Nat whistled. “We did a school project about the Templars,” he said. “When the Crusades lost everyone’s support, the fighting monks weren’t needed anymore and turned into bankers.”

“Sort of,” Iona conceded, still smiling. “Two centuries after they were formed, the Knights Templar were accused of terrible crimes against God, and hounded into exile. Hundreds were tortured and burned, but many managed to escape and existed in underground movements.”

“But what will that tell us about the Wolven?” asked Nat.

“Well, Nathaniel, the title of the chronicle is Journeys with the King’s Wolven,” said Iona softly.

Nat almost shook with excitement. The King’s Wolven? Wasn’t that what Crescent had called Woody at the fair?

Iona gave Nat some thin white gloves to put on. “Do try your rose hip cordial, Nat,” she urged. “Best finish it before you read the manuscript.”

Nat winced at the thought of spilling something on the ancient document. The drink was wonderful, like nothing he had ever tasted before. He drained it thirstily and put the empty glass on the tray.

“You’ll probably find the text difficult to read,” Iona continued, lighting one of the lamps, “but Sir William was an excellent artist, too. I think you’ll find his pictures quite illuminating.”

Nat sat at the table, anxious to get started. Iona was right; the ancient writing would have been hard enough to follow in English, let alone French. The words were handwritten in the same fancy script as the cover, and after a while, they seemed to merge together, making Nat’s eyes sting. The spicy smell in the room seemed to be stronger, and now he could feel his eyes droop. His arms and legs felt so weak that he wouldn’t have been able to move them even if he’d wanted to. Eventually, he stopped trying to read and concentrated instead on the expertly drawn pictures. It was almost impossible to believe they had been created nine hundred years ago; the colors glowed vibrantly as Nat became lost in Sir William’s story. He could imagine riding through the Holy Land with Richard the Lionheart as he led his army forward. He could almost smell the sea as Sir William rode along the strange, foreign coast, so different from the one he knew there in the southwest of England. When he reached a particularly lifelike picture of the Lionheart inspecting the dead and dying on the battlefield, a lump rose in his throat and he felt he could actually hear the terrible screams of the wounded horses. He was so engrossed, he was only half aware that his chair was swaying, making him shift from side to side, threatening to tip him off.