Ark of Fire

by C. M. Palov

  “Oh, I get it!” Edie exclaimed, nearly coming bodily off her chair in her excitement. “The clues to the whereabouts of the gold chest are contained within the poetic quatrains.”

  “Possibly,” Sir Kenneth replied, refusing to commit. “Although Galen’s verse is cryptic in nature, there is reference made in the quatrains to an arca.”

  “Arca being the Latin word for ‘chest,’ ” Caedmon said, taking a moment to consider all that Sir Kenneth had divulged. If the clues to the gold chest’s whereabouts were contained within the poetic quatrains, it would explain why a Harvard scholar had expressed an interest in those very lines of verse.

  And if the scholar was in Stanford MacFarlane’s employ, it meant the bastard had a twenty-four-hour head start in solving the centuries-old mystery.

  “Is there any chance that the gold chest discovered by Galen of Godmersham was the Ark of the Covenant?” Edie unexpectedly inquired.

  No sooner was the question posed than Sir Kenneth’s woolly head swiveled in Caedmon’s direction. “Is that your purpose in roasting me over the fire, so that you can chase after a myth?”

  Caedmon opened his mouth to speak. But Edie beat him to the punch.

  “We thought there might be a slim possibility that Galen of Godmersham uncovered the Ark of the Covenant.”

  “A fool’s errand, my dear. The Holy Land fair brimmed with golden gewgaws, and more than one impoverished knight returned to England a wealthy man.”

  Undeterred, Edie said, “If Galen didn’t discover the Ark of the Covenant, then—”

  “I never said he didn’t discover the Ark of the Covenant.”

  “But you just said—”

  “I said that Galen of Godmersham discovered a gold chest. It has yet to be proved whether the gold chest is the muchballyhooed Ark of the Covenant. I am a scholar, not a conspiracy theorist. And as such, I deal in fact, not innuendo,” the older man brusquely asserted. As he spoke, he locked gazes with Caedmon. A glancing blow. Then, his expression softening, he returned his attention to Edie. “Did you know there’s an old Irish legend that claims that not only did a band of in trepid Hebrews take refuge on the Emerald Isle, but that they brought with them the Ark of the Covenant? Supposedly they buried the blasted thing under a hill in Ulster. Nearly as preposterous an Ark tale as that of Galen of Godmersham discovering the Ark on the Plain of Esdraelon.”

  Just then the door of the pub opened and a gaggle of giggling women crossed the threshold, holding a birthday cake aloft.

  “It would appear that the lacy-frock brigade has taken the field,” Sir Kenneth dryly remarked. “Shall we continue the conversation at Rose Chapel?”

  Not bothering to wait for a reply—it being more of a summons than an invitation—Sir Kenneth rose to his feet.

  Leaning toward him, Edie whispered in Caedmon’s ear, “He wants to go to church?”

  “Not in the sense that you mean it. Sir Kenneth resides at Rose Chapel.”

  “Just like a medieval monk, huh?”

  Caedmon watched as Sir Kenneth appraised the cake bearer’s backside.

  “Hardly.”

  CHAPTER 35

  Leading the way through the twisting labyrinth of narrow streets, Sir Kenneth came to a halt in front of a fan-vaulted entryway. “After you, Miss Miller.”

  Edie pushed open a wrought-iron gate. At hearing the spine-jangling squeak, she said, “A little WD-40 will fix that right up.”

  “My dear, I have no idea what you just said, but it sounded utterly delightful.”

  She forced her lips into a tight smile.

  God save her from horny college professors.

  Discovering that they had entered an ancient cemetery, a good many of the weathered headstones eerily tilted at a drunken incline, Edie unthinkingly leaned into Caedmon.

  “Very creepy,” she murmured, not wanting to disturb the dead.

  “The scenery improves on the other side of the marble yard,” he assured her, gently squeezing her hand.

  A few moments later she breathed a sigh of relief at finding herself in a medieval knot garden. Taking the lead, his red cashmere scarf jauntily flapping in the breeze, Sir Kenneth guided them through the clipped boxwoods. Imagining the older man maneuvering through the circuitous route after a night spent at the Isis Room, Edie bit back a smile.

  The knot garden navigated, they strolled through a small cluster of cedar trees and copper beeches.

  Peering through the tree limbs, Edie’s breath caught in her throat.

  Lovely to behold, even dressed in winter’s stark garb, Rose Chapel was constructed of rubbled stone, beautifully articulated with arched stained glass windows. Adjacent to the chapel was a three-story Norman tower that seemed out of place with its plain façade and arrow slits, tower married to chapel like a masculine/feminine yin/yang.

  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 Covenant 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 manage
d 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?”