Ark of Fire ca-1

by C. M. Palov

Stepping through an irreverently painted canary-yellow door, Sir Kenneth led them into a foyer. He removed his red scarf with a theatrical flourish, draping it around a marble bust of a bald-headed, beak-nosed man.

  Who’s that? Edie mouthed.

  Pope Clement the Fifth, Caedmon mouthed back.

  An older woman in a plain navy-blue dress—Edie placed her in the fiftyish range—scurried into the foyer. Any notion of the woman being Mrs. Campbell-Brown was instantly dispelled when she obsequiously bobbed her head and said, “Good day, Sir Kenneth.”

  Acknowledging the greeting with little more than a brusque nod, Sir Kenneth removed his leather bomber jacket and shoved it at the older woman. With a distracted wave of the hand, he indicated that Edie and Caedmon should do likewise.

  “Soon after you left, sir, the Norway spruce was delivered,” the housekeeper politely informed the master of the castle, her arms now laden with three sets of outerwear.

  Sir Kenneth glanced at a beautiful, but bare, Christmas tree that had been set up at the other end of the foyer.

  “Mrs. Janus has an annoying habit of stating the obvious.” He gestured to the stacked boxes on the console table. “Please overlook the Christmas fripperies. Mrs. Janus also has an annoying habit of decking Rose Chapel with boughs of holly and streams of satin ribbon.”

  Not liking Sir Kenneth’s high-handed tone, Edie walked over to the console table and carefully lifted a glass angel out of its nest of tissue paper. As she held it aloft, the gilt-edged wings caught the wintry light. “These are lovely ornaments,” she said to Mrs. Janus, smiling.

  “That particular angel came from Poland.”

  Without being told, Edie sensed that the Christmas holidays were particularly difficult for Mrs. Janus. Like many emigrants, she no doubt longed for the traditions of her native land. Taking care, Edie replaced the fragile angel in its box. “I’m sure it’ll be a beautiful tree.”

  “The Christmas season is one of joy and remembrance,” the housekeeper replied, casting a quick glance in her employer’s direction.

  “As is hot mulled wine,” Sir Kenneth loudly barked. “And bring us some of those little tarts I saw you pop into the Aga.”

  Orders issued, Sir Kenneth led Edie and Caedmon down the hall. Playing the baronial lord, he swung open a paneled door and strode into a large, high-ceilinged room. About to follow him, Edie hesitated, taken aback by the stone grotesques that flanked the doorway.

  “Is it my imagination or did one of those butt-ugly creatures just move its lips?”

  “It’s the play of light and shadow,” Caedmon informed her. “Sir Kenneth’s way of instilling fear into the hearts of all those who enter his sanctum sanctorum.” Given what was clearly a grudge match between the two men, Edie wasn’t surprised by Caedmon’s sarcastic rejoinder.

  At a glance, she could see that the sanctum sanctorum had originally been the main chamber of the chapel; the massive arched ceiling, stone floor, and stained glass triptych were the dead giveaway. Put all together, it made for an impressive sight. Assuming one ignored the half dozen cats snoozing in various places throughout the room. A nicked-eared feline, perched on top of a bookcase, drowsily lifted its head, the rest of the tribe taking no notice of the intrusion.

  Trying not to gawk, she did a quick three-sixty. Some things, like the medieval torchères, looked right at home. Other things, like the modern wood shelving unit jam-packed with old records sheathed in clear plastic, looked conspicuously out of place in the medieval setting.

  “I daresay that you are looking at the best collection of nineteen-fifties American rock and roll in the entire U.K.,” Sir Kenneth remarked, having noticed the direction of her gaze. “The music of my youth, as you have undoubtedly deduced.”

  Edie also deduced that music wasn’t the Oxford don’s only passion. On the wall nearest to where she stood hung a black-and-white poster of the 1930s movie siren Mae West, her curvaceous figure swathed in a satin evening gown. Beside the poster a large animal horn hung from a bright blue tassel, the hideous thing banded with engraved silver. All too easily, she could envision Sir Kenneth decked out in his red cashmere scarf and brown bomber jacket, swigging gin and tonics out of the loving cup like tap water from a spout.

  “My dear, before you depart, you must have a look at my collection of incunabula,” Sir Kenneth said, gesturing to a bookcase jam-packed with leather-bound volumes.

  Put on the spot, Edie gave the bookcase a cursory glance, recalling a philosophy professor who’d once invited her to his house to look at his collection of Chagall prints. She sidled closer to Caedmon.

  Sir Kenneth motioned to a pair of upholstered chairs positioned in front of a paper-laden desk, one stack of papers weighed down with a rusty astrolabe, another with a snow dome of the Empire State Building. Behind the desk, beautifully framed in gilt, hung a reproduction of Trumbull’s painting depicting the signing of the Declaration of Independence.

  “Sir Kenneth has a love of all things American,” Caedmon whispered in her ear as he dislodged a dozing cat from his chair. “Do be on your guard.”

  “That’s why you’re here, Big Red,” she whispered back at him.

  Walking over to them, Sir Kenneth jovially slapped Caedmon on the back. “Middle age becomes you, young Aisquith.” Then, turning his attention to Edie, he remarked, “When he first arrived at Oxford, he was a gangly-limbed lad with a thatch of unruly red hair.”

  Grinning, Edie gave Caedmon a once-over. “Hmm. Sounds cute.”

  “Ah! The lady doth have a penchant for redheaded buggers.” As Sir Kenneth took his seat behind the desk, Edie heard him mutter, “Lucky bastard.”

  CHAPTER 36

  At finding himself seated in Sir Kenneth’s study, inundated with the twin scents of damp wool and musty leather, Caedmon experienced an unexpected burst of painful nostalgia.

  Striving for an appearance of calm, he glanced at the stained glass triptych that overshadowed the room. A beautiful piece of medieval artistry, the three windows articulated that most famous of cautionary tales, the Temptation in the Garden.

  Overtly phallic snake. A bright red juicy apple. Hands shamefully placed over fig-leafed genitals.

  For some inexplicable reason, it reminded him of his student days at Oxford. Perhaps because, he, too, had dared to eat the fruit from the Tree of Knowledge.

  And if he was the hapless Adam, Sir Kenneth Campbell-Brown could only be the conniving Lucifer.

  Although in his impressionable youth, he’d cast his mentor in a far more exalted role.

  A brilliant scholar, a rigid taskmaster, and at times a capriciously cruel bastard, Sir Kenneth demanded an unswerving fidelity from his students. In return, he gave his charges an unforgettable academic journey. Ever mindful that Oxford had its start when groups of young scholars gathered around the most illustrious teachers of the day, Sir Kenneth maintained the tradition, hosting weekly tutorials within the stone confines of Rose Chapel.

  For nearly eight years, he and Sir Kenneth had maintained a close relationship. Not unlike a father and his son.

  Initially, Sir Kenneth had approved his dissertation topic, intrigued by the notion that the Knights Templar might have explored the tombs and temples of Egypt during their tenure in the Holy Land. But when he dared to suggest that the Templars had turned their backs on Catholicism and become devotees of the Isis mystery cult, Sir Kenneth not only refused to countenance the notion, he took the backlash one step further, publicly ridiculing him for having “embraced rumors and passed them off as the truth.”

  It was as if he’d been mugged in the middle of a dark and rainy night.

  Thirteen years later he turned misfortune to advantage, his derided dissertation paper becoming the cornerstone for his book, Isis Revealed.

  Shoving aside the old memories, Caedmon cleared his throat, ready to embark on what would undoubtedly be a bumpy ride.

  “Let us suppose for argument’s sake that Galen of Godmersham did discover the Ark of the Cove
nant while on reconnaissance in Esdraelon,” he carefully began, mindful that Sir Kenneth dealt in “fact, not innuendo.” “Is there any evidence to support that particular supposition?”

  Leaning back in his tufted leather wingback, his blue-veined fingers laced over his chest, Sir Kenneth’s gaze narrowed; the old man was undoubtedly deciding whether to reply. With a noticeable lack of enthusiasm, he finally said, “There are a few shreds of historical data to support your supposition.”

  “Like what?” Edie piped in; subtlety was not her strong suit.

  “As you undoubtedly know, theories have waxed and waned as to how and why the Ark disappeared. However, if one carefully shifts through centuries of biblical silence, the Ark’s disappearance might possibly be laid at the sandaled foot of the Egyptian pharaoh Shishak, who invaded the holy city of Jerusalem in the year 926 B.C.”

  As his former mentor began to speak, Caedmon was reminded of the fact that Sir Kenneth never prepared for his tutorials, always speaking extemporaneously. And brilliantly. Most who flew by the seat of their pants crash-landed midway in flight. Never Sir Kenneth Campbell-Brown; his lectures were legendary.

  Caedmon turned to Edie. Filling in the gaps, he said, “Shishak’s invasion occurred not long after Solomon’s son Rehoboam inherited the crown of Israel. Because the northern tribes had recently broken away during a contentious power struggle, the Kingdom of Israel was left vulnerable.”

  “In other words, the opportunistic Egyptians swept down like vultures on roadkill.”

  Sir Kenneth laughed aloud, clearly amused. “Well put, my dear! Well put, indeed.”

  On the far side of the room, the study door suddenly swung open, the convivial mood interrupted by the heavy thud of rubber-soled shoes. Without uttering a word, the housekeeper, bearing a tray laden with Wedgwood and pewter, walked over to the tea table. Still silent as the grave, the stern-faced matron handed each of them a tankard of mulled wine and a dainty plate with two petite tarts.

  Watching the housekeeper depart, Caedmon thought he recognized the woman, unable to fathom why any domestic would willingly suffer Sir Kenneth’s mercurial ways for so many years. Clearly, the woman possessed the patience of Job.

  “The blasted Aga has been running full throttle since the first of December. If I’m not careful, I’ll pack on a stone before Twelfth Night.”

  Forgoing the beautifully incised dessert fork, Edie plucked the miniature tart off the plate with her fingers. “You were about to regale us with the story of Shishak’s invasion of Israel.”

  “So I was.” Choosing wine over sweets, Sir Kenneth cradled his tankard between his hands. “According to the book of Kings, in the fifth year of Rehoboam’s reign, ‘Shishak, king of Egypt, came up against Jerusalem: And he took away the treasures of the house of the Lord, and the treasures of the king’s house; he even took away all.’”

  “Meaning that the pharaoh stole the Ark of the Covenant!” When her exclamation met with silence, Edie’s brows puckered in the middle. “Well, what else could it mean?”

  “The Old Testament makes no mention of Shishak seizing the Ark. It merely records that the pharaoh managed to come away with five hundred shields of beaten gold.”

  “Solomon’s famous shields,” Caedmon murmured.

  “Some biblical historians have theorized that King Rehoboam willingly handed over the five hundred gold shields as tribute to repay a debt of honor. Years earlier, the pharaoh had granted the wayward Hebrew prince asylum when his father ordered his assassination. All that internecine rivalry between family members is what makes the Bible such a jolly good read,” Sir Kenneth said in an aside, broadly winking at Edie.

  “Are there any historical records aside from the Old Testament that mention Shishak’s invasion of Israel?” Caedmon inquired, wishing the other man would stay on point.

  “The only other account is an inscription at Luxor inside the Temple of Amun-Ra. Per the inscription, after he attacked Jerusalem, Shishak apparently stopped on the Plain of Esdraelon, where he had a commemorative stele erected. The custom of the time mandated that Shishak show his gratitude to the gods by leaving behind a sizable offering. As with the tax man, one must always appease one’s god. And to answer your next question, there is no record of what Shishak did with his ill-gotten gains once he returned to the capital city of Tanis.”

  “I thought the Ark was placed in Shishak’s burial tomb. At least that’s the theory put forth in Raiders of the Lost Ark,” Edie conversationally remarked.

  To Caedmon’s surprise, rather than berate Edie for introducing a fictional movie plotline into the discussion, Sir Kenneth smiled. “You are absolutely charming, my dear. But you have jumped to an erroneous conclusion regarding Shishak and the Ark of the Covenant. As I earlier mentioned, there is no evidence that Shishak took the Ark.”

  “It stands to reason that if the pharaoh’s army invaded Jerusalem, Shishak would have raided Solomon’s Temple,” Caedmon argued. “After all, the sole purpose for invading Israel was to come away with as much treasure as they could pocket.”

  “And what proof do you have that Shishak actually laid his greedy hands upon the much-coveted prize?”

  “As you have already stated, there’s no direct biblical evidence. However, it stands to reason that—”

  “Rubbish! It does not stand to reason!” Sir Kenneth loudly exclaimed, punctuating his rebuttal with a banged fist. “Moreover, your assumptions are without warrant. You would be well advised, young Aisquith, to keep your fantastical deductions at bay.”

  Warning issued, the woolly-headed don surged to his feet, whereupon he strode to a nearby window. Despite the December temperatures on the other side of the glass, he threw open the window, letting in a burst of wintry air. The centuries-old grisaille glass caught the midday sun, cloaking the older man in a silvery gray nimbus.

  “Reginae erunt nutrices tuae!” he hollered to the bare trees that bordered the chapel yard.

  Edie’s jaw nearly came unhinged, so great was her astonishment.

  Having witnessed the performance many times before, Caedmon rose to his feet and walked over to the tea tray, snatching two pecan tarts from a Wedgwood plate. He handed one of the tarts to Edie. “‘Queens shall be thy nursing mothers, ’” he translated. “Taken from the book of Isaiah, it is the Queen’s College motto.”

  Munching on his tart, Caedmon gazed beyond the woolly head at the window, espying the small stone terrace that overlooked the knot garden. In the blossoming profusion of Trinity term, Sir Kenneth liked to gather his favorites on the terrace. For some inexplicable reason, the memory of those lush spring days was especially poignant. And especially painful.

  “I know Sir Kenneth would jump all over me if I suggested this,” Edie said in a lowered voice, “but what if Shishak dumped the Ark of the Covenant at Esdraelon just like the Philistines dumped the Ark at Bethshemesh? Shishak might have done that if the Egyptian soldiers started to complain of tumors and lesions. Or, better yet, what if the pharaoh witnessed one or two of his soldiers being tossed in the air because of the electric current being produced by the Ark? I’d think that’d be reason enough to hide the Ark, say a prayer, and get the heck out of Esdraelon as quick as possible.”

  Thinking it a likely scenario, Caedmon reseated himself, the maudlin mood instantly lifted. “You are a woman after my own heart.”

  He also thought it probable that Shishak’s appeasement offering was then happened upon by a crusading knight; the dimensions listed in the Feet of Fines for Galen’s gold chest were an exact match to the dimensions given in the Old Testament for the Ark of the Covenant. And Esdraelon, the site where Galen of Godmersham discovered his gold chest, was where the commemorative stele had been erected by Shishak.

  “Sir Kenneth said something about Galen being the proud owner of a number of objets sacrés. Are you thinking what I’m thinking, that Galen also happened upon a few of Solomon’s shields?”

  “It’s not outside the realm of possibility t
hat Shishak left a number of shields as a peace offering to the gods,” Caedmon answered in a hushed tone. “Although I wouldn’t broach the notion with our host.”

  “Gotcha.”

  Closing the window, Sir Kenneth strode back to his desk.

  “Nothing like a full-throated bellow to clear one’s mind, eh? You should try it, my dear. I suspect you have a fulsome pair of lungs.” Pronouncement issued, he turned to Caedmon. “Although this has been a most entertaining discussion, young Aisquith, your original supposition is not unlike a fart in a wind tunnel. Ephemeral, at best.”

  “And thus ‘a terrible beauty is born,’” Caedmon drolly murmured.

  “You were always fond of literary flourish. Had you studied medieval literature rather than medieval history, you might have gone far.”

  “Rather late for such lamentations.”

  “Um, speaking of literary endeavors, I’m curious about the poems that Galen of Godmersham wrote prior to his death,” Edie interjected, taking upon herself the thankless job of r eferee.

  “Yes, I thought the two of you would be interested in Galen’s poetry. The original quatrains are kept at Duke Humfrey’s Library and do not circulate. But lucky for you, my dear, I’ve got a copy right here.”

  Still standing, he shuffled through a pile of papers on his desk. When Sir Kenneth didn’t find what he was looking for, he impatiently riffled through the next pile. And then another, all the while muttering under his breath.

  “This is unconscionable!” he angrily exclaimed, slapping a palm on top of the last pile searched. “Someone pinched the blasted quatrains!”

  CHAPTER 37

  As she did each and every year, Marta Janus carefully removed the tissue-wrapped ornaments from the packing crate. First she unwrapped the six handblown glass angels from her native Poland. Next she unwrapped the tartan-clad Santas. As always, she found the green-and-blue-plaid porcelain figures slightly grotesque. But Sir Kenneth was inordinately proud of his Scottish forebears, and so each year she hung the gaudy ornaments on the tree. One plaid Santa for each crystal angel.