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Wherefore fain would I sit out in my heart

That I might see the marvel of the Grail ;

But ever I dread me that I be not worthy.

Bram smirked as he tossed back a mouthful of cider. Sitting in a pub stinking of sour ale and sweat probably didn’t make him quite the worthy soul Sir Thomas Malory had written about four centuries ago ... which didn’t bode well for him to see “the marvel of the Grail” anytime soon. If ever. Apparently only a man who was brave of heart, stalwart in spirit, and had led a life of valorous purity would unearth that sacred relic. He was sufficient in the brave and stalwart departments, but after his delinquent younger years, the life of purity was out of the question.

He heaved a sigh while toying with his now-empty mug. At least he didn’t have to produce the grail itself, just the settlement of Caelum Academia, which wasn’t as stringent a requirement. Unfortunately, after three days of scouring every word in his uncle’s leather-bound journal—the last half of which made no sense—he couldn’t pinpoint where the settlement might be, though from what he’d pieced together, it could be somewhere around Royston.

A place he’d hoped to never see again.

“There he is!”

The shout was followed by three strapping young men jostling onto the bench across from him. Foam sloshed over the sides of their tankards.

Jonathan Barker, the usual spokesman of the trio, slapped the table with his hand. “We’ve been looking all over for you, sir.”

“And so you find me.” Bram saluted them with his mug.

“You’ve got to come back to the classroom. Grimwinkle’s killing us!” Barker tugged at an imaginary noose, emphasizing his claim.

“Come now.” Bram chuckled. “It can’t be all that bad.”

Charles Wimble, a tall fellow with tousled dark hair, grimaced. “We’ve had three exams in as many days—and I’ve failed every blasted one of them.”

“Please, Prof,” the lad next to him joined in. “We’re close to a mutiny.”

“Hear, hear!” The three clacked their tankards together, then drained them dry.

Bram couldn’t help but grin. It was gratifying, this show of allegiance from his undergrads. “I appreciate your vote of confidence, men. Truly. But I’m afraid I’ve a task to complete before I can return.”

“Then let us help you.” Barker swiped the back of his hand across his mouth, wiping away the frothy remains and knocking his tie further askew. “We’ll speed up the process.”

The other two nodded vehemently. “Aye.”

“I shall take that into consideration, gentlemen, should the need arise. Until then, there’s nothing for you to do but lash yourselves down and weather the storm, eh? No mutinies allowed on pain of death.” He eyed all three. “Understood?”

Barker nodded and rested one elbow on the table. “But only because you ask it, sir. Were it up to us, we’d keelhaul ol’ Gruff Grim and not be the sorrier for it.”

“Then it is a very good thing it is not up to you fellows.” Or to him. Ever since he’d trudged out of that misconduct meeting, it had been a struggle to push aside wicked thoughts of what he’d like to do to Grimwinkle. “Now, off with you. I’m sure you must study for tomorrow’s exam.” He waggled his eyebrows.

Wimble moaned. “I cannot fail again.”

“I suppose I can spare an extra fifteen minutes tomorrow in my office. Why don’t you stop by before class and show me what ol’ Gruff Grim will be quizzing you on?”

The young man’s face lightened considerably. “You’re the best, Professor Webb! See you then.”

The students bumped their way off the bench, ribbing each other like overgrown pups. Which they were.

Bram leaned his head against the back of the tall bench, feeling inordinately old. What did he have to show for his life? Hardly more than that trio of young men. All his former classmates were married, many of them with children. Even his old friend Price, who had sworn off women, had married last year. And what did he have to go home to every night? A rented room in the fellows’ house, which was more of a monastic cell than a home, and a growing collection of lonely nights.

He scrubbed his face, weary—which was new. Usually he grabbed life by the neck and gave it a good shake. What was wrong with him? Bah! He needed a change, that’s what. A new venture and possibly someone to share it with.

And that was another new thought. He’d had plenty of women take interest in him in the past, but none he’d given a second thought to. Settling down always seemed like a weight that would pin him in place, stifle the very air he breathed. But now? For some unexplainable reason—though he highly suspected it was his recent twenty-seventh birthday—things were different. Or maybe his perspective had changed. Whatever the reason, matrimony with the right woman didn’t seem so bad anymore.

He yanked out his silver pocket watch, thumb poised to click the latch, when Uncle Pendleton sloshed into the opposite seat looking like a shipwrecked sailor. Water darkened his coat, matted his silvery hair, and dotted the lenses on his spectacles.

“Uncle! You’re soaked to the skin, and it’s not even raining.” Bram flew off his bench and wrapped his coat around his uncle’s shoulders. Wheeling about, he hailed the nearest server with a wave of his hand. “Miss! A hot toddy right away, please.”

Uncle Pendleton laughed merrily. “I’m not at death’s door, nephew, though I won’t turn down that drink.”

Frowning, Bram resumed his seat. “What happened?”

His uncle sniffled while producing a limp handkerchief as soaked as he was. “Apparently the Willow Bridge is under repair.”

“Yes, it has been for some time now.” He handed over his own handkerchief. “Surely you didn’t try to cross it? Oh, Uncle.” He groaned. “You did, didn’t you? Sweet mercy. Are you hurt?”

“None of it. These old bones are stronger than you think.” He honked into the cloth and offered it back, to which Bram held up his palm. He may soon be destitute if he didn’t find that forgotten Roman settlement, but for now he could provide his uncle with a dry handkerchief.

An apron-clad young miss arrived with a steaming stoneware mug. Uncle Pendleton wrapped both hands around it. “Thank you. Oh, and a hearty bowl of beef and ale stew as well.”

“Right away, sir.”

His uncle winked at Bram as he held up his cup. “This ought to do the trick.”

Bram gave him a few moments to relish the warm brew, all the while trying to shove down the rising concern for his uncle’s mental state. Several memoranda had been sent to faculty and students detailing the slow progress on the pedestrian bridge. Either Uncle hadn’t read them or—more likely—had forgotten about the warnings. Was his uncle becoming more absent-minded, or was Bram simply noticing it more?

“Stop looking at me like I’m a doddering old fool.” Uncle Pendleton set down his empty cup. “Judging by the rut worn into the bank I climbed up, I’m not the only one who’s made the mistake.”

“Maybe so, but I insist on hiring a cab to take you home as soon as you’ve eaten.”

“Don’t tell me our roles are reversing so soon.” His uncle arched a brow. “It wasn’t so very long ago I was the one seeing you home from the pub.”

A snort ripped out of Bram. “For a very different reason.”

“True.” A serious gleam flashed in his uncle’s eyes. “I’m glad you’ve mended your ways. Your mother would have been proud, God rest her.”

Bram’s gut clenched. Much to his regret, he hadn’t given the woman any reason to be proud of him when she was alive.

Then again, she hadn’t been the picture of virtue herself.

The server returned with a bowl of stew, the meaty scent almost making Bram wish he’d ordered one of his own.

“Thank you, my dear.” Uncle spared her a smile while picking up his spoon.

Bram waited for him to enjoy several mouthfuls before sliding the journal to the middle of the table. “About these notes.” He stabbed the cover with his finger. “The last half of this journal makes no sense whatsoever.”

“What’s that you say?” Stew suddenly forgotten, his uncle grabbed the worn book and paged through. The longer he looked, the more a slow grin grew until he exchanged the journal for his spoon again. “Oh yes, now I remember.”

As if that explained anything.

Bram waved the book in the air. “Care to expound on that?”

Uncle Pendleton shoveled in one more large bite before pushing away his bowl and leaning across the table. His voice lowered to a whisper. “It’s not meant to make sense.”

“Then why waste the ink on such gibberish?”

“Have I taught you nothing at all?” Uncle puffed out his cheeks with a great blast of air. “Surely you remember the origin of the bad blood between me and Grimwinkle?”

“Yes, yes. He claimed the credit on a dig for which you should have gotten commendation, earning him the head department chair instead of you. But I fail to see what that has to do with your journal.”

“He never would have gotten that commendation had he not stolen my notes and written the article that made him look like a genius.”

Bram blinked. This was news. “Why have you never told me that?”

“I just did.” Uncle humphed.

“Why did you not press charges against him?”

“Wouldn’t have done any good. It was his word against mine, and he had powerful backers in the department at the time. At any rate, it taught me a good lesson.” He thumped his hand on the journal. “Never put all your eggs in one basket, and for those that you do, be sure a few of them are cracked. The information on the final pages is for the express purpose of throwing off anyone who might try to use these notes for nefarious reasons.”

Aha. Now there was a ray of light in this dimly lit little pub. “So you’re saying the rest of the notes are in another notebook, yes?”

“I am.”

“Thank heaven. Then let’s be on our way.” He grabbed the book while scooting off the bench. “I’ll pick up the rest of your notes when we stop at your house.”

“Splendid idea except...”

He wheeled around to face his uncle. “Except what?”

Uncle’s chin tucked sheepishly. “I can’t seem to remember where I put them.”