Treasure of the Vanquished - A Novel of Visigothic Spain

The treasure of the royal chapel, which was his charge, must be saved for the king... The king must not come to them as a defeated man, without resources. He must have that booty of a thousand raids and fights, long since cast into golden crosses and jewel-heavy crowns, which adorned the royal chapels of Toledo. It had glorified God and mollified the saints. Now it could support a hundred campaigns.

He came suddenly on a small oratory. A solid little church whose priest had doubtless fled, perhaps with the villagers. Just beyond it lay a cemetery to the edge of which he led the pony. He stopped by a grave. The granite cover looked loose. He must dispose of the gold. Perhaps it would be safe. Perhaps he could return for it. He hardly cared except to get rid of that weight, that drag.

The notion of the hunt, rising within him, raised anew the thrill of terror. Urgently he wrested off the granite slabs, straining at the weight. He must not break them. The faint stench that met him was familiar from a dozen battlefields. Too frightened to do more than curse weakly, he wrested the pony towards the sarcophagus and tipped the heavy sack into it.