"There must be some clue here—we are in the right area, and this might well be from an early century." Bending, she picked up a broken bit of the dark rock that had tumbled from the ruined wall. Frowning, she turned it in her hand. Something eluded her, something she could not quite pinpoint in her mind.
"So you do not think this is a black house, as Sir Aedan suggested?"
She shook her head, examining the rock thoughtfully. "I do not agree with him," she said. "I just have a feeling."
John nodded and returned his attention to his sketchbook. Christina turned, and a fast, cool wind whipped over the hills, rippling her veil, her ribbons, blowing her skirts back. She surveyed the chaotic rubble all around her, then looked out over the rounded, bleak hills.
Something was here in this place, something of importance. She felt it, knew it, but could not yet define it. A trace, an artifact, even the smallest inscription or carving might mean the difference between a simple ruined wall and a historically significant ruin.
Years ago, the Reverend Walter Carriston had translated documents that had referred to a specific location, a place close to Dundrennan, and had hinted at a connection with Arthur, the great warrior-king who had become the stuff of magnificent medieval legend but who had apparently lived during the sixth century. Her uncle's discovery of some early references to Arthur had become the basis for his life's work.
Carriston had strived to prove that King Arthur, a warrior-king in a warlike society long before the Middle Ages, had links to Celtic Scotland—indeed, might even have come from Scotland himself.
His theories had been ill received, and he had suffered in reputation and health. But he had never doubted his conclusions. Christina respected her uncle and his work and believed that his theories were based on historical truth.
The wall on Cairn Drishan gave her hope. She was certain that it was exceedingly old. Turning the stone in her hand, looking at its glossy, greenish black surface, she nodded. Indeed, very old.
King Arthur at Dundrennan. And what if Dundrennan's own legendary princess had been the great king's contemporary in history? A find in support of that, her uncle's most cherished conclusion, would be astonishing. It would change understanding of Arthurian scholarship. It could even alter the interpretation of the Arthurian legends.
No wonder so many scholars rejected Carriston's theory. His work threatened what they regarded as gospel truth, that the Arthurian tales had roots in the Welsh, English, and Cornish traditions. Scholarship allowed that the historical Arthur, the sixth-century warrior briefly mentioned in early chronicles, may have crossed into Scotland to conquer it.
But her uncle had suggested that Arthur came of a Scottish Celtic tribe himself. A scandalous, unacceptable suggestion, despite his convincing evidence.
"If I could find some material proof of his theory," Christina said thoughtfully, looking around, "his work would be redeemed. The truth is here somewhere. I know it."
"You are very stubborn." John got to his feet and came to stand beside her. "A stubborn nature is a fine asset, but do not demand the impossible from yourself."
She looked at John. "I must. You know I must."
He sighed and after a moment nodded. "Well, if you are so determined, I will help you if I can. But you'll have to find your proof before Sir Edgar arrives to take this over from you."
She nodded. "I suppose I should ask Sir Aedan for a shovel, then." She laughed bitterly. "He'll either expect me to dig here myself—or he will refuse me even the loan of a shovel and just tell me that this is unimportant and I should be on my way. But it is important, John." She looked at the little piece of rock in her hand. "I'm sure of it."
"I don't think he's that much of a Mr. Scrooge. And besides, he does have a full work crew.... Do you suppose he's using all of them down there?" He smiled a
"So you do not think this is a black house, as Sir Aedan suggested?"
She shook her head, examining the rock thoughtfully. "I do not agree with him," she said. "I just have a feeling."
John nodded and returned his attention to his sketchbook. Christina turned, and a fast, cool wind whipped over the hills, rippling her veil, her ribbons, blowing her skirts back. She surveyed the chaotic rubble all around her, then looked out over the rounded, bleak hills.
Something was here in this place, something of importance. She felt it, knew it, but could not yet define it. A trace, an artifact, even the smallest inscription or carving might mean the difference between a simple ruined wall and a historically significant ruin.
Years ago, the Reverend Walter Carriston had translated documents that had referred to a specific location, a place close to Dundrennan, and had hinted at a connection with Arthur, the great warrior-king who had become the stuff of magnificent medieval legend but who had apparently lived during the sixth century. Her uncle's discovery of some early references to Arthur had become the basis for his life's work.
Carriston had strived to prove that King Arthur, a warrior-king in a warlike society long before the Middle Ages, had links to Celtic Scotland—indeed, might even have come from Scotland himself.
His theories had been ill received, and he had suffered in reputation and health. But he had never doubted his conclusions. Christina respected her uncle and his work and believed that his theories were based on historical truth.
The wall on Cairn Drishan gave her hope. She was certain that it was exceedingly old. Turning the stone in her hand, looking at its glossy, greenish black surface, she nodded. Indeed, very old.
King Arthur at Dundrennan. And what if Dundrennan's own legendary princess had been the great king's contemporary in history? A find in support of that, her uncle's most cherished conclusion, would be astonishing. It would change understanding of Arthurian scholarship. It could even alter the interpretation of the Arthurian legends.
No wonder so many scholars rejected Carriston's theory. His work threatened what they regarded as gospel truth, that the Arthurian tales had roots in the Welsh, English, and Cornish traditions. Scholarship allowed that the historical Arthur, the sixth-century warrior briefly mentioned in early chronicles, may have crossed into Scotland to conquer it.
But her uncle had suggested that Arthur came of a Scottish Celtic tribe himself. A scandalous, unacceptable suggestion, despite his convincing evidence.
"If I could find some material proof of his theory," Christina said thoughtfully, looking around, "his work would be redeemed. The truth is here somewhere. I know it."
"You are very stubborn." John got to his feet and came to stand beside her. "A stubborn nature is a fine asset, but do not demand the impossible from yourself."
She looked at John. "I must. You know I must."
He sighed and after a moment nodded. "Well, if you are so determined, I will help you if I can. But you'll have to find your proof before Sir Edgar arrives to take this over from you."
She nodded. "I suppose I should ask Sir Aedan for a shovel, then." She laughed bitterly. "He'll either expect me to dig here myself—or he will refuse me even the loan of a shovel and just tell me that this is unimportant and I should be on my way. But it is important, John." She looked at the little piece of rock in her hand. "I'm sure of it."
"I don't think he's that much of a Mr. Scrooge. And besides, he does have a full work crew.... Do you suppose he's using all of them down there?" He smiled a
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