by Chloe Palov
‘Guess you could call us the here and now generation,’ Edie remarked, seemingly unaware of the effect she was having on the Oxford don.
‘Indeed. But the generation that set out for the Holy Land, clad in mail and armed with sword, full-heartedly believed that the land of their biblical forebears was their birthright. To these stalwart knights, biblical relics were a tangible link between the past, the present and the unforeseen future. Thus the obsession with uncovering the treasures of the Bible.’
‘The most sought-after prize being the Ark of the Covenant,’ Cædmon pointed out, deciding to broach the subject in a roundabout manner. ‘No less a thinker than Thomas Aquinas declared, “God himself was signified by the Ark.” Other Church fathers likened the Ark to the Virgin, the mother of Christ.’
‘Ah, yes… Faederis Arca.’
Edie tugged at his sleeve. ‘Translation, please.’
Secretly pleased that Edie had turned to him, Cædmon replied, ‘It’s the feminine form for the Ark of the Covenant. Faederis Arca was used to convey the religious belief that just as the original Ark had contained the Ten Commandments, the Virgin Mary had contained within her womb the saviour of the world.’
‘So where does Galen of Godmersham fit into all of this?’ Edie asked, proving herself an attentive student.
‘As with many younger sons with not a prayer of inheriting the family estate, Galen of Godmersham decided to earn his fortune the old-fashioned way, in this case pillaging the infidels in the Holy Land.’
‘Rape and ruin – the stuff of English history,’ Cædmon mordantly remarked.
Grinning, Sir Kenneth banged his palm against the table, causing their half-empty glasses to rattle. ‘Ah! Those were the days, were they not?’ Then, his voice noticeably subdued, ‘Both the Knights Templar and the Hospitallers were actively engaged in seeking the Ark of the Covenant. As a Hospitaller, Galen of Godmersham would have joined the hunt. Ultimately, the knights’ hunt proved the wildest goose chase known to history, but this is where our story takes an intriguing turn.’ Leaning forward, giving every appearance of a man taking a woman into his confidence, Sir Kenneth said in a lowered voice, ‘While Galen of Godmersham did not uncover the goose, the lucky lad did happen upon a very fat gold-plated egg.’
In like manner, Edie also leaned forward. ‘You’re talking about the gold chest, right?’
Sir Kenneth nodded. ‘In 1289, while patrolling the region between Palestine and Egypt, Galen of Godmersham was leading a small contingent of Hospitaller knights through the Plain of Esdraelon. There, in a village called Megiddo, he –’
‘Discovered a gold chest,’ Edie interjected. ‘But this is what I don’t get.’ She paused, a puzzled expression on her face. ‘If no one has seen this gold chest in nearly seven hundred years, how do you know the darned thing ever existed?’
‘My dear, you are as mentally nimble as you are beautiful. I know because the local Kent records from the years 1292 to 1344 tell me so.’
‘Of course… the Feet of Fines,’ Cædmon murmured. When Edie turned to him, a questioning glance on her face, he elaborated: ‘The Feet of Fines was the medieval record of all land and property owned in England.’
‘And the Feet of Fines clearly indicates that Galen of Godmersham had within his possession a gold chest measuring one and a half by two cubits. The Feet of Fines also indicates that the gold chest was kept in Galen’s personal chapel in the grounds of his estate. In addition to the gold chest, Galen owned a king’s ransom in miscellaneous gold objects. “Objets sacrés”, as they are listed in the official records.’
‘So when Galen of Godmersham discovered the gold chest, he went from rags to riches, huh?’
The Oxford don nodded. ‘Like many a crusader, Galen of Godmersham profited from his sojourn in the Holy Land. Although he seems to have had a generous streak. In 1340 he bequeathed to St Lawrence the Martyr church several “vestiges d’ancien Testament ”.’
‘Old Testament relics,’ Cædmon said in a quick aside to Edie. Then, to his former mentor, ‘Bound by his vows of celibacy, Galen would have had no legal offspring. Who inherited the gold chest and all the objets sacrés when Galen died?’
‘While it’s true that Galen of Godmersham had neither son nor daughter, it wasn’t for lack of trying. No sooner did he return to England than Galen left the Hospitallers, taking up worldly pleasures with a vengeance.’
‘So who inherited the gold chest?’ Edie enquired, playing the wide-eyed ingénue to perfection.
‘That, my dear, is a mystery, a mystery that has confounded historian and treasure seeker alike. Bear in mind that when the plague struck in the middle of the fourteenth century, its effects were devastating, one third of England’s population succumbing. As you can well imagine, chaos ensued, record keeping thrown into a state of complete disarray. It has been suggested that Galen, who was nearing his eighty-fifth year when the bubonic plague reached English shores, took the precaution of removing his precious gold chest from the family chapel in order to safeguard it from the looting that followed in the plague’s wake. Generations of treasure hunters have focused on Galen of Godmersham’s deathbed burst of creative inspiration, the wily old knight having composed several poetic quatrains just prior to his death in 1348.’
‘Oh, I get it!’ Edie exclaimed, nearly falling 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 himself. ‘Although Galen’s verse is cryptic in nature, there is reference in the quatrains to an arca.’
‘Arca being the Latin word for chest,’ Cædmon said, taking a moment to consider all that Sir Kenneth had divulged. If clues to the gold chest’s whereabouts were contained within the 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 enquired abruptly.
No sooner was the question posed than Sir Kenneth’s woolly head swivelled in Cædmon’s direction. ‘Is that your purpose in grilling me, so that you can chase after a myth?’
Cædmon opened his mouth to speak, but Edie beat him to the punch.
‘We thought there might be a slim possibility that Galen of Godmersham had discovered the Ark of the Covenant.’
‘A fool’s errand, my dear. The Holy Land fair brimmed with golden gewgaws, more than one impoverished knight returning to England a wealthy man.’
Undeterred, Edie said, ‘If Galen didn’t discover the Ark of the Covenant then –’
‘I didn’t say he didn’t.’
‘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 much-ballyhooed 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 stated. As he spoke, he locked gazes with Cædmon. Then, his expression softening, he returned his attention to Edie, ‘Did you know there’s an old Irish legend which claims that not only did a band of intrepid 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 a tale as that of Galen of Godmersham discovering the Ark on the Plain of Esdraelon.’
Just then the door of the pub opened, a gaggle of giggling women crossing the threshold, a birthday cake held 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 towards him, Edie wh
ispered in Cædmon’s ear, ‘He wants to go to church?’
‘Not in the sense that you mean. Sir Kenneth resides at Rose Chapel.’
‘Just like a medieval monk, huh?’
Cædmon watched as Sir Kenneth appraised the cake bearer’s backside.
‘Hardly.’
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 me from horny college professors.
Discovering that they had entered an ancient cemetery, a good many of the weathered headstones tilted at drunken inclines, Edie unthinkingly leaned into Cædmon.
‘Very creepy,’ she murmured, not wanting to disturb the dead.
‘The scenery improves on the other side,’ 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 boxes. Imagining the older man manoeuvring through the maze after a night at the pub, Edie bit back a smile.
The knot garden navigated, they strolled through a copse 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 punctuated with arched stained-glass windows. Adjacent to the chapel was a three-storey Norman tower that seemed out of place with its plain facade 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 lobby. He removed his red scarf with a theatrical flourish, draping it round a marble bust of a bald-headed, beaked-nosed man.
‘Who’s that?’ Edie mouthed.
‘Pope Clement V,’ Cædmon mouthed back.
An older woman in a plain navy-blue dress – Edie placed her around fifty – scurried into the lobby. 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 woman. With a distracted wave of his hand, he indicated that Edie and Cædmon 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 room.
‘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 lofty tone, Edie walked over to the table and carefully lifted a glass angel out of its nest of tissue paper. As she held it aloft, its gilt-edged wings caught the wintry light. ‘These are lovely ornaments,’ she said to Mrs Janus, smiling.
‘That is 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, she 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.
‘And 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 Cædmon down a hall. Playing the baronial lord, he swung open a panelled 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,’ Cædmon informed her. ‘Sir Kenneth’s way of instilling fear into the hearts of all those who enter his sanctum santorum.’ Given what was clearly a grudge match between the two men, Edie wasn’t surprised by Cædmon’s sarcastic tone.
At a glance, she could see that the sanctum santorum had originally been the actual chapel, the massive arched ceiling, stone floor and a stained-glass three-light window being dead giveaways. Put all together, it made for an impressive sight. Assuming one ignored the half-dozen cats snoozing in various places throughout the room. A feline with chewed ears 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 checked out the room. Some things, like the medieval torchères, looked right at home. Other things, like the modern shelving unit jam-packed with vinyl records sheathed in clear plastic looked conspicuously out of place in the medieval setting.
‘I dare say that you are looking at the best collection of 1950s American rock ’n’ roll in the entire UK,’ 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 don’s only passion. On the wall nearest to where she stood there 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 visualize Sir Kenneth, decked out in his red cashmere scarf and brown bomber jacket, swigging gin and tonics out of the cup like tap water.
‘My dear, before you depart, you must have a look at my collection of incunabula,’ Sir Kenneth said, gesturing to a bookcase bursting with leather-bound volumes.
Not having the least idea what he was talking about, 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 Cædmon.
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,’ Cædmon whispered in her ear as he dislodged a dozing cat from his chair. ‘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 Cædmon on the back. ‘Middle age becomes you, Aisquith.’ Then, turning his attention to Edie, ‘When he first arrived at Oxford, he was a ganglylimbed lad with a thatch of unruly red hair.’
Grinning, Edie gave Cædmon the once over. ‘Hmm. Sounds cute.’
‘Ah! The lady has a penchant for red-headed lads.’ As Sir Kenneth took his seat behind the desk, Edie heard him mutter, ‘Lucky bastard.’
36
At finding himself seated in Sir Kenneth’s study, inundated with the twin scents of damp wool and musty leather, Cædmon experienced an unexpected burst of painful nostalgia. Striving for an appearance of calm, he glanced at the stained-glass window that dominated the room. A beautiful piece of medieval artistry, the three lights depicted that most famous of cautionary tales, the Temptation in the Garden.
Overtly phallic snake. 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, rigid taskmaster and at times capriciously cruel bastard, Sir Kenneth demanded unswerving fidelity from his students. In return, he gave his charges an unforgettable academic journey. Ever mindful that Oxford had started out with 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 son.
Initially, Sir Kenneth had approved his dissertation topic, intrigued by the notion that the Knights Templar may have explored the tombs and temples of Egypt during their time 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 rejection one step further, publicly ridiculing him for having ‘embraced rumours and passing 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 Isis Revealed.
Shoving aside old memories, Cædmon cleared his throat, ready to embark on what would undoubtedly be a bumpy ride.
‘Let us consider whether 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 this notion?’
