brightness.
It seemed Rhyllann had to do the leg work. Collect the text, then visit the library for more information on John and his lost treasure.
‘The diary is only across the road there – I can get that. I’ll change the entrance code at the same time.’
‘What?’
‘I’ll change it back again when we leave.’
Rhyllann spoke slowly. ‘No, not that. This precious diary. It’s where?’
‘It’s waiting over the road. “Mail boxes are us.” Mike posted it to his own box number.’
Rhyllann loved it. ‘Jokes man!’ He said.
‘OK. We’ll go over there together, then back here. You change the code. Tell me the new number. Then research at the library. That ok?’
It sounded like the script from "Shaun of the Dead".
‘Kill dad, get mum, rescue Liz …’ Rhyllann chanted, following Wren as he levered himself down the stairs.
Rhyllann shifted his weight from one leg to another, under the shop-guy’s blatantly curious stare. He started upright, relieved when Wren emerged from the storeroom, a bulging A4 jiffy envelope tucked under his arm.
‘My granddad’s.’ Rhyllann babbled. ‘His war memoirs. I think they’ve been rejected by every publisher in the country now!’ With that he rushed to open the door for Wren, then headed towards the library armed with the new key code and a new confidence now that school was officially out.
*
Research complete, Rhyllann strode back to Green’s old offices, clutching a sheaf of papers. He found Wren asleep on the kitchen floor, surrounded by sweet wrappers, a mug-a-soup congealing in the sink. Slumping on one of the armless sofas next to him, Rhyllann began reading through the printouts obtained from the library.
For all John’s faults as a king, the man adored his children. All thirteen of them. Which as one historian pointed out made it unlikely he had murdered his own nephew. Rhyllann grimaced and read on. John arranged good marriages for his children, another sign that he wasn’t too despised by fellow kings. One of his illegitimate daughters had married Llwellynn, Prince of Wales. It seemed she frequently travelled into England as her husband’s representative. The last recorded meeting took place in 1216, the year of John’s death. The year he lost his treasure. Rhyllann’s eyebrows rose. Beside him, Wren stirred. Slumping to the floor beside him, Rhyllann handed over his material. Wren perused it sleepily, then sat bolt upright.
‘Ohmigod! Annie!’ Throwing his arms around Rhyllann, hugging him so tightly ribs crackled in complaint.
‘It’s true! It’s all true. Means, motive, opportunity!’
It is true, Rhyllann thought. My geeky little cousin. The lost treasure of the Plantagents. With a rush of pleasure he remembered Wren talking nonsense about flying schools and private planes. Wriggling free he asked.
‘I thought you’d already checked all this out?’
‘I did. It just seems so long ago.’ Wren answered, rummaging around him.
‘This what you’re looking for?’ Rhyllann asked, pulling the slim leather bound book from under Wren. He flicked through the pages. Writing to just one side. The ink faded, the pages yellowed. The words almost indecipherable.
‘You geeky little sod – how on earth did you manage to make anything out?’
Wren shrugged. ‘Once you get used to the handwriting and syntax, it all follows. Welsh hasn’t changed that much.’
‘This paper feels strange, like velvet.’ Rhyllann ran his fingers to and fro, stroking the lushness like a cat’s fur.
‘Hmm. Probably vellum. Or something like that.’ Wren said, looking preoccupied. ‘Annie – d’you think that photocopier still works?’
Rhyllann wrinkled his brow. ‘Dunno. If it's got paper in it. Probably. Why?’
‘It might be an idea to make a copy of this. There’s only about thirty pages. Then I can make notes as I go – you know – if anything seems important.’
Rhyllann studied him. Wren's nose was back in
It seemed Rhyllann had to do the leg work. Collect the text, then visit the library for more information on John and his lost treasure.
‘The diary is only across the road there – I can get that. I’ll change the entrance code at the same time.’
‘What?’
‘I’ll change it back again when we leave.’
Rhyllann spoke slowly. ‘No, not that. This precious diary. It’s where?’
‘It’s waiting over the road. “Mail boxes are us.” Mike posted it to his own box number.’
Rhyllann loved it. ‘Jokes man!’ He said.
‘OK. We’ll go over there together, then back here. You change the code. Tell me the new number. Then research at the library. That ok?’
It sounded like the script from "Shaun of the Dead".
‘Kill dad, get mum, rescue Liz …’ Rhyllann chanted, following Wren as he levered himself down the stairs.
Rhyllann shifted his weight from one leg to another, under the shop-guy’s blatantly curious stare. He started upright, relieved when Wren emerged from the storeroom, a bulging A4 jiffy envelope tucked under his arm.
‘My granddad’s.’ Rhyllann babbled. ‘His war memoirs. I think they’ve been rejected by every publisher in the country now!’ With that he rushed to open the door for Wren, then headed towards the library armed with the new key code and a new confidence now that school was officially out.
*
Research complete, Rhyllann strode back to Green’s old offices, clutching a sheaf of papers. He found Wren asleep on the kitchen floor, surrounded by sweet wrappers, a mug-a-soup congealing in the sink. Slumping on one of the armless sofas next to him, Rhyllann began reading through the printouts obtained from the library.
For all John’s faults as a king, the man adored his children. All thirteen of them. Which as one historian pointed out made it unlikely he had murdered his own nephew. Rhyllann grimaced and read on. John arranged good marriages for his children, another sign that he wasn’t too despised by fellow kings. One of his illegitimate daughters had married Llwellynn, Prince of Wales. It seemed she frequently travelled into England as her husband’s representative. The last recorded meeting took place in 1216, the year of John’s death. The year he lost his treasure. Rhyllann’s eyebrows rose. Beside him, Wren stirred. Slumping to the floor beside him, Rhyllann handed over his material. Wren perused it sleepily, then sat bolt upright.
‘Ohmigod! Annie!’ Throwing his arms around Rhyllann, hugging him so tightly ribs crackled in complaint.
‘It’s true! It’s all true. Means, motive, opportunity!’
It is true, Rhyllann thought. My geeky little cousin. The lost treasure of the Plantagents. With a rush of pleasure he remembered Wren talking nonsense about flying schools and private planes. Wriggling free he asked.
‘I thought you’d already checked all this out?’
‘I did. It just seems so long ago.’ Wren answered, rummaging around him.
‘This what you’re looking for?’ Rhyllann asked, pulling the slim leather bound book from under Wren. He flicked through the pages. Writing to just one side. The ink faded, the pages yellowed. The words almost indecipherable.
‘You geeky little sod – how on earth did you manage to make anything out?’
Wren shrugged. ‘Once you get used to the handwriting and syntax, it all follows. Welsh hasn’t changed that much.’
‘This paper feels strange, like velvet.’ Rhyllann ran his fingers to and fro, stroking the lushness like a cat’s fur.
‘Hmm. Probably vellum. Or something like that.’ Wren said, looking preoccupied. ‘Annie – d’you think that photocopier still works?’
Rhyllann wrinkled his brow. ‘Dunno. If it's got paper in it. Probably. Why?’
‘It might be an idea to make a copy of this. There’s only about thirty pages. Then I can make notes as I go – you know – if anything seems important.’
Rhyllann studied him. Wren's nose was back in
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