Stones of Fire

by Chloe Palov

  ‘It didn’t have to be that way. If you had come to me and discussed your plans before going off half-cocked, I could have –’

  ‘Is that what angered you, that I failed to obtain your esteemed academic opinion?’ Or were you angered that the son had rejected the father?

  Seeing the sparks about to catch fire, Edie jumped to her feet. ‘We’ve sort of veered a little off track, don’t you think?’ Then, acting as though nothing untoward had occurred, she calmly walked over to the tray and helped herself to a tart. ‘Now, let me make sure I’ve got this straight, Sir Kenneth. You said that Galen of Godmersham had no children.’

  ‘That is correct.’

  ‘But since he left the Hospitallers when he returned to England, I assume that he was married.’ Holding the tart between thumb and forefinger, she waved it to and fro as she spoke.

  ‘Galen went to the altar not once but thrice. No sooner did each spouse shuffle off her mortal coil than Galen found himself a young replacement. His last bride, Philippa Whitcombe, was the daughter of the justice of the peace for Canterbury. When Galen died, Philippa promptly joined a cloistered order of nuns. One can assume that she did not take to the married state.’

  About to take a bite, Edie lowered the tart. ‘So who inherited the gold chest?’

  ‘Ah! An excellent question, my dear.’ Walking over to the tray, Sir Kenneth plucked a mince tart from the near-empty plate. ‘Since the gold chest does not appear in any Feet of Fines record after 1348, one can infer that it was never found. Not altogether surprising given that not a single inhabitant of god-forsaken Godmersham survived the plague.’

  ‘Meaning no one was left who had any recollection of ever seeing Galen’s treasures,’ Cædmon murmured. For all intents and purposes, it was as though Galen’s gold chest had never existed once the plague struck. With no Feet of Fines record for the intervening centuries, the mystery would be that much more difficult to solve.

  ‘Okay, but what about the quatrains? How did they come to be discovered?’ Edie asked, clearly as determined as he to glean information.

  ‘Galen’s estates remained in a state of ruin until the reign of Queen Elizabeth. The new owner, a wealthy wine merchant by the name of Tynsdale, had the chapel demolished to make way for a hammer-beamed monstrosity. It was during demolition that the quatrains were discovered beneath the altar stone. Sir Walter Raleigh, a close acquaintance of the merchant, was the first to conjecture that the arca mentioned in Galen’s poetry might refer to the Ark of the Covenant. He and Tynsdale scoured every inch of the property. To no avail, I might add. Not a century passes that some addle-brained treasure hunter hasn’t attempted to find –’ Catching sight of his housekeeper poking her head through the study door, he stopped in mid-flow. ‘Yes, what is it?’

  ‘A call, sir. From the provost’s office.’

  Clearly annoyed by the intrusion, he waved her away. ‘That blasted relic’s not working,’ he said by way of explanation, gesturing to an antique black telephone on his desk. ‘There’s a telephone in the lobby. I won’t be a moment.’

  Cædmon rose to his feet. ‘We must go.’

  He wasn’t certain, but he thought he detected a disappointed glimmer in the older man’s eyes. Suddenly uncomfortable, he glanced at his wristwatch. ‘Duke Humphrey’s Library is open until seven. If you could call ahead and make the necessary arrangements, we would be most appreciative.’

  ‘Yes, of course. My pleasure.’ As he spoke, Sir Kenneth escorted them to the lobby.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Cædmon caught a flash of colour. Turning his head, he saw that the once-bare Norway spruce now sparkled, richly tinted glass ornaments glowing jewel-like among the dark foliage.

  ‘Did you know that it was Queen Victoria’s husband, the bewhiskered Albert, who introduced the Christmas tree to these shores? He had them all done up with edible fruit and little wax fairies.’ Sir Kenneth fingered a glossy green limb, a wistful look in his eye. ‘I told her to get a pine not a spruce. Blasted woman.’

  ‘I think it’s absolutely gorgeous,’ Edie remarked.

  ‘Yes, it always is.’ Turning his back on the tree, Sir Kenneth cleared his throat. ‘The Choral Society is singing Handel’s Messiah at seven thirty this evening. Perhaps you and Miss Miller would care to join me? There is nothing that compares to the sound of crystal voices lifted to the heavens. Quite moving. Even if one does not believe in the Christmas myth spoon-fed to us by power-hungry Church fathers, eh?’

  Having obtained all he needed from his old mentor, Cædmon shook his head. He’d had enough of him for one day. ‘Thank you, Sir Kenneth. Unfortunately, we –’

  ‘Yes, yes, I understand.’ Then, his right index finger pointing heavenwards, like a man struck with an inspired idea, he said, ‘I’ve got just the thing. It arrived only this morning.’ Turning his back, he searched the boxes piled high on the console table. ‘Where is the blasted – Ah! There it is!’ Reaching into a wooden crate, he removed a bottle.

  ‘Merry Christmas, young Aisquith.’

  Cædmon hesitated a moment, instantly recognizing the label on the bottle of Queen’s College port that the older man offered to him. COLLEGII REGINAE. He well recalled the port decanter being passed between the senior fellow and his small band of favourites long years ago. Those were fond memories unsullied by the later rupture.

  With a brusque nod, he accepted the bottle. ‘And a merry Christmas to you, Sir Kenneth.’

  The other man patted his stomach. ‘I don’t know about “merry”, but it shall be filling. Mrs Janus is certain to stuff me with Christmas pudding and mince pies.’

  Uncomfortable with the pleasantries, knowing they hid the bitter feelings that had earlier bubbled to the surface, Cædmon took Edie by the elbow. ‘We must be on our way.’

  To his surprise, she disengaged herself from his grasp, stepped over to Sir Kenneth and kissed him on his right cheek. ‘I hope you have a very merry Christmas!’

  Grinning like a besotted fool, Sir Kenneth followed them to the door. ‘And, in turn, I hope that you and young Aisquith uncover Galen’s blasted box. If the gold chest is to be found, you are the man to find it.’ This last remark was directed to Cædmon.

  Caught off guard by this unexpected support, Cædmon said the first thing that came to mind.

  ‘Thank you, sir. That means a great deal to me.’

  39

  Enraged, Stan MacFarlane snapped shut his mobile.

  Aisquith and the woman were in Oxford.

  Why was plainly evident. They had managed to find out that Galen of Godmersham had uncovered the Ark of the Covenant while on crusade in the Holy Land. Eliot Hopkins must have told them before his death.

  ‘Do you want me to take care of it, sir?’

  Stan glanced over his shoulder. He knew that former Gunnery Sergeant Boyd Braxton was anxious to make amends for the débacle in Washington.

  ‘Sometimes it’s in one’s best interest to be merciful.’

  It took a few moments for the other man’s befuddled expression to morph into an amused grin. ‘Oh, I get it, Colonel. Like Tony Soprano, you want to keep your friends close and your enemies even closer.’

  That being as good an answer as any, Stan tersely nodded. ‘Tell Sanchez to put a tail on Aisquith. I want to know the Brit’s every move.’

  Turning on his heel, he strode down the lowceilinged hall, his booted footfalls muffled by a well-worn Persian runner. On either side of him hung gilt-framed landscape paintings. ‘A tastefully appointed house for the discriminating traveller.’ When he had leased the house from the Internet website, he hadn’t given a rat’s ass about the decor. He only cared that the manor house was located midway between London and Oxford at the end of a half-mile oak-lined driveway. He needed a base camp to set up operations. Oakdale Manor fitted the bill.

  Nodding brusquely, he acknowledged the armed sentry standing ramrod straight beside an upholstered chair. The Heckler & Koch MP5 clutched to the man’s chest came courtesy
of a sergeant major in the Royal Marines who routinely supplemented his pension with illegal small-arms sales.

  Passing the age-blackened doors that led to the formal dining room, he glanced in, verifying that his highly paid contract worker was busy deciphering Galen of Godmersham’s archaic poetry. A postgraduate student enrolled in Harvard’s medieval studies programme, the scraggly-haired twenty-nine-year-old had jumped at the chance to pay off the nearly seventy thousand dollars in student loans that hung over him like a well-honed axe blade. Softly spoken and effeminate, the man put Stan in mind of a loose bowel movement. If not for the fact that he possessed the rare skills necessary to decipher the fourteenth-century quatrains, Stan would have disposed of the stoop-shouldered pencil dick after yesterday’s meeting with the Oxford highbrow. For the moment, however, he served a purpose.

  Satisfied to see the bespectacled scholar staring intently at his laptop, an eight-hundred-year-old map of England spread out on the table beside him, Stan continued down the hall to the kitchen.

  For some reason the stone-floored room put him in mind of his grandmother’s kitchen back home in Boone, North Carolina. Maybe it was the green-mottled crocks that lined the open shelves. Or the scarred wooden table that dominated the centre of the room. Whatever the reason, he could almost see his aproned grandmother standing at the oversized gas stove frying up some freshly laid eggs with big slabs of salted ham.

  Reduced to eating English slop, he cut himself a thick slice of bread from the loaf on the table. Slathering it with plum jam, he carried it over to the casement window that overlooked the garden. Through the gnarled branches of dead wisteria that framed the outside of the window, he could see a fine-looking white horse frolicking in a distant field.

  How much does Aisquith know? Probably not much. That’s why he’s in Oxford consulting the foremost expert on English crusaders. Strange the two men are acquainted. The intelligence dossier on Aisquith makes no mention of the relationship.

  Luckily, he’d had the foresight to recruit the professor’s housekeeper. Still it was troubling to discover that Aisquith knew about the quatrains. Although, given he possessed the sole copy of the quatrains outside Duke Humphrey’s Library and given that the library was only open to Oxford faculty and students, the Brit didn’t have a prayer of examining the original codex. Without the quatrains, Aisquith was just pissing in a gusty wind.

  He glanced at his watch.

  13:31 local time.

  He’d hoped to have the quatrains deciphered by now, his excitement mounting with each passing hour. No doubt this was how Moses felt when he crafted the Ark of the Covenant, placing inside it the two stones inscribed with the Ten Commandments. With the creation of the Ark, Moses had ushered in a new world order. The hinge of history had swung upon the Ark. And it would soon swing again.

  Praise be to the Almighty! For the battle is the Lord’s.

  Although Stan knew he had a tough fight ahead of him, he took solace from the knowledge that he would have at the ready the best weapon a soldier could have. For twenty-five years he’d been readying himself. Love of God. Purity of Heart. Cleanliness of mind and body. Those were the qualities of the Ark Guardian.

  Harliss, a burly ex-marine, now a ‘consultant’ with Rosemont Security, poked his head into the kitchen. ‘Sir, he’s got something for you.’

  Knowing that ‘he’ referred to the Harvard scholar, Stan headed for the dining room.

  ‘What do you have?’ he barked without preamble as he entered the room.

  The chairs had all been pushed against one wall, enabling free movement around the large oval table. Several framed paintings were also propped against the same wall. The scholar walked over and dimmed the chandelier. A PowerPoint slide appeared on the pictureless wall. Stan found himself staring at the four quatrains that Galen of Godmersham had composed just prior to his death.

  The despitous Zephirus rood forth from Salomon’s cite jubilant they sang

  But a goost forney followed as a tempest of deeth

  Repentaunt for his sins the shiten shepherd yeve penaunce

  Thanne homeward he him spedde the ill-got treasure on holy stronders

  From Jerusalem a companye of Knights in hethenesse they ryden out

  Ech of hem made other for to winne on the heeth of Esdraelon

  They bataille ther to the deeth the Vertuous knight the feeld he wonne

  And ther-with-al chivalrye he kepte wel the holy covenaunt

  This ilke worthy knight from sondry londes to Engelond he wende

  Arca and gold ful shene he carried to the toun he was born

  With open yë he now did see the blake pestilence he wrought

  And whan this wrecche knight saugh it was so his deeth ful well deserved

  Sore weep the goos on whom he truste for oon of hem were deed

  I couthe not how the world be served by swich adversitee

  But if a manne with ful devout corage seken the holy blissful martir

  In the veyl bitwixen worlds tweye ther the hidden trouthe be fond

  ‘Just as you thought, this word arca is the key to deciphering the quatrains.’ Using a pointer, the younger man indicated the second line of the third quatrain. ‘Arca, of course, is the Latin word for chest.’

  Since the bespectacled idiot hadn’t told him anything he didn’t already know, Stan made no reply. While he’d provided his mercenary scholar with a high-speed Internet connection enabling him to hook into the world’s best libraries, he’d briefed him carefully, ensuring the man had no clue as to the purpose of his research.

  ‘By those who come near me I will be treated as holy.’

  Not one to disobey God’s dictates, Stan intended to do all in his power to make sure that the unholy did not cast their gaze upon the Ark. The scholar had merely been told that Stan and his men represented a consortium of art collectors trying to track down a medieval chest believed to have been buried in the mid-fourteenth century somewhere in England. If the Harvard-educated boy wonder wondered at the trio of armed guards, he’d been wise enough to keep his own counsel. Unbridled greed has a way of making a man turn a blind eye.

  When no reply to his brief exposition was forthcoming, the pasty-faced scholar nervously rubbed his hands together. ‘Slowly but surely, it’s all coming together. I’ve got the first three quatrains more or less figured out, but I’m still trying to pin down number four. Don’t you guys worry. I’m guessing that I’ll have this baby cracked in the next couple of hours.’

  ‘You’ve been deciphering the verses since late yesterday. I had expected some tangible results by now.’ Stan made no attempt to hide his annoyance, the scholar unaware that he was working to a carefully crafted timetable.

  ‘Hey, you can’t rush these things. Although I can tell you that the four quatrains form a rectilinear allegory.’

  ‘What the hell does that mean?’ Boyd Braxton muttered, staring at the scholar as though he were a turd on the bottom of his boot heel.

  Smirking, the turd replied, ‘For those of us who never took geometry, I am referring to the four-sided geometric configuration known as a square.’

  40

  More slowly this time, Cædmon reread Galen of Godmersham’s poetry.

  This wasn’t the first time he’d been ensconced in the wood-panelled reading room of Duke Humphrey’s Library, muddling his way through a thorny conundrum. In his student days he’d spent countless hours in this very room seated at the very same table, medieval texts piled around him.

  Believing that a tidy work area elicited a similar tidiness in one’s thinking, he organized the miscellaneous items on the reading table. The librarian, no doubt prompted by Sir Kenneth Campbell-Brown’s advance call, had been most solicitous in delivering the requested materials to their table. In addition to the leather-bound codex that contained a selection of fourteenth-century poetry, including Galen’s quatrains, she had produced a slim volume that contained the Godmersham Feet of Fines records for the years 1300 to 1350
. Paper, pencils and cotton gloves had also been provided.

  An exasperated frown on her face, Edie pointed a gloved index finger at the open codex. ‘Just look at this, will ya. It’s written in Old English. Which is a whole lot like saying it’s written in a dead language.’

  Noticing that several other library patrons were glowering irritably, Cædmon raised a finger to his lips, reminding Edie that silence reigned supreme within the walls of Duke Humphrey’s Library. If one must speak, a muffled whisper was the preferred mode of communication.

  ‘Actually, the quatrains are written in Middle English rather than the more remote Old English, enabling me to produce a fairly accurate interlinear translation.’

  ‘You’re talking about a line-by-line translation, right?’ Her voice was noticeably lower. ‘When I was a graduate student, I wrote a research paper on the Wife of Bath. You know, from The Canterbury Tales. The paper was for a seminar class on women in the Middle Ages and it darned near did me in.’

  Hoping to bolster her spirits, he patted her hand. ‘Don’t worry. I’m certain that you’ll survive the ordeal.’ Then, not wanting to dwell on the fact an ordeal was by its very nature a trying endeavour, he reached for a pencil and a sheet of blank paper.

  While it had been a number of years since he last translated Middle English, he managed to quickly work his way through the archaic spelling and phraseology with only a few missteps.

  ‘Hopefully, this will make for more coherent verse,’ he said, pushing the sheet of paper in his companion’s direction.

  Lifting the handwritten sheet off the table, Edie held it at arm’s length. Lips moving, she read the translation silently.

  The merciless west wind rode forth from Solomon’s city jubilantly singing