by Chloe Palov
‘Save Philippa,’ he murmured, Edie’s theory beginning to ring with perfect pitch. ‘And once her husband was dead, Philippa hid the gold arca somewhere in the grounds of St Lawrence the Martyr church.’
‘Actually, I’ve got a theory about that too,’ Edie countered, surprising him yet again.
‘Brains and beauty. I am totally bewitched.’
Edie playfully hit him in the arm. ‘Hey, you forgot to mention the brawn.’ Then, her tone more serious, she said, ‘I’m beginning to think we got the martyr part of the quatrains all wrong.’
‘I take it you’re referring to the third line of the last quatrain?’
‘Correct. “But if a man with a fully devout heart seek the blessed martyr” does not refer to St Lawrence the Martyr. At least I don’t think it does. I’m thinking it refers right back to the goose.’
‘I don’t follow.’ Unhindered by ego, he didn’t care who exposed the truth, only that it was found.
‘Okay, we now know that the goose refers to Philippa, the good housewife,’ Edie said, ticking off her first point on her little finger. She next moved to her ring finger. ‘According to Sir Kenneth, Philippa was the daughter of the justice of the peace for Canterbury.’ Going on to her middle finger, she then declared, ‘And Canterbury, as you know from having read Chaucer, is where medieval pilgrims journeyed –’
‘To see the site where St Thomas à Becket was killed in 1170 by Henry II’s henchmen,’ Cædmon finished, well acquainted with the incident, the murdered archbishop a victim of the conflict between Church and state. ‘Within weeks of the murder, wild rumours began to circulate throughout England, those who came into contact with the bloodied vestments of the dead archbishop attesting to all sorts of astonishing miracles. Soon after, the Catholic Church canonized Thomas à Becket as a martyred saint.’
‘And thus the cult of St Thomas was born.’
With perfect clarity, Cædmon knew that Edie was absolutely correct. When they deciphered the fourth quatrain, they had misread the clue. As Philippa no doubt intended.
Edie leaned against the side of the van, a satisfied smile on her lips. ‘It makes perfect sense, doesn’t it? Philippa, entrusted with hiding the Ark, takes it to the only place other than Godmersham that she knows, the town of her birth, Canterbury.’
‘Mmmm.’ He mulled it over, still sifting through the pieces. ‘We don’t know that Philippa actually hid the Ark in Canterbury,’ he said, well aware that Edie had a tendency to hurl herself at a conclusion.
‘Of course we know that Philippa hid the Ark at Canterbury. It’s right there in the quatrains. “There in the veil between two worlds –”’
‘The truth will be found. The truth, not the arca,’ he quietly emphasized. ‘Which may be an encrypted way of saying that we’ll find our next clue at Canterbury.’
Clearly disgruntled, Edie sighed. ‘And here I thought this was going to be easy. Okay, any ideas where in Canterbury we should look?’
More accepting of this latest challenge, he didn’t waste his time on peevish complaints, having assumed from the onset that they would follow a crooked path.
‘Thomas à Becket was murdered inside the cathedral. I suggest that as a starting point.’ As he spoke, the van slowed to a stop.
Cædmon peered out the rear door, able to see that the driver had pulled into the car park of a roadside café. Hopefully, they would be able to hitch a ride to London from one of the dozen or so motorists parked in the lot.
‘I believe this is our stop.’
53
‘You might be interested to know that these medieval walls were built on Roman foundations. The original settlement was called Durovernum Cantiacorum.’
As they strolled along the ancient stone battlements that ringed the town of Canterbury, Edie was relieved that she and Cædmon had reverted to their earlier camaraderie. She wasn’t altogether certain, the male beast a difficult one to decipher, but she thought Cædmon had been angry in the alley because he hadn’t been able to protect her from MacFarlane’s goon.
The goon had a gun, why hadn’t he used it?
Seeing in her mind’s eye those massive shoulders, the scary buzz cut and the rivulet of blood zigzagging down a throbbing temple, Edie shuddered.
‘Cold?’ Cædmon asked solicitously, draping an arm over her shoulder.
Shoving the frightening image aside, she wordlessly snuggled closer to him. Although she couldn’t be one-hundred-per-cent certain, she didn’t think they were being followed. Having hitched a ride to London, they had caught a train at Victoria station, the trip to Canterbury taking only ninety minutes. The station being on the outskirts of town, they were now en route to the cathedral.
A damp breeze chilling her back, Edie flipped up the collar on her coat. Overhead the clouds hung low in the sky, casting a dreary pall over the town.
Taking a quick peek at the map they’d picked up at the station, Cædmon ushered her to the left, past the remains of an old tower that she guessed had once been attached to an equally old church.
‘All that remains of St George’s Church,’ he remarked, ‘the tower having somehow weathered the travails of history.’
‘Although it looks like most of the town fared pretty well.’ She gestured to the neat line of half-timbered structures that fronted the narrow street. ‘I feel like I’m walking through a medieval living-history museum.’
‘Indeed. Much of Canterbury is little changed from the days of Chaucer.’
Like Oxford, the town was dressed in its Christmas finery, fairy lights twinkling merrily behind shop windows. Although Canterbury had about it a magical air that the staid Oxford lacked. Probably on account of its fairy-tale appearance.
As they walked along Mercery Lane, the pavement teemed with tourists, the modern-day pilgrims undeterred by the chilly weather. With each stride Edie was very much aware that she walked in another woman’s footsteps, that woman none other than Philippa of Canterbury. Like most medieval women, Philippa’s life story had been written at birth. A man’s life in the fourteenth century was recorded on vellum, enabling changes to be made, but a woman’s life was carved in stone. Unchangeable.
Nearing the city centre, the thorny spires of the cathedral filled more and more of the skyline. To Edie’s surprise, she began to experience a sense of agitation. Cædmon evidently felt it too, taking her by the hand as they approached a massive three-storey gatehouse. Bedecked with tiers of carved shields and a contingent of stone angels, the Saviour stood front centre, welcoming saint and sinner alike.
Cædmon led her through the arched portal. ‘Christ Church Gate, the physical divide between the secular and the sacred.’
Emerging, Edie caught her first real sight of Canterbury cathedral. ‘Wow,’ she murmured, the cathedral so immense as to be downright daunting. One of those soaring Gothic structures purposefully constructed for maximum impact, everywhere she looked, there were towers and spires and statues. ‘Wow,’ she murmured again, yet to emerge from her awestruck state.
Cædmon remarked, ‘Of course, the magnificence of Canterbury is not surprising, this being the mother cathedral of the Church of England.’
‘More like the mother ship,’ Edie muttered, still overwhelmed by the sheer size of the place. ‘This is gonna take days. Particularly since we don’t even know what we’re looking for.’
‘But we know that whatever it is, it’s located inside the cathedral. And I suspect the clue has something to do with the Ark of the Covenant.’
‘But the clue could be anything. A piece of sculpture, a painting, a carving. Anything. It could even have something to do with Thomas à Becket,’ she added. ‘After all, he is the “blessed martyr”, right?’
‘I think Thomas is a peripheral character, little more than a reference to direct us to Canterbury. For it’s this colossus of stone and glass –’ raising his arm, Cædmon motioned to the cathedral ‘– that played a pivotal role in Philippa’s daily life before she left for Godmersham. Moreo
ver, she –’
Cædmon stopped in mid-sentence and mid-step. Wordlessly, he stared at the façade of the cathedral. Like a man transfixed.
‘What’s the matter?’ she asked, grabbing him by the upper arm.
He turned to her, a beatific smile upon his lips. ‘The clue is contained in glass. Stained glass, to be precise. One of the greatest artistic achievements of the medieval world, it was the first modern medium of mass communication.’ His smile broadened. ‘Not to mention that stained glass forms a “veil between the two worlds”.’
Edie stared at the windows in the southern façade of the cathedral.
‘Stained glass was intended as a barrier between the secular world of the city streets,’ Cædmon continued, ‘and the sacred world contained within the cathedral. Illuminated by light, the first of God’s creations, stained glass can literally come to life before one’s eyes.’
As though an affirmation from on high, a bell tolled sonorously.
‘Come, Miss Miller. Destiny beckons,’ Cædmon said portentously, ushering her towards the entrance.
Following on the tail of an American tour group, they entered the elaborately carved doors at the western end of the cathedral. Immediately they were assaulted by the twin scents of incense and flowers and the twin sounds of clicking cameras and a Midwestern twang.
‘Above you, in what is known as the West Window, you will see a brilliant example of medieval stained glass,’ the American tour guide expounded in what was obviously a canned speech. ‘The sixty-three glass panels, which depict various saints, prophets and kings, is just a drop in the ocean compared to what you’re gonna see on the tour, the cathedral boasting hundreds of glass panels. Make no mistake, folks, this is one of the cultural treasures of Europe.’
Along with everyone else in the group, Edie peered up.
‘Oh God,’ she groaned, stunned. ‘It’s gonna be like finding a holy needle in a sacred haystack.’
Taking her by the elbow, Cædmon led her away from the group. ‘Admittedly, we have a daunting task ahead of us.’
Edie craned her neck, taking another gander at the sixty-three glass panels of the West Window.
‘You think?’
54
Neck inclined at an awkward angle, Cædmon stared at the top of the stained-glass panel, the blaze of colour dazzling, casting what could only be described as psychedelic patterns of light onto the gloomy walls of the Gothic interior.
Les belles-verrières, he mused silently. Certainly more beautiful glass than one man and one woman could reasonably absorb in a single day. But mindful of the possibility that MacFarlane had correctly deciphered the quatrains, he and Edie forged on.
Some two hours into their search, they stood in the Corona, the semicircular chapel originally built to house the relics of St Thomas à Becket. Despite the fact that they had methodically examined dozens of stained-glass panels created before the mid-fourteenth century, thus far they’d seen no images or references to the Ark of the Covenant.
Swaying slightly on his feet, the coloured light almost hypnotic, several lines of Bible verse came to mind. ‘“I will lay thy stones with fair colours, and lay their foundations with sapphires. And I will make thy windows of agates, and thy gates of –”’
Edie raised a hand, cutting him off in mid-sentence. ‘Enough already. I am totally and completely Bibled out. Trying to decipher these windows is an awful lot like learning a foreign language. Except we don’t have the Berlitz tapes. And you spouting verses from the good book does not help matters.’
‘Understood,’ he contritely replied.
Although Cædmon had studied medieval iconography while at Oxford, to any modern observer the symbolism contained within the Canterbury windows was not unlike a foreign language. But this language had been well understood eight hundred years ago. Illiteracy the norm during the Middle Ages, stained glass had enabled the faithful to learn the stories of the Bible through pictures.
Ignoring the painful crick in his neck, Cædmon continued to study the panels, forcing himself to examine only those images specific to the Old Testament. Moses consecrating Aaron. The ascent of Elijah. Samson and Delilah.
As they continued to the next group of panels, he caught sight of a leather-clad figure in the corner of his eye. The size and shape of the figure similar to those of their assailant in Oxford, he slowed his step. Almost instantly, his heartbeat escalated, goose pimples prickling his skin. He knew this feeling, had had it any number of times when he worked for MI5. Something in Denmark most definitely stank to high heaven.
Muscles tightening, he slowly turned to face the enemy.
It took only an instant to verify that the man was simply a tourist. While the robust physique was similar, the facial features were completely different.
Bloody hell.
‘Is something the matter?’ his companion asked. ‘All of a sudden, you’re looking awfully tight around the jaw.’
‘No, no, nothing is the matter,’ he assured her, taking her by the elbow and steering her towards the aisle of the cathedral choir. To one side of them, massive columns supported incised stone arches; on the other side, stained-glass windows gleamed beautifully.
‘Ah! The famed Typology Windows,’ he announced, effectively changing the subject. Knowing that the Typology Windows had been created prior to the thirteenth century, he angled his head to examine the upper panes of glass, ignoring the bolt of pain that travelled from the nape of his neck to the base of his spine.
Edie elbowed him in the ribs. ‘Explanation, please. In case you’ve forgotten, I’m a novice at this.’
‘Typology was a tool often used in the Middle Ages to confirm the legitimacy of the New Testament using stories taken from the Old,’ he explained. ‘A typical example is the tale of Jonah and the whale. According to the Old Testament, Jonah remained within the whale’s belly for three days and three nights.’
‘Prefiguring Jesus being entombed for the same length of time,’ she astutely commented.
‘Precisely. Usually the stories were paired, thus reinforcing a particular theological point through the manipulation of biblical imagery.’
‘Thought control at its very best.’
He winked at her. ‘How else does one control the masses?’
‘Hey, look, it’s Noah and the Ark!’ she exclaimed, pointing to a half-roundel. Placing a hand to her mouth, she stifled a snicker. ‘Yeah, I know, wrong ark. Although at this point I’m happy to see any ark.’
Not nearly so amused, Cædmon led the way to the next panel. Again, he began the slow process of identifying each and every biblical figure, his gaze systematically beginning at the top and moving down. A monumental window, the panel was divided into seven horizontal sections, each section containing three separate scenes. When he came to the fifth section, he did a double take.
‘Bloody hell! I think I’ve found it.’
Edie’s eyes slowly scanned the length of the window, opening wide when they hit the telltale image. ‘Ohmygosh! It’s a four-sided gold box.’
‘Actually, it’s the four-sided gold box. None other than the Ark of the Covenant.’ Barely able to contain his excitement, he had the overwhelming urge to laugh aloud, to raise his voice to the heavens and whoop with joy. Instead, he pulled Edie into his arms, hugging her close. ‘We’ve found it,’ he whispered in her ear. ‘We’ve actually found the bloody thing.’
Disengaging her right arm, Edie excitedly pointed to the window in question. ‘Did you notice the two baby geese in the basket?’
He nodded, certain they’d found the very panel that Philippa had intended them to find. The scene, the presentation of Christ, depicted the well-known New Testament story of Mary and Joseph presenting the infant Jesus to the high priest in the Temple at Jerusalem. Two seemingly innocuous items within the scene screamed at him: Joseph carrying a basket that contained two goslings, and Mary, holding the baby Jesus aloft, standing before the Ark of the Covenant.
‘Yesterday
you and Sir Kenneth were rambling on about the medieval comparisons between Mary and the Ark of the Covenant. Is this what you were talking about?’
Deciding not to take issue with the ‘rambling’ charge, he nodded. ‘It was a religious concept known as Faederis Arca. No less a theologian than St Bernard of Clairvaux explicitly compared the womb of Mary to the Ark of the Covenant, for, as the Ark contained the Ten Commandments, so Mary carried Christ within her womb.’
‘The symbolism of the Old Testament reinforcing the New Testament.’
‘Precisely.’
Clearly excited, Edie yanked the Virgin bag off her shoulder. Unzipping it, she hurriedly rifled through its contents, removing her digital camera.
Excitement was soon replaced with a crestfallen expression. ‘It’s a dead dog,’ she muttered, showing him the darkened display. ‘The digital camera has yet to be invented that will run on a drained battery.’ She glanced at the exit located on the far side of the nave. ‘I could run out and buy some new batteries at one of the souvenir shops.’
Cædmon checked his watch. ‘I don’t know if you’ll have enough time. The cathedral closes in twenty minutes. The photo will have to wait until the morning.’
‘Do you really want to wait that long? Yeah, we found the window, but now we have to figure out what it means. And to do that, we need a picture.’
‘I agree. However –’
She put a hand on his chest. ‘Don’t move. I’ll be right back.’
He watched as Edie rushed towards the northwest transept. When she disappeared from sight, he returned his gaze to the stained-glass panel. As he stared, spellbound, the distinctive scent of incense wafted through the chill air. It suddenly occurred to him that here, within the confines of one of the world’s great cathedrals, where man-made bread daily became God’s flesh, anything was possible.
