Return to Camelot
"I don't have a reasonable explanation for the carbon dating results," Nate said. "Closest I can come is that someone wrote an elaborate fiction using authentic paper and ink, and it was left in the tomb by mistake."
"Incredible," Reid said.
"You can say that again. There's still no sign of the body or any other identifiers around the tomb?"
"None that they can find. Although there was a suit of armor and a shield that had a crest similar to what's in the book."
"Wow. And nobody has claimed responsibility, or claimed the book?"
"Nope. I can tell you, my superiors are going to be very pleased when we get your report, Dr. Heywood."
"I'm glad," Nate said, putting a smile in his voice. "And, I can still keep the book, right?"
"Absolutely," Reid said. "As far as my department chair is concerned, the less said about that book, the better."
Nate chuckled politely, but his hands clenched reflexively in his relief and excitement. "Nice," he said, tone casual. "It'll be a fun novelty to sit on my shelf and bring out at parties."
Reid gave him an equally polite chuckle. "Thanks again, Dr. Heywood. We have your account details, and you should see a wire come through any day. And you will be cited when we publish our findings as well. Your help has been invaluable. You'll be cited as one of the consulting experts."
"Thank you, Dr. Reid, I appreciate that," Nate answered. "You'll have my official report by end of day tomorrow."
They disconnected, and Nate heaved a sigh of relief. He was naturally excited about being included in the official record of the discovery. But more important than that, he was relieved that they had really meant it when they said he could keep the book. He'd been a little worried Oxford would want the book back after all, but he was glad they still seemed uninterested. He felt a strange sense of possessiveness over the manuscript, and in a way, over the beleaguered author as well. The man's loneliness and deep regret in that first entry had touched Nate's heart, and he had an irrational desire to console and protect the writer.
It made little sense, since the man was long-dead. Assuming Nate believed someone writing 20th century English in the 6th century really existed at all. For a brief moment, Nate thought - time traveler? But he vetoed the idea as ridiculous immediately. There was no such thing as time travel. The book was obviously an elaborate fiction created by an unknown party for an equally unknown purpose.
Whoever had done it, and whatever the reason, Nate was drawn to the writer, and he wanted to read the rest of his entries away from prying eyes. He wrapped the volume up carefully in a clean linen cloth, tucked it into his bag and took it home.
Once he had it home, Nate took it immediately to his favorite chair, kept the linen cloth on his lap, and started reading.
My dearest friend,
It's now been about a week since my first letter. That's how I'm thinking of these - as letters to you. Obviously, I'm alive, and I'm relieved to say that my position at court is now much healthier. I still have a guard posted at my door, but I've been able to sleep through the night without worrying about a knife in my back. I'm considering ending the pre-tasting of my food, but that may be premature.
I promised to tell you more when I could. Things are calming down and I can settle in and get you up to speed. I'll try to do this in a way that causes the least disruption to things as possible. This book will be confusing enough, I suppose. I don't know enough Latin, and even if I had the energy to try Old English, anyone with even a little bit of knowledge of the time would find flaws. You? You would see through it in a heartbeat, and I wouldn't insult your intelligence like that. So, out-of-place "future" English it is.
Nate sucked in a sharp breath, nearly dropping the book in his shock. Even though he was half-convinced this was all a hoax, the casual mention of the anachronism by the author himself was jarring to say the least. Nate had the strange feeling the writer was speaking directly to him. Not to an unknown reader, or to the object of his affection, but to him - Nathaniel Henry Heywood - and it was unnerving to say the least.
Nate set the book down and took a deep breath, rubbing his eyes. "Pull it together, Nate," he muttered. "You're getting too caught up. It's just a prank."
Nate's mind automatically rebelled against that thought, and this time he didn't fight it. There was something that just felt genuine about it, as illogical as it was. Maybe the time travel explanation wasn't as far-fetched as he thought. Or maybe it was just a cleverly written story about a time traveler. But how would that account for the period-accurate paper and ink? Maybe... maybe an actual time traveler made more sense.
Nate shook his head. "Listen to yourself!" He forced himself to step away from the book. He made a pot of coffee and tried to make himself do something else. He had an invitation to speak at a private college in a month. Maybe he should work on his notes. Or continue outlining his latest journal. Or...
Nate's eyes traveled back to the coffee table, where the book sat open. The surprisingly modern handwriting in its incongruous setting called to him like a Siren. He went back to his chair, deciding he didn't care whether it was real or not - didn't need to analyze his perception of reality, or of what lengths some fiction author would go through for a hoax, or any of it.
The writer - the man pouring his heart out to some mysterious "friend" - was hurting and alone. Even though he was long past any help Nate could hope to give him, that didn't really matter. The writer deserved more than to have his letters shoved onto some dusty shelf next to other relics that couldn't easily be explained - unread and forgotten. The writer deserved an audience. And since his "dearest friend", whoever she was, had never found the book and never seen the letters, Nate would read them instead.
Nate rested his hand on the page for a second and sighed. "You deserve better than a stranger reading these, but..." Nate shrugged and left the rest of his confused and oddly emotional thoughts unspoken.