by Chloe Palov
For several long moments he went at her like a mad man, his hand moving from her neck to her back, pulling her that much closer to him, not stopping until her breasts were crushed against his chest.
Not stopping until he heard a gasp from across the aisle.
Abruptly, and somewhat awkwardly, he ended the kiss. Hoping she didn’t notice the visible lump between his hips, he cleared his throat.
‘That was unplanned and… Forgive me if I acted inappropriately.’ His cheeks warmed at the butchered apology.
Wet lips curved into a fetching smile. ‘The only thing you did wrong was to end that kiss way too soon.’ Edie glanced out the window. ‘Looks like we just pulled into Oxford.’
33
Hoping she didn’t appear too awestruck, Edie discreetly checked out the buildings that fronted High Street.
Everywhere she looked there were hints, some subtle, some in your face, of Oxford’s medieval past. Battlements. Gate towers. Oriel windows. And stone. Lots and lots of stone. Varying in shade from pale silver to deep gold. All of it combining in a wondrous sort of sensory overload.
‘Where’s the university?’ she enquired, scrunching her shoulders to avoid hitting a group of midday shoppers who had just emerged from a clothes shop. She and Cædmon were en route to some pub called the Isis Room, where Cædmon seemed to think they would find Sir Kenneth Campbell-Brown.
Cædmon slowed his step as he gestured to either side of the busy thoroughfare. ‘Oxford University is everywhere and nowhere. Since leaving the bus station, we’ve already passed Jesus, Exeter and Lincoln colleges.’
‘We did?’ Edie swivelled her head, wondering how she could have missed three college campuses. She knew that Oxford University was made up of several dozen colleges spread throughout the town. Having attended a downtown college herself, she assumed there would be signs identifying the various buildings. Clearly, she’d been working under a false assumption.
‘Look for the gateways,’ Cædmon said, pointing to an imposing iron portal wedged in a stone wall. ‘They often lead to a quadrangle, most of the colleges built to the standard medieval pattern of chapel and hall flanked by residential ranges.’
Edie peered through the iron bars. Beyond the gatehouse, she glimpsed an arched portico on either side of a quadrangle.
‘That’s a formidable entrance. Guess it’s meant to keep the little people out, huh?’
‘Having spent an inordinate amount of time on the other side of those “formidable” gateways, I always thought they were intended to keep the students from leaving – the college’s way of cultivating a slavish devotion to one’s alma mater.’ Edie wasn’t certain, but she thought she detected a hint of sarcasm in his voice.
‘Sounds like an academic Never-Never Land.’
‘Indeed, it was.’
‘So, where are the Lost Boys?’
His copper-coloured brows briefly furrowed. ‘Ah, the students. Michaelmas Term ended last week, so the vast majority of students have gone home for the holidays.’
‘Well that would certainly explain all the riderless bicycles,’ she said, nodding towards a mass of bikes parked in front of a stucco wall. Above the tidy lines of chained bicycles, old posters flapped in the breeze, hawking an array of student activities. Debating societies. Drama societies. Choral societies.
Cædmon’s gaze momentarily softened. ‘By their bicycles you shall know them,’ he murmured, his sarcasm replaced with something more akin to nostalgia.
Surprised by his sudden shift in mood, Edie surreptitiously checked out her companion, her gaze moving from the top of his thick thatch of red hair to the tips of his black leather brogues. She was beginning to realize that Cædmon Aisquith was a complicated man. Or maybe she was just dense when it came to men. He’d certainly taken her by surprise with the killer kiss. For some idiotic reason, she’d assumed that because he was such a brainiac he lived a monkish existence. Wasn’t that a stupid assumption? Given the passionate smooch on the bus, he’d make a lousy monk. Wonder what kind of lover he’d make?
Giving the question several moments’ thought, she decided it was impossible to tell, the cultured accent acting like a smokescreen. Although the unexpected kiss most definitely hinted at a deeper passion.
Oblivious to the fact that he was being ogled, Cædmon turned his head as they passed an ATM.
‘Though sorely tempted to use the cashpoint, it would undoubtedly lead Stanford MacFarlane right to us.’
‘Don’t worry. As keeper of the vault, I can assure you that there are enough funds to keep us afloat. At least for a little while.’ The airline tickets and new clothes had set them back a bit, but at the last count she had nearly three thousand dollars.
‘Being a kept man doesn’t sit well with me. Bruised ego and all that.’
She affected a stunned expression. ‘You’re kidding, right? We’ve spent three days together and only now am I learning that you object to being my sex slave?’ Playing the part for all it was worth, she theatrically sighed. ‘Here I thought you were having the time of your life.’
To her surprise, Cædmon blushed, his cheeks as red as holly berries. Raising a balled hand to his mouth, he cleared his throat.
‘Hel-lo. I’m teasing. You’re hardly a kept man,’ she assured him, amused by his embarrassment.
‘Then how about spotting me two quid for a pint?’ Taking her by the elbow, Cædmon ushered her to a panelled wooden door. Above the door a brightly painted sign emblazoned with the pub’s name swung from a metal bracket.
‘Be my pleasure, luv,’ she replied in an attempt at a cockney accent.
Not expecting the interior to be so dim, it took several seconds of squinting before her pupils adjusted, the room bathed in soft amber light. All in all, the joint was pretty much as she had envisioned an English pub – wood-panelled walls, wood-beamed ceiling and wooden tables and chairs scattered about. Framed lithographs of sea battles hung on the cream-coloured walls, a limp bouquet of mistletoe tacked above the Battle of Trafalgar.
Her eyes zeroed in on the easel where a blackboard listed the day’s menu: HOME-MADE LENTIL SOUP, TWO-CHEESE QUICHE, SEAFOOD SALAD. She placed a hand over her abdomen, having long since digested the rubbery chicken cordon bleu she’d been served on the transatlantic flight.
‘Any idea what this Sir Kenneth character looks like?’ she asked over a very unladylike stomach growl.
‘Ruddy cheeks, aquiline nose and a pewter-coloured mop of curly hair. Looks like a sheep before the spring shearing. You can’t miss him.’
Edie scanned the crowded pub. ‘How about we divide and conquer? You take that side of the room and I’ll take the other.’
‘Right.’
A few seconds later, seeing a man of middling height with curly grey hair standing at the bar, Edie headed in that direction. Raising her hand to catch Cædmon’s attention, she pointed to her suspect. For several seconds Cædmon stared at the man’s back, drilling the proverbial hole right through the older man’s head. She wasn’t certain but she thought Cædmon straightened his shoulders before heading towards the bar.
Reaching the target a few seconds ahead of Cædmon, she lightly tapped the grey-haired man on the shoulder.
‘Excuse me. You wouldn’t happen to be Sir Kenneth Campbell-Brown?’
The grey-haired man slowly turned towards her. Although decked out in a brown leather bomber jacket, a red cashmere scarf jauntily wrapped around his neck, he resembled nothing so much as a woolly ram, Cædmon’s description right on the mark.
‘Well, I’m not the bloody Prince of Wales.’
‘Ah! Still the amiable Oxford don much beloved by students and fellows alike,’ Cædmon said, having overheard the exchange.
Slightly bug-eyed by nature, Sir Kenneth became even more so as he turned in the direction of Cædmon’s voice. ‘Good God! I thought you crawled into a hole and died! What the bloody hell are you doing in Oxford? I didn’t think the Boar’s Head Gaudy was your cup of tea.’
/> ‘You’re quite right. In the thirteen years since I left, I’ve yet to attend the Christmas dinner.’
The older man snickered. ‘I suspect that’s because your soft-hearted sympathies go out to the apple-stuffed swine. So, tell me, young Aisquith, if the pig is not your purpose, what bringeth you to “the high shore of this world”?’
‘As fate would have it, you’re the reason I’m in Oxford.’ Outwardly calm – maybe too calm given the older man’s condescension – Cædmon redirected his gaze in Edie’s direction. ‘Excuse me. I’ve been remiss. Edie Miller, may I present Professor Sir Kenneth Campbell-Brown, senior fellow at Queen’s College.’
Sir Kenneth acknowledged the introduction with a slight nod of his woolly head. ‘I am also the head of the history department, secretary of the tutorial committee, defender of the realm and protector of women and small children,’ he informed her, speaking in beautifully precise pear-shaped tones. ‘I am in addition the man responsible for booting your swain out of Oxford.’
34
‘Mind you, that was years ago,’ Sir Kenneth added, still addressing his remarks to Edie. Then, turning to Cædmon, ‘Water under the Magdalen Bridge, eh?’
Refusing to be drawn into that particular conversation – one could drown in a shallow puddle if led there by this don – Cædmon jutted his chin towards the far side of the pub. ‘Shall we adjourn to the vacant booth in the corner?’
‘An excellent suggestion.’ Smiling, Sir Kenneth placed a hand on Edie’s elbow. ‘And what is your pleasure, my dear?’
‘Oh, I’ll just have a glass of water. It’s a little early for kicking back the brewskies.’
‘Righto. An Adam’s ale for the lady and a Kingfisher for the gent. I won’t be but a second.’ Turning round, Sir Kenneth placed the order with a barmaid.
As he steered Edie towards the booth, Cædmon wondered how, after so many years, his estranged mentor still remembered his preferred lager. The old bastard always did have a mind like a steel trap.
Which meant he’d have to be on his guard to keep from ending up in the poacher’s sack.
As they sidestepped a jovial group arguing the merits of the new PM, Edie elbowed him in the ribs. ‘You didn’t tell me that you knew Sir Kenneth.’
‘Forgive the omission,’ he replied, failing to mention that the oversight had been quite intentional.
‘You also didn’t tell me that you were “booted” out of Oxford. Gees, what else are you hiding from me? You’re not wanted by the police or anything like that, are you?’
‘The police? No.’ The RIRA, yes. Knowing he’d only frighten her if he disclosed that titbit, Cædmon kept mum.
‘So, what happened? Were you “sent down”, as the highbrows on Masterpiece Theater are wont to say?’
‘No. I left of my own accord after it was made painfully clear to me by Sir Kenneth that my doctorate would not be conferred.’
She glanced at the curly-haired don. ‘I’m guessing there’s bad blood between the two of you, huh?’
‘Of a sort. Although in England we conduct our feuds in a chillingly polite manner,’ he replied, relieved when she didn’t pry further. He’d been a cocky bastard in his student days, supremely confident of his intellectual prowess. He’d had his comeuppance. And preferred not to talk about it.
He assisted Edie in removing her red coat, hanging it on a brass hook on the side of the booth. That done, he removed his anorak and hung it on another hook. He then motioned her to the circular table in the high-backed booth.
‘Do you mind grabbing that bag of crackers on the next table?’ Edie asked as she seated herself, not in the booth but in the Windsor chair opposite.
Cædmon complied, commandeering an unopened bag of crisps left by a previous patron. Handing the crisps to Edie, he seated himself in a vacant chair just as Sir Kenneth, juggling a small tray, approached the table.
‘Nothing like malt, hops and yeast to usher in a spirit of fraternal concord, eh?’ A man of mercurial moods, Sir Kenneth had forsaken his earlier condescension for a show of bluff good humour. Drinks passed out, he seated himself in the booth. Surrounded on three sides by dark wood, he looked like a Saxon king holding court.
Edie lifted her water glass. ‘I assume that I’m included in all that brotherly love.’
‘Most certainly, my dear.’ As Edie bent her head, Sir Kenneth slyly winked at him, Cædmon wanting very badly to bash him on the nose.
Although he hailed from the upper echelons of British society, Sir Kenneth wasn’t averse to mucking in with the common man. Or woman, Sir Kenneth being particularly fond of the fairer sex. The man had a voracious sexual appetite, an appetite that had evidently not diminished with age. According to rumour, the provost had once remarked that Oxford might do well to return to the days of celibate fellows, if for no other reason than to keep marauding dons like Sir Kenneth under control.
‘So, tell me, young Aisquith, to what do I owe the pleasure of this most unexpected visit?’
‘We’d like to ask you about a thirteenth-century knight named Galen of Godmersham.’
‘How curious. I had an appointment yesterday with a chap from Harvard, a professor of medieval literature interested in Galen of Godmersham’s poetic endeavours.’
Curious indeed. Cædmon immediately wondered if the ‘chap from Harvard’ was working for Colonel Stanford MacFarlane. Or was it mere coincidence that an American scholar had been inquiring about an obscure English knight? Since Sir Kenneth Campbell-Brown was the foremost authority on English crusaders, it could be pure chance. Although Cædmon had his doubts.
‘What’s this about poetry?’ Edie piped up. ‘Are we talking about the same knight?’
His tutorial style having always been to answer a question with a question, Sir Kenneth did just that. ‘How familiar are you with Galen of Godmersham?’
Plucking several crisps out of the bag, Edie replied, ‘I know him by name only. Oh, and the fact that he discovered a gold chest while crusading in the Holy Land.’
‘Ah… the fabled gold chest.’ His eyes narrowing, Sir Kenneth directed his gaze at Cædmon. ‘I should have known this was about that nonsense.’
‘I assume the American professor expressed a similar interest in Galen’s treasure trove,’ Cædmon countered, ignoring the jibe.
‘If you must know, he never mentioned Galen’s gold chest. The chap’s field of expertise was thirteenth- and fourteenth-century English poetry. Recited reams of archaic verse. I almost nodded off.’
‘Time out,’ Edie exclaimed, holding her hands in a T shape. ‘I’m totally confused. We’re talking about a gold chest and you’re talking about poetry. Is it just me or did we lose the connection?’
Sir Kenneth smiled, the question smoothing the old cock’s ruffled feathers. ‘Because you are such a lovely girl, with your raven elf locks and skin so fair, I shall tell you all that I know of Galen of Godmersham. After which you will tell me why you are chasing after dead knights.’
‘Okay, fair enough,’ Edie replied, returning the smile.
Not wanting Sir Kenneth to know the full story, Cædmon decided to intervene when the time came to tell him the reasons for their interest. If mishandled, such knowledge could get one killed.
‘As your swain may or may not have told you, during the medieval period the entire Middle East, including the Holy Land, was under Muslim control. Given that this was the land of the biblical patriarchs and the birthplace of Christ, the Christian Europeans believed that the Holy Land should be under their control. The centuries-long bloodbath that ensued has come to be known as the Crusades.’
‘No sooner was Jerusalem conquered by the crusading armies than the Church moved in, organizing religious militias to oversee its new empire. The two best-known militias were the Knights Templar and the Hospitaller Knights of St John, the rivalry between the two orders legendary,’ Cædmon interjected, keeping his voice as neutral as possible. The Templars had been a point of bitter contention between him and his
former mentor.
‘And it should be noted that the men who swelled the ranks of the Templars and the Hospitallers were anything but holy brothers,’ Sir Kenneth remarked right on his coat-tails. ‘These were trained soldiers who fought, and fought mercilessly, in the name of God. One might even go so far as to liken the two orders of warrior monks to mercenary shock troops.’
On that point, Cædmon and Sir Kenneth greatly differed. But they were there to learn about Galen of Godmersham, not to rekindle an ancient dispute.
‘As the crusading knights soon discovered, the Holy Land was rich in religious artefacts, relics being sent back to Europe by the shipload,’ Sir Kenneth continued, folding his arms over his chest, an Oxford don in his element.
‘Holy relics were a big fad during the Middle Ages, weren’t they?’
‘More like an obsession, many a pilgrimage made to view the bones or petrified appendage of a holy man or woman. St Basil’s shrivelled bollocks. St Crispin’s arse bone. Such oddities abounded.’
Beside him, Cædmon felt Edie’s shoulders shake with silent laughter, his companion obviously amused by Sir Kenneth’s bawdiness.
‘Christians in the Middle Ages were convinced that holy relics were imbued with a divine power capable of healing the sick and dying while protecting the living from the malevolent clutches of the demon world.’
‘Sounds like a lot of superstitious hooey.’ Indictment issued, Edie popped another crisp into her mouth.
Sir Kenneth pruriently observed the passage of crisp to lip before replying, ‘While superstition did exist, the medieval fascination with relics was more than mere cultish devotion. Given that we live in a disposable society with no thought for the past and little for the future, it is difficult to comprehend the medieval mindset.’
