by Ken Fry
Magda bowed her head. “Wait, Arthwys.” She went to the darkest part of the large room and uncovered a leather pouch. “It is here still.” She picked it up and signalled for him to return to his own dwelling. “I shall follow you.”
He looked puzzled. “What is that you carry?”
“It is not for you to know or to be concerned about. She will be better and live.”
A small knot of people had gathered around the entrance to his roundhouse. News of Brianna’s plight had reached everyone in the community. They stood in a huddle around the entrance to his dwelling.
Arthwys pushed them to one side and strode into the room. Brianna lay on a rough covering of straw. She was bent in two in a foetal position. Her hands and fingers had gone white and had locked into a claw- like state. She was unable to move and soft moans came from her mouth, which was flecked in dribble and drool.
She appeared paralysed.
Arthwys spoke softly to her, “Brianna, my poor wife. Magda may be able to help. She is here for you.” He summoned her over. Brianna made no sound or sign of recognition.
Magda stood over her. She raised her eyes skywards and offered up a low prayer. “In the name of God our Parent, and the Christ, I ask that this woman Brianna may be healed, and allowed back to her people. I pray that she may also be able to follow you and spread your word to all.”
The onlookers went silent. From the central fire, smoke drifted lazily upwards to the hole in the roof. Nobody moved.
The Magdalene knelt down beside Brianna and opened the pouch before lifting up a wooden cup. She lifted the tight lid to reveal its brim which was full of bright red and watery liquid. It had not changed and had remained in the same condition as when it had been collected that dreadful day years ago on the hill of Calvary. Time had not diminished it.
With care, she turned Brianna’s head around. Now, Magda was again locked in silent prayer as she poured the blood and water into the open mouth.
Liquid poured from the cup to Brianna’s mouth, but the cup did not empty… nor did its level diminish. The onlookers did not see this.
Almost at once, Brianna’s body began to shake.
Arthwys looked alarmed. “What have you done to her? What was that you gave her?” He shouted with a look of incredulity across his broad face.
“Wait and you will see,” Magda replied.
Everyone looked aghast. No sooner had they done so when Brianna’s body went limp as all tension left it. Her hands and fingers straightened. A few moments passed before she lifted her head with a smile on her face, that had now returned to its usual colour and complexion. “Where have I been?” She looked around at them all. “I must have fallen asleep.”
“You have been in the care of our Parent, and now you are healed.” Magda embraced her. “Give thanks to God.”
In awe, every person present sank to their knees, uncertain, but certain in many other ways, that what they had witnessed was something beyond their understanding. Of that there remained not a doubt.
3
Vatican City
The Present Day
The bishop wished he were back at his favourite church close to Soho in London. Our Lady of the Assumption and St. Gregory had a quiet spirituality he adored. He had never enjoyed the pace and the crowds who flocked around the Vatican almost every day of the year. Surrounded by the suffocating presence of ancient Roman culture, an overbearingly hot sun, plus the aroma of coffee and pasta cooking, did little to improve Bishop Vincent Fisher’s mood. Wearing his bishop’s cassock and the purple sash adorned with a gold pectoral crucifix, he stood close to St. Peter’s Basilica and its permanent queue of the faithful and the curious.
“Monsignor,” a voice called loudly to him.
The bishop adjusted his sunglasses and turned around. Walking swiftly towards him and waving his arm was a short, overweight man, whose face was drenched in sweat.
Not certain how to respond, he simply replied, “Si?”
“Monsignor, Buon giorno. I do speak English. I am Father Vincenzo.”
Only then did the bishop notice the priest’s half covered collar. “Have we met before Father Vincenzo? How may I help you?” He shook the extended hand.
“Forgive me, Monsignor. I have recently been appointed to the Dicastery for Communications, headed by Palo Ruffini, our prefect. As such, we knew of your visit here. I recognised you from the photographs we have. You’re here to meet with Cardinal Nicholas who will introduce you to our Holy Father, Pope Adrian, yes?”
Why is he telling me all this? A feeling of annoyance rippled through the bishop as he twirled his gold and purple ring, part of a bishop’s attire. How on earth do they get all this information on me? Is there nothing secret anymore? “You’re well informed.” He snapped with a sour tone.
“It is my job, Monsignor. I am told that you are to discuss excavations connected to certain legends back in your country?”
“Whatever I’m here to discuss will be between me and the pope, not the cardinal and certainly not you.”
The bishop’s frank annoyance did not deter the priest, even as the bishop’s pace noticeably quickened across the square. He persisted. “I understand that earlier this year, in your country, an eminent archaeologist, Dr. Helen Newbury, God rest her soul, was found dead at the bottom of a cliff where she had been digging. The police said it was an accident. There was no sign of foul play. It was rumoured that she, on your behalf, was looking for a holy relic, purported to be connected with Jesus himself. Can you verify that, Bishop Fisher? Who has taken over from her?”
Bishop Fisher had an uncomfortable thought. I don’t believe this man. Something is not right about him. “I have nothing more to say to you, Father. Look, I am not at liberty to speak about anything. Why don’t you contact Cardinal Nicholas directly, as you are so interested? I have reached my rooms and I bid you goodbye.”
Father Vincenzo’s expression hardened. “It’s been a pleasure to meet you, my bishop.”
“Thank you, Father.”
“There’s one more thing, Bishop Fisher.”
“Don’t you ever give up? Watch out! Careful now.” He raised his voice as a large, black delivery van screeched to a halt beside the priest.
“It’s fine, Monsignor, it is for you.”
“What? Now listen …”
He did not finish his sentence. Vincenzo, with strength beyond his flabby frame, seized the bishop by the shoulders and lapel, spun him around and pushed him hard into the open side door of the vehicle. The bishop fell to the floor and another man waiting inside kicked him hard in the ribs and then followed up by sitting on him and bending his arm in a painful lock. Before he could shout out, another blow struck his head and he went senseless.
* * *
Bishop Fisher struggled to open his eyes to see where he was. With great effort, they opened, but he was unable to move. He was in a small, bare room and tied to a wooden chair. A wet leather gag was bound around his mouth. Two Italian looking men stood in opposite corners next to him.
Fear gripped his pounding heart and racing mind. In his entire life, he had never experienced terror on this scale, even when as a small child, he had tumbled into a deep and dark well and was undiscovered for two days. He now feared for his life.
Turning his head, he could see the dubious priest, Vincenzo, sitting close by and filing his fingernails.
Bishop Fisher made an effort to speak but only succeeded in producing a muffled, gulping sound from behind his gag. Nobody looked at him. The sound of a door opening caused him to look across his other shoulder. His eyes widened with astonishment. The tall figure of a gaunt looking, skeletal man, with a prominent limp, walked in. He wore a cassock, and the trademark red zucchetto of a cardinal was perched firmly on the thinning hair of his head.
The bishop, in a state of shock, fought to find his breath. He recognised the man immediately. It was Cardinal Nicholas.
The cardinal limped around him, and with desolate grey eyes
devoid of compassion, he carefully scrutinized the prisoner. As he did so, he opened his solid, silver cigarette case, lit a Davidoff cigarette, inhaled deeply, and without care, blew a lungful of smoke through the nostrils of his hooked Roman nose in the direction of his captive.
“Greetings, Bishop Fisher.” His voice resonated like an off- tune funeral bell. “Welcome to Rome and to Vatican City. We are sorry that we have to meet in this manner, but really there was no other option.” More blue- tinged smoke drifted through the air. He nodded to one of the men who walked over and savagely tore the gag off the bishop’s mouth. The cardinal managed a tight-lipped smile. He gave a crooked smirk revealing cracked and yellow teeth, inhaled deeply, before blowing another lungful in the direction of the bishop’s face. “Now, I’m sure that will allow you to speak more freely.”
Fisher gulped in several mouthfuls of much needed air and gasped out. “What is the meaning of this? What do you want from me? This is an outrage! You’ll never get away with it.”
The cardinal looked amused. “Oh, but we will. The last place the carabinieri will come looking for your dead body will be here – a stone’s throw from the pontiff’s palace.”
Fisher experienced another injection of terror. “Dead body! What are you on about? I don’t understand any of this!”
“Bishop, it doesn’t have to be a fatal outcome.” He lied. “I have some questions for you, and if you answer these truthfully, you may live. I need to know what you are about to tell our pope. My informants have told me the most interesting of rumours. What exactly are you looking for in your excavations? What have they found so far and where are you looking exactly? I also understand a false operation has been underway to keep others off the trail of your true goal. Who is in charge and where does your funding come from? I want answers to all these questions and maybe… I’ll let you live.”
“My information is for the pope only. I have nothing to say to you.” As soon as he had said these words, Bishop Fisher had a certainty that his life was not going to be very long, and he may never reach the pope. How could he be let free now?
“As you wish, my good bishop. I shall leave you now and when I return, I hope you have changed your mind. There is no reason why we can’t work together.” He turned to leave, but before he did so, he nodded at the men in the room.
With the cardinal gone, a silence descended on the room like the bishop’s church on an early Monday morning.
It didn’t last long.
He felt a sharp blow across his neck, which sent his head lurching sideways. The leather around his mouth was replaced and the new gag cut into his mouth, muffling his screams. His head went one way then another, time after time.
There was no respite until Vincenzo held up his hand and the beating ceased. Blood dripped from Bishop Fisher’s mouth, nose, and temples.
“Bishop, we have not yet finished. This is just a sample of what could get very much worse for you.” He turned to his men. “Strip him.”
His clothes were ripped and cut from him. When that was done, Vincenzo lobbed a bottle of watery oil to one of the men. “Lubricate him well.”
The man dripped oil over the bishop’s entire body and smoothed it in with a large cloth. When that was done, Vincenzo produced two electrodes from behind a table, wired up to the main system. He clipped one to the bishop’s nipple and the other to the back of his hand. Before Fisher could react, Vincenzo threw the switch, and turned the voltage control handle.
There was an immediate crackling explosion of static electrical sound as hundreds of volts zapped into the Bishop’s chest and arm.
His torso arched and his head lurched backwards with eyes full of agonised dread. The electrodes were switched off.
“You will talk now? If you do not, this will go on for hours, even days and nights.”
“You will perish in hell.” The bishop’s agonised response was laughed off.
“So sorry for this, Bishop.” Vincenzo threw the switch and cranked the handle again.
The screams went on for over two hours until the pain- shot, twitching and convulsing body of the bishop could take no more. “Enough! Enough! I will tell you.”
Bishop Fisher nodded his head. The gag was removed and with a voice racked with pain and terror, he proceeded to tell them everything they had asked to know.
The secret mission was now no longer so.
* * *
Five days later…
Cardinal Nicholas gave a wry smile of satisfaction. In his hands, he held a copy of the Vatican newspaper, L’Ossevatore Romano. Like most other Italian newspapers, it carried reports of the discovery of the body of the missing English bishop. He had never arrived at a prearranged meeting with Pope Adrian. Nobody had an explanation.
His ravaged remains had been discovered in the Parco Regionale dell’Appia Antica, Europe’s largest park, and barely three miles from the city centre of Rome. It was being said that he had been attacked by a small pack of wolves that had been terrorising the city outskirts of late. The wounds were consistent with such an attack.
He settled down for lunch with a glass of fine Carmignano red wine and read and reread the wolves’ attack report several times. All had gone better than expected. He now knew everything that the pope knew and his involvement. The cardinal was going to ensure that once his own secret operation was in place, the pope would not know much more either.
For the next stage of his operations, a visit to the UK would be required.
4
Six months previously…
Wookey Hole Caves
Seven miles from Glastonbury
Somerset, England
The Grade Two listed Victorian Church of Mary Magdalene, designed by Benjamin Ferrey and built in 1874, overlooked the car park. It was an entrance into the mysterious and impressive labyrinth of caves, which stretched for miles underground. They are called ‘solutional’ caves. Weathering, and the natural acid from groundwater, which over time had dissolved the rocks, formed them. Explorers and the scientific community knew with certainty that there were as many undiscovered as had been found. Attempting to reveal their true extent was dangerous and difficult work. It required highly experienced scuba divers who were prepared to take treacherous and potentially life- threatening endeavours.
Up to twenty-five chambers spanning a mile in extent had been revealed, with differing depths of water down from shallow to as much as five hundred feet. All were sourced by the River Axe which flowed through the cave system. Technology has now taken over and the water level is kept artificially high. The waters formed a continuous network of lakes and pools. Umpteen fossils and human remains indicated that the caves had been lived in for over forty-five thousand years. Certainly, the Celts, two thousand years ago, made use of them. There was an abundance of evidence that had been discovered around the stalactites that grew like pointed daggers from the roof of the cave, and the flat or round tip stalagmites that grew from the floor beneath them. When the two meet, they are known as a pillar. The stalactites formed the stalagmites beneath them. Water, containing calcium bicarbonates derived from the limestone rocks, found its way back into the limestone to form a tiny ring. This began a slow drip that took hundreds of thousands of years to form.
It was a spectacle that had enthralled millions of visitors.
That afternoon, Dr. Miriam Sinclair, standing at five feet eight inches and possessed of a shock of thick, auburn hair and haunting deep brown eyes, surveyed the surrounding rocks and cliffs. She was fluent in several ancient and modern languages – a marine and terra archaeologist. In her hands, she held meticulous cave maps which had taken years to put together. She had nothing important in mind, albeit a short recreational dive. Sections of the caves were closed to visitors and taped off. As a site of Special Scientific Interest (SSSI), accessibility to these areas was given only to those with permits. She had a permanent pass.
Since she was a young girl, the entire landscape of caves from Cheddar Gorge through to
Wookey Hole and onto Glastonbury had exercised an enormous pull on her psyche. For some reason, she though the village church was aptly named. Of late, her feelings and attraction to the place had grown. She felt she knew everybody in the area, and they seemed to know her in return. That, she dismissed as fanciful nonsense.
She stepped from her motorhome, having changed into a neoprene dive suit. Her lustrous hair was pinned tight in small plaits to accommodate the tight- fitting hood. At thirty years of age, there wasn’t an ounce of surplus flesh to be seen. Fitness had always been part of her life.
She carried all the necessary equipment required for a short dive – lamps and compressed air cylinders. They were not going to depths requiring trimix gas.
Waiting patiently by his own vehicle, and similarly clad, stood her diving partner, university professor, Fergal Lars Christie – known otherwise as Fergy. He was born of Danish and Scottish parents. His main areas of scholarship lay in philosophy, metaphysics, and logic. He was in his late thirties, also a keen diver, and a marathon runner. He stood at the same height as her and had thick, long, dark hair. His expression was one forever questioning, yet open. Small creases in the corner of his grey eyes gave him, she thought, an added attraction. She often thought there was a retro appeal about him. People had remarked that they looked and seemed similar in so many ways.
Bending her head at a slight angle, she flashed her dark brown eyes at him. “You ready then, Mr. Fergal?”
“Let’s just say, Miriam,” he replied in the gravelly voice he was well known for, “I’ve been ready and standing here like a potted plant for the last fifteen minutes.” He gave a hearty grin in case she thought he was being difficult.