The Wild Baron (Baron 1)

Susannah said, “If this bishop is involved, if he does have the other half of the map, then Tibolt must be close. He will have to have both halves to gain this prize of his.”

“Yes,” Rohan said, looking briefly at the healing cut on her cheek, at the bruise around it, which was now yellowish green. He felt anger flow through him each time he saw the evidence of his brother’s cruelty, his lack of control. “We must keep a lookout for him. Since Pope Leo IX did give Macbeth something, it seems likely that it’s of a religious nature.”

“You mean like Saint Peter’s thighbone hidden away somewhere in a cave?”

“Something like that,” Rohan said. “An artifact of some sort. But we have no idea really. Tibolt spoke to Susannah about it giving him ultimate power.” He suddenly looked defeated as he said, “It doesn’t look good, does it?”

“No,” she said honestly, “it doesn’t. But we will find out the truth. I pray it will not be too awful to bear.”

Phillip Mercerault stroked his chin. He whistled a moment under his breath. It was not a tune either Rohan or Susannah recognized, though it was catchy. When Phillip visited Mountvale, he would have to teach it to Jamie. Surely Jamie could set a limerick to it. The viscount said finally, “I will join you gladly. To be truthful, life has been too bland of late. Even the design of my tower doesn’t amuse me much anymore.”

Phillip turned to Susannah. “Rohan and I were boys together at Eton. We protected each other’s back. If a bully wanted to smash one of us, then there were suddenly two for the bully to take on. I’ve always trusted Rohan, as he has me. Yes, let’s have an adventure. My spirit soars at the thought of it. I will immediately shove my drawings for my tower back into the desk drawer. Let’s have a spot of luncheon and then we’re off to see Bishop Roundtree.”

“I can’t wait to see the look on that old sod’s face when he sees Susannah,” Rohan said, and chuckled. “Also, we have more to tell you about this mess.”

“Must we eat luncheon here, Phillip?” Susannah said. “It will be so delicious that I will stuff everything into my mouth then fall into a gluttonous stupor.”

The afternoon was pleasant, only a light breeze to stir the oak leaves. They rode toward Oxford from the west, past Nuffield College. They turned from Queen Street onto St. Aldate’s Street, passing by Pembroke College to the left and the magnificent Christ Church quadrangle on their right. Ro-han said to Susannah, “Both Phillip and I were here at Christ Church, as was Tibolt. We called it The House—”

“Don’t forget to show off your Latin, Rohan.”

“Very well. ‘The House” is from aedes Christi, meaning ‘House of Christ.’ And that is nearly the extent of my scholarship.”

“That doesn’t say much for your brain, since every student knows that.”

Susannah laughed, but she was clearly distracted by the Great Quadrangle, also known as Tom Quad, Rohan told her behind his hand as Phillip kept up his monologue. She half-listened to Phillip telling her that the library, a superb example of Italian Renaissance architecture, was built in the early eighteenth century.

“Bishop Roundtree is frequently in his vast offices in the cathedral,” Rohan said. “It is likely we will find him there.”

“Yes, he should be there. If we have time, Rohan, let’s take Susannah to Trinity College. I want her to see Blackwell’s Bookshop.”

They didn’t find Bishop Roundtree in his offices or in the cathedral itself. One of the black-garbed curates told them the bishop’s address. “I expected him this morning, but he did not come,” the man said. He was quite bald, his head shining with sweat beneath the afternoon sun.

Bishop Roundtree lived on Brewer Street, not far from Christ Church, in a tall Georgian house of deep-red brick. It was a busy thoroughfare, with houses on both sides, carriages, drays, and horses fighting for the middle of the narrow street. The bishop’s house was set back a bit, with a narrow graveled drive.

The knocker was answered by a very pretty young man wearing black and white livery and a snow-white periwig of the last century. He couldn’t have been more than twenty years old. He frowned at Susannah, then ignored her. He addressed Rohan: “Yes, sir?”

“I am Lord Mountvale. This is Lord Derencourt. We wish to see Bishop Roundtree.”

“I am afraid that the bishop has given me orders that he is not to be disturbed. He is preparing a sermon.” Then he actually turned his back to Susannah and directly faced Ro-han.

“This is extremely important. We wish to see him now.”

The young man bit his lower lip. He looked uncertain.

“Now,” Phillip said. “As in this very minute, not a minute from now.”

“I will see if the bishop can see you gentlemen. Please step inside.”

He obviously wanted to shut the door in Susannah’s face, b

ut knew he couldn’t. He left them all standing in a dimly lit entryway. There were several dark portraits of past bishops, all of them fat-jowled and thick-lipped, looking more stern than hanging judges.

Susannah shivered. “I don’t like this place.”

“Well,” her husband said, leaning down to kiss the tip of her nose, “that precious boy playing at being a butler doesn’t like you.”

“I know, but it makes no sense. I said nothing rude to him. I smiled. And he is so pretty. Why is he dressed like a butler of twenty years ago?”