some order that remains a mystery to this day, presumably by ancient Celtic tribes. She would be looking for the Great Broken Menhir which should resemble a gigantic stone monolith that had been broken into four pieces. Easy enough to find.
Easy enough perhaps when the view was clear, which did not happen very often in this gloomy coastal area. The fog was thick and she was having trouble locating the marker. She had seen a sign which assured anyone reading it that the field of menhirs, megaliths, dolmens and other piles of prehistoric rubble was a mere two kilometres along. She could see shrouded stone structures outlined against the wispy air but could not make out any sizable fragments that may have once been parts of a larger structure. She would need to ask directions, which was itself a problem since she seemed to be the only human in the area.
Cool, collected, unflappable Felicity had apparently suffered far more than she let on from the disheartening picture that had emerged of an Abelard more sordid than valiant. She had placed a very tidy emotional bet on him. Now she was vulnerable beyond her control. Her legendary ability to deal with stress had been greatly compromised. As the noon deadline loomed anxiety began to show in her body. Her pulse quickened, her bowls were loosening and in spite of the cool mist, perspiration beads were growing across her forehead. The first inklings of panic flowed from her brain to her hands and on to the steering wheel, ending with her car off the road. She needed to stop and restart her mind. Tears were now rolling down her flushed cheeks. If she missed this rendezvous, there was no telling when and where another could be arranged. Abelard had been clear about not using cell phones and she didn’t want her stupidity to jeopardize anyone else. The door groaned loudly as she vigorously flung it open, jumped to the shoulder and began to yell Abelard’s name, hoping the rendezvous point was not too far off. Nothing. Then she had a coherent thought.
She rolled her window down, plugged her mp3 player into the car’s speaker system and blasted Bach’s Magnificat into the CD player and chose Abelard’s favourite piece, the Omnis. She turned the volume right up and set the car to roll at barely walking speed. It worked. After a moment the blaring car horn came through clearly and very close by. Then she spotted the flashing lights and was much comforted that all was working out as it was supposed to.
Relieved as she was to see Abelard, the bad memories were still there. Her infatuation with him had suffered severely since he had joined VBI and given free rein to his fathomless ambitions. The seamy side that Oliver had warned might be lurking in someone whose only guide to life was drawn from Medieval rules of engagement had been oozing through a very thin veneer indeed. She was sickened by his callous disregard for anything and anyone that could hamper his feeding frenzy. And that, she painfully realized, included her. She had been planning to end their relationship when she received the urgent summons to the rendezvous. Inertia, long habit, her uncle’s insistent ominous inquiries, still simmering love or whatever, she would see what this was all about and if it was not a real emergency she would end it right here.
“Still upset with me I see,” Abelard said after the unenthusiastic embrace. He spoke quickly, trying to squeeze much emotion into the little time he believed he had in which to make his case. “I wish I could say I’ve changed and you will never have reason for regret, but that would be dishonest. I can say that I have begun to rethink everything about my life, about what I want and about how I see others. I don’t know where it will all lead but I do know that I don’t like the way I have been. I also don’t know how long it will all take. I can say only one thing with certainty; I don’t want to lose you.”
This was a new element that she had not reckoned on. She had been fooled long enough and was not to be so easily lured back into unconditional passions. She paused a moment and thought, quite sensibly, if perhaps, a bit casuistically, that she would always retain the option to leave, so the risks were low. There was also something spontaneous about Abelard’s self assessment that gave it more credibility than it perhaps deserved. She would for the present, at least, hold off on any irrevocable decisions. But she would also hold on to the scepticism with which she arrived.
“Fair enough,” she said. “So what’s up, now that we’ve all travelled thousands of kilometres to a secret rendezvous?”
Felicity’s features cycled through an entire range of expressions as Abelard recounted the events in Florence and his subsequent meeting with Milly. She was astounded, incredulous, shocked and sceptical, sometimes all at once.
” What do you two think about this treasure hunt,” she asked Elizabetta and Oliver, who had already compromised their neutrality in this matter, nodding approvingly throughout Abelard’s personal epiphany?
“You really want to know if he’s making all this stuff up as he goes along,” Oliver answered, shuffling uncomfortably and deliberately keeping his eyes away from Abelard. “I wish I knew. But I can tell you with certainty that there are people out there who are incredibly upset with him and that includes your uncle. I can only hope they’re part of the same crowd that Abelard let live just long enough for you and me to make their acquaintance at the Malvue farm. Otherwise I’ve got to assume Abelard here just can’t seem to make permanent friends.”
“I don’t want to intrude into such personal matters,” Elizabetta said in her ever soft professional tone, “but if I might make a suggestion, we should put our doubts aside for a bit and let Abelard lead us to the treasure. If it turns out to be a delusion,” here she turned to Abelard, asking him silently to forgive her blunt words, and was rewarded with what appeared to be a sympathetic smile and an approving nod, “we can urge him to go to the police and report that he is being hunted by The Society.” Abelard was grateful for any help he could get to move his deception along.
The fog had begun to thin, revealing deliberately placed large stone blocks, some towering well above the others, covering a vast field. The clouds were losing their gloomy grey and little bits of blue were making short intermittent appearances. The sky dumbly reflected the mild relief that was settling on the little group. They at least now had in hand a plan and an endgame, of sorts. Felicity’s mistrust did not disappear, but it did recede sufficiently to ease the initial tensions she had brought with her to Locmariaquer.
“Lead on then,” Felicity broke the momentary silenc
e adding an audible sigh to temper the growing enthusiasm she felt was gaining on them. “I’m quite looking forward to seeing how quickly your buddy Dumouchel’s going to warm up to this story, with which I suppose everyone but me is familiar,” she said to Oliver.
“Well,” Oliver could barely be heard, speaking into his jacket, visibly uncomfortable.
“Oops, my hearing hasn’t yet evolved to make out the sub-decibel stuff, could you speak up.”
“Ahem,” he cleared his throat, “sorry about that,” his voice now too loud, looking to the others for support.
“It’s my game, I’ll fill her in,” Abelard said, without his usual assertiveness.
“No, no, I’m quite capable,” Oliver insisted.
It was no great mystery why everyone was so hesitant to relate their contrived story to Felicity; it was a tale of laughable simplicity, bordering on the juvenile. Abelard, our Argentinean friend traces his ancestry back to medieval Gascon nobility. No, he does not have the genealogical data with him, but he does have something else. While rummaging through artefacts, handed down over the centuries, he came across a map transcribed by one of his forbears, just as the French Revolution was institutionalizing the reign of terror.
Over the centuries this incredible family never wrote down the location of its secret treasure, preferring instead to pass this knowledge orally down through the generations. Until the French revolution this strategy worked very well. In a sort of unbidden connivance, each family member reasoned that it was nice to believe there was a treasure available if they ever needed it, but no one was willing to check if the treasure actually existed. It was nicely comforting and more fun to keep the hope alive. However, the systematic and inexorable eradication by the French of their hereditary nobility made it plain to the family that it would be best to transcribe the location. The resulting map, after disappearing from circulation and from memory in the turmoil following the 1848 revolution, was finally, albeit accidentally, discovered by Abelard. Even though he was not fully convinced that it was authentic, he had heard rumours and whispers from older family members about the existence of such a map and decided it would be fun to do some treasure hunting. Lo and behold, it turned out not to be a hoax after all. The small jewelled cross, which you can see on the laptop, is actually in his aunt’s possession. Now Abelard would like to convert his find into useful wealth. End of story.
Felicity was not able to immediately give them the benefit of her thoughts. She was laughing too hard. Tears had rolled off her cheeks leaving long grey flecks on her black silk scarf. When she did finally manage to compose herself she very directly let them know it might all be a bit too simplistic, perhaps even a touch simple. Would Martin be offended by such a transparent lie? Yes, Elizabetta weighed in with a plausible psychological argument. If Martin thought that we were actually trying to make him believe our story and then finished by thinking he had actually swallowed it, it would all end on a sour note. If, on the other hand, he saw it as something of a game, an honest game that would be entirely different. We would be telling him the map was authentic but that we couldn't tell him everything. He might easily live with that, putting much trust in an old friendship. “I’m sorry to be laying such responsibility on your moral shoulders,” she ended, with an imploring look at Oliver.
They arrived at the inn under leaden sky. It didn't officially open to the public until late spring, early summer, catering only to small, select groups during the remainder of the year. The heavy green metal shutters were all closed, leaving a sense of dismal lifelessness about the imposing stone facade. Oliver had telephoned, leaving a message with the caretaker that he would be visiting the following day. Martin would be back from Paris by then.
"It's unlocked, go right in," the deep baritone voice coming from behind them, as they were about to knock at the massive wooden door. There was Martin. Big, burly Martin, dressed in a speckled brown sheepskin bomber jacket, black knit sailor's tuque, blue jeans and knee-high, fur lined boots, walking briskly towards them, emerging from the woods surrounding the inn.
"Good to see you again Oliver," he said, grasping his hand to shake and his body to hug with an encouraging affection. Oliver needed that. Good sign. The rare affinity they had all their early lives, when they saw each other on an almost daily basis, had not worn off.
"These, Martin, are my dearest friends. In fact, outside all of you, I couldn't name another person who is closer to me."
"Come in, let’s get to the fire and warm ourselves," here he sniffed the cold damp air, "Ah, Francoise is preparing some worthwhile coffee."
After a little banter, thank you for having us, lovely inn, must be quite old, did you restore it, wonderful decoration, been here long and on and on, the coffee came and the general comfort level rose to a point where asking what they wanted to ask seemed almost civilised.
"Three Canadians and an Argentinean who speaks English with an obscure accent," Martin observed in that unobtrusive, nothing to worry about way he had of observing things.
They pointedly ignored Martin's remarks about Abelard's suspicious origins, not bothering to lie to him any more than they had to. The prepared story about Abelard's English teacher being French was discarded. Besides, they reckoned, it added the mystery which they counted on to convey to Martin that there was a real story somewhere which they could not reveal. Would he be kind enough to play the game?
"Oliver, you and your friends will of course stay for lunch," he more stated than asked.
"Martin, you're running a business here, not a soup kitchen for people who never show up at your door but that they need something." There, he had told him that his visit was purposeful, beyond just friendly.
"My dearest friend," without the sarcasm that often tinges that endearment, "you are more family than the real thing. You need not apologize," Martin’s edgeless voice gave them much comfort. "I imagine you haven't had much free time,” so brushing aside Oliver’s worry that he might seem the opportunistic fair-weather friend. “Besides, it must have escaped your notice that I didn't call you either and living in the woods as I do I could hardly claim to be distracted by too much company. So you see, Oliver, it is I who should be begging you to stay, asking for forgiveness and imploring you not to think ill of me for wanting to profit from your company."
Abelard was more wide-eyed than usual. He didn't realize the world still had people like Martin. Indeed, he had never noticed that the world actually had people like Martin, outside the pages of common romantic literature. He was gentle beyond belief. This was all the more astonishing since Martin came from an investment banking world and Abelard, being familiar with the breed, had never seen one that didn’t slither and hiss, if you knew what to look for.
"Ok Martin, you've set us at ease. Now stop while you’re ahead. My friends here are going to be thinking it’s you that’s after something,"
"And they would be right. All I’ve had are clients. I’ve greatly needed more intimate company. Never mind, it is agreed then, lunch."
"Mr. Dumouchel," Abelard began, only to be stopped by Martin.
"Martin, please Abelard, no formality here."
"Thank you. Martin, I couldn't help but notice how well maintained this property is. Yet it is very old. Who was the original builder?"
"It's about late thirteenth century, but we haven't been able to find any accurate records. The revolution was quite unkind to anything connected with the Ancien Regime and probably destroyed any existing historical chronicles of this place."
"Oliver may not have mentioned it to you," and this was also news to Oliver, "but I am a student of medieval history, as a hobby only, of course. I make no pretensions to scholarly credentials." Here Abelard looked at Oliver for a reaction. All he saw was surprise and some apprehension, obviously wondering where all this was going. These thoughts he prudently kept to himself.
"I seem to recall reading about such a place in some obscure works about the middle ages. I wonder if it is the same one
. It had been built by a baron during the Plantagenet suzerainty. At some point it was owned by the Count of Foix. Then, during a short interval of peace, in 1353, a feud pitted the Captal de Buch against Foix. The castle was attacked and seized by the Gascons, held for ransom and returned after suitable payment."
Everyone listened raptly, including Martin. Oliver wasn’t sure whether Abelard was making it up as he went along or whether he was speaking from his memories, but he didn't try to stop him. After a pause, which appeared to signal the end of his story, Martin could no longer contain himself.
"Go on, make up the rest if you have to, but tell us more about the siege."
"Give me a moment to recall what I had read; it was so long ago." Abelard was playing the game, and Oliver was convinced that Martin sensed something was awry, although neither his eyes nor his voice betrayed any scepticism, only a genuine reaching out to touch this teller of fascinating tales.
"Gaston Phoebus, the Count of Foix," Abelard continued, "through alliances, vassals and personal property held sway over everything in the Ariège at the southern tip of France, below Toulouse, as well as various and sundry properties through strategic marriages, royal gifts and outright spoils of war. His southern properties touched those of the Captal's ancestral dominions which extended south from the bay of Arcachon. To be fair, the Captal also controlled a number of other properties and concessions, such as the great fortress of Chastillon near St. Emilion and the salt trade around Bordeaux, to name but two. These were rewards and gifts from the English crown for unflagging service and loyalty. Indeed, except for a brief episode, when the Captal served the French king, not against the English but against the 'companies', he went to his death rather than renounce his ties of continuous loyalty."
He said this with enough emotion to surprise Oliver who had not realized that Abelard was so deeply involved with his memories, and how attached he apparently was to his presumed father. He paused for a moment, unable to look away from his audience, as though waiting for them to regain their composure after so momentous a scene from the life and death of his ancestor. They just waited, a bit unsettled at Abelard's sudden discomfort.
Martin was intrigued. He had a talent for reading people through their behaviour much more so than from what they said. Such flair made the difference between success and failure in his previous incarnation as an investment banker. In perpetual negotiations with adversaries saying little beyond the empty form demanded by legal and social protocols, moves were made largely on the basis of observed behaviour - to avoid the deliberate confusion between walking and talking that the players routinely sowed. Abelard's reaction belied the apparent personal disinterest in his narrative. He heard it in Abelard's breathing, momentarily brittle and tremulous. He saw it in the misty confusion of his gaze, suddenly disconnected from the present. And he also captured it in the nervous agitation of his hands, alternately splaying the fingers and tensing them into fists. What must Martin have been imagining? A crazy Argentinean, still close to his ancestral roots? A mystic, channelling medieval personalities? He didn't give any hints. His intense listening, eyes fixed in spellbound concentration, was the only indication that he may have seen more in Abelard's demeanour than in his story.
"Foix," Abelard resumed after the seemingly eternal momentary pause, "always ambitious and wishing to demonstrate his sometimes dubious loyalties to the French king, looked the other way when his vassals with territory bordering the Captal's, launched destructive raids against his rival's villages and towns. In those times the noble who did not respond to such provocation was not long for this world. That is why well armed knights most of the time had legitimate employment, even when kings made peace. They could usually find a good baronial war too keep them gainfully occupied. These professional warriors had tremendous overhead, what with keeping war horses, armour, men at arms and retainers. The brigandage and growth of the companies, in fact, coincided with an unfortunate, alarming and entirely unexpected decline in the frequency of baronial wars. I guess the bloody struggle between France and England had chewed up so much of their resources, the barons were literally forced to slump into a period of tranquil regrouping, all to the woe of needy fighting men, whose sole means of support was armed conflict.
“The Captal had a couple of options. He could assemble a great force and march directly against the Foix stronghold in the Ariège or some other major holding of his enemy and go for the really big win. Such a course entailed enormous military and financial risks. The big castles were truly forbidding to a besieging force. They were exceptionally well fortified, some with three concentric and successively stronger walls from which the defenders would hurl all means of nasty death at attacking troops; stones, arrows, boiling substances, Greek fire, not to mention flooding and the particularly gruesome butchery that awaited those without much ransom value unlucky enough to be captured.
“The other most often exercised alternative was to go after a weaker castle with a smaller force and so oblige your enemy to either up the ante by risking a siege on his part or come to terms and make peace with amends for damages caused during the earlier provocations. Wisely, this is what the Captal decided. He chose as his target a small chateau on the Dordogne belonging to one of the Count's half sisters.
“He assembled two battle groups, one under his own command and the other entrusted to his son, Abelard. Yes, that's right, my namesake. The force consisted of about 200 men, including 50 knights, 100 men-at-arms and 50 archers. The weather was not very pleasant; winter was still clinging tenaciously to the new spring. It was cold and the ground was a muddy nightmare, slowing progress considerably and turning a four day ride into a week."
For Felicity, Elizabetta and Oliver it was troublingly evident that in his mind he was the same Abelard who accompanied the Captal. They hoped that something so apparent to them would not soon be obvious to Martin. But then again they didn't fully appreciate Martin's own unrestrained imagination.
"Awesome, Abelard, it seems like you were there," Martin suddenly said. "This is all so damn realistic, I expect you to say we or I rather than he and they. You are a very gifted story teller." If he only knew just how mindful Abelard was being precisely to avoid such incriminating personalization.
"You are too kind Martin. But such stories about our ancestors were so common when I was little, much of my tale today is a blend of those boyhood yarns and what I have read over the years. They are so mixed together I wouldn't ever be able to identify which parts come from where."
Felicity's noticeable giggle was the best she could do in suppressing her own amusement. All eyes turned towards her, waiting, expecting a sensible explanation.
"Your story sounds pretty good Abelard," Felicity, finishing what she had started, finally piped in, "but historically you seem to have the facts confused. Abelard must by that time already have mysteriously disappeared. How could he possibly have ridden with the Captal on that punitive expedition?"
"You may be right about Abelard, my dear Felicity, but so what. There was an expedition and someone had to lead the troops so why not Abelard, since the dates about what happened when are still not accepted by everyone." And thus did Felicity and Abelard smooth over her clumsy lapse into misplaced amusement.
"Outside the castle walls," Abelard continued with his story, "the Captal burned the village, killing those peasants who were unable to escape to safety within the walls or into the woods and also taking about a dozen captives for later use as infected bodies to be catapulted over the castle walls. Early biological warfare. The guard house," here he looked towards the windows, staring as though he could see through the shutters, and asked, "this is the guard house, isn't it?"
"Yes," Martin answered, unable to manage more than a loud whisper.
"Remarkable!" Abelard exclaimed. "Looks just as I would have imagined it from the stories. Now, where was I? Oh, yes, the guardhouse," and again he looked around for a moment, "it was abandoned without a fight upon seeing the relative
ly large attacking force. The few soldiers were meant to protect against small groups looking to do mischief, not full battle groups. The Captal made his camp below the walls and then went through the usual formalities, demanding surrender under threat of otherwise unspeakable consequences. The defenders, led by a young, recently knighted captain and Foix clan member, surveying the arrayed enemy guessed his chances pretty good and responded with assorted insults and a long dead putrefying pig, hurled in the direction of the Captal, splattering against a large boulder, to show how unconcerned they were about a long blockade, much like the myth about the pig at the siege of Carcassone. In response the Captal flayed his captive peasants over a period of several days terrorizing the defenders with the screams of the victims. He then hung them from trees in full view of the walls and let the defenders watch while big black crows picked out their eyes and time filled their carcasses with all manner of disease carrying vermin. Psychological warfare was just as important then as it is today.
“But the Captal was worried. He wasn't prepared for a long siege. The weather was bad and he risked seeing his vassals disappear as their mandatory 40 days’ service came to an end. After consulting with Abelard and his constable, Maître Gaucelm, the Captal decided to mine the west wall while creating a diversion on the east side. The muddy earth made digging difficult, but after about a week the sappers had tunnelled under the wall and were prepared to set fire to the supporting timbers. During that time the Captal, to keep the defenders from searching for and finding his sappers, had made a great show of gathering his men and baggage together, looking for all the world ready to depart in defeat. A great cheer went up inside, as the besieging force began its ostensible and ignominious retreat, insults flying thick from the ramparts.
“Then all went quiet, excited children hushed by terrified mothers. They had obviously smelled the smoke. The horrible realization that their walls would soon crumble dawned upon the defenders. They all knew, every man woman and child old enough to have listened to stories, that flames were at that very moment inexorably eating through the timbers that the sappers had used to replace the earth upon which the walls rested. And when they would be consumed, the walls would tumble and the attackers would burst into the castle and kill everyone but the captain and his family, holding these for a rich ransom. They had only one hope. Come to terms with the attackers to spare their lives through surrender. The captain did not care for this cowardice. But then why should he, knowing he would be ransomed if defeated.
“The west wall inescapably crumbled. Abelard, with a party of ten knights and 30 men-at-arms charged out of the woods and through the breach. One of his men opened the main doors and the Captal came through with his main force. The rest was pretty routine for the times. Everyone was slaughtered without mercy, the castle was looted and the captain and his family were taken for ransom. Total losses for the attackers, one knight, unlucky enough to take an arrow through the eye. For the defenders, ten knights, 12 squires 60 men-at-arms and 130 others, mainly peasants who had sought refuge within the walls. Not a bad price for ending a war. Foix relented, paid the ransom for both his family and the castle and indemnity for his attacks which led up to the war. A few months later, as the best of friends, John de Grailly III and Gaston Phoebus as the Captal and Foix were known, rode off together to participate in the brutal crusade against religious heretics in Germany. Strange world."
"What about injuries, don't these knights ever take home wounds to nurse?" Martin asked, unwittingly setting the stage for a little showmanship.
"Oh yes," Abelard answered, still caught up in the exuberance of his story, "both the Captal and his son received multiple but not life threatening wounds. The Captal received a blow which actually knocked him from his horse and his son was almost killed by a pike man at his back when he went to the aid of the fallen Captal. It was only very good luck that one of his men deflected the blow, but not quite quickly enough to avoid a nasty gash along the side of his neck."
This last yarn prodded Oliver’s mind. Yes, of course, Abelard had a scar in just about the same place. He had many scars, Oliver recalls, but this one was quite prominent. He suspected Abelard was making up the entire story, his scars providing a foundation. Oliver knew he was in the presence of a master storyteller when he saw Abelard moving his hand with extraordinary nonchalance to raise the collar of his shirt over the nasty, long white jagged scar running along the side of his neck, all the while smiling with the utmost detachment.
"Remarkable coincidence, my grandfather who told me the tale, never stops reminding me whenever he looks at my old scar from falling against a fence during a moment of recklessness. At the time of my accident mother thought I was dead. She became quite hysterical."
"Lunch is ready," Francoise announced just then, cutting short Martin's open investigative questioning and Abelard's unabashed lying.
"Well my friend," Martin said to Abelard, putting one massive arm around his shoulders as they walked to the dining room, "you told that story so well I could have sworn you were there."
No one laughed, everyone evidently of the same mind that no laughter was better than nervous laughter. They sat down quietly and Oliver prepared himself to move the topic towards the treasure hunt. But Martin, ever prescient Martin, saved him the trouble.
"This local foie gras seems like an excellent dish over which we might discuss your needs my dear Abelard. And don't worry about secrecy, I share absolutely everything only with Francoise. She would be joining us but for the meal she insists on supervising, to feed some group of local dignitaries who have reserved the restaurant for the evening."
Abelard related the prepared story about the old map in his family for centuries which might be bona fide and could lead them to an ancient treasure in jewels and artefacts. There were two obstacles. First was the matter of financing an archaeological dig in someone’s living room, which might run as high as four million euros and, if there turned out to be a treasure, a second problem would arise; that of converting it into cash, since there could potentially be some issues with laws concerning finds of historical value and national treasures. Why does Abelard want to sell things of such beauty? Easy. It will buy him personal freedom. This last part had some truth to it, but not quite in the way it was taken.
"Abelard, as regards the disposition of any actual treasure, such transactions are not part of my normal business agenda. I run a hotel and a very fine restaurant. This is what makes me happy. But," and this is where they all became very attentive. It was a pregnant 'but' with bountiful promise.
"But," he said it again, after a short pause, "I do know some people who do other things for a living but look for opportunities everywhere. I can guarantee nothing, except to tempt them. I suppose that you will show me anything you may fortuitously find so that I can decide who to contact.
“Now, as regards the financing, even for me four million dollars is a great deal of money. I have made a deliberate decision when I came here; to live more modestly. Do you know why” he asked, rhetorically? “Not very mysterious, the less I need the less I need to earn to satisfy those needs. You would have to tell me more about the financial side. There, my background is oozing to the surface. How horrible. But I do need to know how much I can lose in this enterprise. And you are going to have to be more convincing that the map is actually genuine. I am very sorry if I seem suddenly so tough minded, but Francoise and I have something precious here and we don’t want to see it jeopardized. Do you hate me for that?”
“No, of course not,” Abelard answered. “And I’m sure Oliver doesn’t either. I’ve done enough deals to know the drill. So I haven’t come empty handed.” Here he pulled out a sheet of paper, a spreadsheet with several lines of numbers. “I’ve done some rough calculations to answer your question about how much you could potentially lose in this transaction. Since most of the outlay will be to purchase the house which stands over where the treasure is buried as well as the eight houses which immediately surrou
nd it, these will be assets which you will be able to resell. However, if we are to get all the houses, we will most likely have to pay a premium above the market price. Martin, you’ve probably often times paid premiums when you wanted to buy all the outstanding shares of a takeover target. That premium, I’m guessing at 20%, will probably not be recouped. Then there is of course some chance that you will lose if the price of real estate drops, but there is also an equal chance that you may gain from a potential appreciation in the price. The net expected effect should be zero so that you will most likely recoup all the money which would have been paid for these properties except, of course, for the premium. You will also incur losses, if there is no treasure, for the equipment we will need to excavate the site as well as for the cost of repairing the damage to the house which sits atop the treasure. I reckon your maximum loss can be as high as one million euros.”
“That’s still a great deal of money for a map whose authenticity relies entirely on your word. Not that I think you might be lying, only that what you may have could turn out to be worthless.”
“You’re right to be sceptical and I really have no way to convince you that it is authentic. I guess we were counting on a slim hope that you would share our enthusiasm, but that is apparently not the case. Also, Martin, you must believe me when I say we completely understand and do greatly appreciate that you have at least listened to our story.”
Abelard’s concession of defeat took everyone by surprise and a heavy silence descended on the room. There was a clatter of dishes as people prepared to get up and put an end to the awkward moment Abelard’s definitive surrender had created when he quite unexpectedly took up again.
“There is one more thing. That story about the siege and ransom I recounted earlier, well I did leave something out. It was a bit gruesome so I let it be. I didn’t want it to reflect too badly on my ancestors.” He again had everyone’s complete attention.
"In the guardhouse cellar, behind the last supporting column, there is a small doorway which has been bricked over. If you break that down, you will find the bodies of three knights. They were staunchly loyal retainers of the Foix. The Captal had to send a strong message to Foix. Only asking for ransom would not have been sufficient. He had to convey to him how grave was this matter. The young baron and his wife, as credible witnesses, were forced to watch the live burial. When I told the story this morning I wished to spare you these gruesome details, fairly normal behaviour at the time but thoroughly revolting by today's standards."
"How do you know they are still there?" Martin asked, somewhat sceptically.
"I wandered around a bit by myself this morning and checked. Nothing appears to have been disturbed. At least according to the accounts I have read"
“How do you actually know, like with the map, that what you have read is true?”
“I don’t. If you’ve a sledge hammer and are thinking of renovating, we could check,” Abelard answered without any apparent excitement. But Felicity had spotted him cracking his right thumb, always a sure sign that he is chomping at the bit.
Martin was clearly tempted. It was only with the greatest reluctance that he had all but said no to their proposition. Here was an opportunity to put Abelard’s credibility to the test. What could it cost him to knock down a wall at the end of his cellar? He had, in fact, that very morning been thinking about expanding it.
“I’m game,” he said with exaggerated exuberance.
“Are you quite sure you want to do this now? You could always do so at some later time when it would also be practical, say, for an expansion of you cellar,” Abelard said to a mildly astonished Martin who wasn’t sure now whether Abelard wasn’t reading his thoughts.
“Oh, I see, now you’re backing out. Unsure perhaps of your family history,” Martin teased.
“Not at all. Let’s go then.”
Abelard brought them to the wall section, between two short pillars joined by a Roman arch. Abelard offered to do the heavy lifting and began to swing the sledge hammer in great arcs, smashing it repeatedly against the brick. It was short work, the old construction crumbling to rubble after only a few blows. The dust had completely enveloped the wall and covered everyone in a fine grey powder. When it had cleared enough to see, Martin approached and shone his light into the large breech that Abelard had opened.
“Phew,” was all that Martin could manage as he stared at the bits of cloth and metal sticking out of the rubble. It was the intact skulls, three of them, that got their attention and their revulsion. They imagined the desperate gasping for air from the gaping holes in the brittle bone.
“It’s a deal,” Martin said to Abelard. “Whatever you’ve been reading seems to be of very good quality. It was all Felicity, Oliver and Elizabetta could do to keep from openly gawking at Abelard. They were in little doubt that Abelard had planned every intricate detail of their visit, right down to the dramatic punch line in the cellar. He had known, they were now fairly certain, that lacking a bona fide map he would need something intensely spectacular to reassure Martin.
Chapter XX
King John’s treasure