He continued to study the window. The design was beautiful. The image included the abbot looking up adoringly at an angel engulfed in a heavenly glow. The abbot held his hands aloft, his palms flat. All of the windows were similar. In each, the central character received an object: a skull, a stone or parchment. All of the objects glowed, reminiscent of the light that surrounded the angel. The windows were titled at the bottom, their letters written in gold on a blue background. The words
Et In Arcadia Ego
One word for every window.
He glanced at the wall on the far side of the room. A series of paintings lined it, each a portrait of every past grandmaster. He recognised the newest one. Supposedly at least four members of his family had served as grandmasters of the order, but he didn’t know which ones they were.
He concentrated on the portrait of his dad. During the service, there had been a photograph on a stand near the altar. The contrast could not have been greater. In the photo his dad was sitting on a boat, sunglasses on, and a beaming smile. The portrait was strange. Although only the head and shoulders were visible, it was evident from the outline of his neck that he was wearing a suit. His features in the painting were harder than he remembered in real life, particularly around the mouth. To Matt, there was no warmth in the picture, not like the photo.
It was almost as if he was looking at a complete stranger.
He looked at the wall. There were other things besides the portraits: not decorative, but older. They looked like parchment, perhaps papyrus. There were twelve in all, each framed and covered by glass. The language was old, to him unrecognisable. He assumed it was Hebrew or something similar.
The sound of a switch from the corner of the room preceded a sudden blaze of light. Looking over his shoulder, Matt examined the doorway.
The abbot had appeared at the entrance.
‘Matthew.’
Matt grimaced. ‘Father Winter, I…’
The abbot walked closer, his expression soft. ‘Please don’t leave, not on my account. It affects us all in our own ways,’ he said, his attention between Matt and William Anson’s grave. ‘I, too, have found this chapel a place of peace and reflection in difficult times, particularly recently.’
Matt turned his head toward the grave. Like most in the chapel, it also included the engraving of a sword alongside the main symbol, whereas others were a long cross with a three-step botonny base and a fleurée cross at the head. From what Matt could gather, the cross graves represented grandmasters of the Knights of Arcadia who were also Cistercian monks, whereas the sword graves represented non-clergy and, in the past, soldiers.
‘Thank you for the service; it was perfect.’
A sombre smile touched his face. ‘Alas, I hoped it might have been the other way round. During my time, I have resided over the burial of three grandmasters,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Never has one touched my heart as it has today.’
‘I appreciate your compassion, Father.’
The abbot looked at Matt. ‘You don’t have to call me father, Matthew. Perhaps Uncle Thomas, or even Uncle Tom, would be nice.’
Matt smiled awkwardly. He noticed a twinkle in the old man’s eye as he said that. ‘Okay.’
The abbot nodded recurrently, reminding him of earlier that day. He walked slowly along the left wall, his eyes on the portraits of the various grandmasters.
‘Over twenty-three grandmasters have been laid to rest here,’ he said, gesturing to all corners of the chapel. ‘You’re quite like your father in many ways. Facially, and you’re both very polite.’
Matt forced a smile.
‘You know your father was the fourth member of our family to rise to grandmaster. Every generation has been a member, including myself. You’ll join yourself one day, I expect.’
The abbot continued to walk, his attention on the portraits.
‘This man was the first,’ he said, his arm pointing to an early portrait and his grave just beneath. ‘James de Anson, or Sir James I should say. He was something of a powerful landowner during the reign of James III of Scotland. Sir James here remains to this day the only grandmaster to suffer the indignity of losing his head at the hands of the King of England.’
Matt laughed. A few tears fell from his eyes.
‘Sir Gabriel was also your ancestor,’ Winter said, pointing to a man two paintings along. The man had long hair and a coarse beard with thick blue eyes penetrating through a narrow gaze, almost identical in appearance to his first relative.
‘This man was the third,’ he said, referring to a man of softer features. A white wig covered his head, typical Georgian style. ‘Admiral George Anson. I’m sure you’ve heard of him.’
Matt nodded, aware of the famous sailor from the 1700s. The first man to circumnavigate the globe.
Supposedly.
Winter sat down on the second pew, close to Matt. It was evident to Matt that recent events had been a strain, made greater by his considerable age. For him, too, the realities of the physical world would continue.
There were things he had to deal with.
‘The pain never goes away, not really,’ the abbot said. ‘Even now there are days when I find myself thinking about those who have gone before me.’
He paused briefly.
‘But even now they’re not really gone. You’ll think of him from time to time. But in the time to come, the pain eases, and in its place are memories, feelings of joy – and hope.’
Matt nodded, a couple of tears falling from his eyes.
‘I know we haven’t been too close over the years. Geography proves something of a problem – that and time, and the living of life. But I want you to know that if you ever need to talk: spiritual, or other.’
Matt wiped his eyes. ‘I wish I’d been closer to him these past eight years.’
The abbot’s eyes demonstrated his compassion. ‘If the future was known, then perhaps the fate of many of our grandmasters might have been different – I’m quite sure had your ancestor here have known fighting against the English would lose him his head, he might have thought differently.’
Matt laughed again.
‘But such uncertainty lies at the forefront of human progress. Had it not been for trailblazers like your ancestor Gabriel here, man would never have crossed the ocean.’
Matt viewed the painting of the second Anson with interest. Then he moved on to George Anson, fourteen portraits along. Directly beneath him was a bust. A plaque was also on the wall, reciting a poem.
Upon that storied marble cast thine eye.
The scene commands a moralising sigh.
E’en in Arcadia’s bless’d Elysian plains,
Amidst the laughing nymphs and sportive swains,
See festal joy subside, with melting grace,
And pity visit the half-smiling face;
Where now the dance, the lute, the nuptial feast,
The passion throbbing in the lover’s breast,
Life’s emblem here, in youth and vernal bloom,
But reason’s finger pointing at the tomb!
‘What’s it mean?’
The abbot looked at the poem. ‘A tribute to his naval record.’
Matt nodded, his focus still on the poem. It was strange. The poem spoke of a tomb, but without clarity. As he looked up at the painting, he saw the half-smiling admiral was indeed pointing.
‘Whose tomb did they mean?’
The abbot pointed at one of the tombs, this one slightly more basic than the others. It was located in the corner of the chapel, hidden by the seats of the altar boys. Like most, it was a single slab, but the symbol on the top was different. Instead of the cross pattée of the Knights of Arcadia, it looked more like a Star of David.
It reminded him of the symbol Jura had on his tie.
‘Was he Jewish? The man buried there.’
‘The symbol you see is the Seal of Solomon.’
Matt nodded. He had heard of the mythical King Solomon, but he knew nothing more
.
‘What does it mean?’
‘According to legend, the man buried here was an early member of our order. His body was discovered overseas by Admiral Anson in about 1744.’
‘Why does he have a different logo?’
The abbot contemplated the question. ‘History is vague on the matter. As far as I’m aware, no one has been able to discover his name.’
Matt remained focused on the tomb. ‘Where was he found?’
‘Somewhere in Nova Scotia. Whoever he was, the chap deserves remarkable recognition for having travelled to the New World at such an early time. He was brought back by your ancestor, and here he remains.’
The abbot rose to his feet.
‘In the early days, members of our order were prominent sailors. Many lost their lives, but even now they’re not forgotten.’
He motioned to the graves as he spoke. Matt knew from the markings that the remains of human beings interred in caskets were contained below, but somehow they appeared in a different light knowing that their activities were recorded in the annals of history – and that their portraits lined the walls of that chapel.
For the first time that day, he thought back to the various paintings on the walls of his father’s home. He was always aware that coming from a family who knew its lineage was rare. His father had always told him such things were to be cherished, but up to this point he had gained little from the knowledge. He remembered his father telling him once that roots are rarely important to the young. Middle age is a time for present family. To the young, those of the previous generation who delve into genealogies and ancestries appear little more than obsessive fanatics. Then one day you wake up to find your own offspring look a little like your predecessors. The unbroken chain of the living and the dead – his father had once said.
For the first time, Matt considered the importance of heritage. Perhaps it was his great-uncle that did it, though perhaps more likely it was the memory of his father. He noticed it himself the first day, that incredible assembly of paintings hanging from the walls of his former home.
The thought made him feel small.
He didn’t see it then, but he certainly saw it now. Throughout his life his father had been preparing him for his own journey. He would not remain in the navy, he would not sail across the Atlantic in a ship made out of wood – that much he was sure of. Strangely the comments of his great-uncle were reassuring. He looked to his right, his focus landing on the stained-glass windows. Whatever the mysteries of the universe were, he felt sure that he was not going to be the one who figured it all out.
No more lingering on the past, no more questions of what if.
Somewhere, somehow, something changed.
Standing by the window of the sacristy, the abbot stood in silence. Through the slightest of gaps in the curtains, he watched the son of the former grandmaster make his way along the pathway in the direction of the main road. A stranger viewing him for the first time might have found him imposing, particularly at night. His broad shoulders and arms swung quickly as he increased his pace, creating the illusion that he was even stronger than he appeared up close.
Yet there was something unthreatening about the way he walked, almost as if he was capable of detaching from his emotions.
The young monk, Robert, watched his superior from the doorway. He was dressed in his habit, his expression neutral.
‘Did you tell him, Father?’
Abbot Winter shook his head. ‘Alas, my resolve let me down.’
He smiled sombrely, his eyes heavy. His expression seemed out of character to the young monk. Rarely had the abbot lacked mental strength.
‘Did he give any clue as to the whereabouts of his father’s possessions?’
‘No,’ the abbot replied. He made no eye contact; instead he continued to gaze across the horizon. A ghostly mist was beginning to appear across the fields, its cloud distorted by the light of the moon. It was a sight he had seen many times before. The phenomenon created an illusion of timelessness, as though the ghosts of the order’s past were looking down on him, protecting him.
‘The diary of George Anson will need to be recovered, Father. Who knows what could happen should it fall into the wrong hands.’
There was no denying the seriousness of the statement.
‘Soon,’ he said, his stare firm. ‘But for now, let the boy rest. Things are already beginning to change. The world he knew is already gone. Let him keep his innocence a little longer. For now, that is all he has.’
7
Matt took a short cut over the fields on leaving the abbey and rejoined the main road through Kirkheart. He walked quickly in the direction of the high street and stopped in front of a quiet-looking inn. The building was 17th century in origin, comprising two storeys of white and black timber and a sloping roof that almost formed a perfect arrow. The upper storey jutted out slightly above the street, displaying the sign “The Black Horse”.
He wiped his feet on entering and walked slowly through double doors, unveiling a large, poorly lit room that was in keeping with the building’s character. To his right, two steps led down to a cosy bar area that was elegantly furnished with paintings of the building and village from the last century and several armchairs by a log fire.
The area to his left was primarily the dining area. Countless two-, four- and six-seater tables were located seemingly at random, most of which were unused.
He walked slowly along the bar and stopped before turning the corner. Ten feet in front of him, Nicole was sitting alone at a table, her eyes on a magazine and a pen placed to her lips. A half-empty plate was pushed away in front of her, its contents suggesting it was some kind of pasta with a side of garlic bread. An almost-finished glass was present on a coaster. The drink looked like an ordinary Coke, but Matt knew better.
Moments later she looked up to see him walking towards her with two drinks.
‘A Diet Coke with plenty of vodka.’
She smiled. ‘You remembered.’
He took a seat opposite, the chair making a slight scraping sound. He looked her over briefly, then over his shoulder out of habit. The building was slightly cold but not without character. The soft sound of music and distant conversation was the only disturbance to their privacy.
Nicole studied him, the top of her pen to the corner of her mouth. A strange silence passed between them, awkward yet better than it had been earlier that day.
‘How are you feeling?’
‘Good,’ he replied, drinking his beer.
He watched her while she watched him. This was more what he remembered of her. Her hair was still in a ponytail, though more like what he recalled from their time at uni. It seemed somehow more informal, as though she was ready for a session at the gym or staying in to watch a film.
He placed the beer down on the coaster and wiped his mouth. ‘So. What brings you to Kirkheart?’
‘My editor at the Tribunal has asked me to write an article on your father.’
‘Uh huh. Why are you really here?’
Nicole’s expression hardened. ‘Like I said, my editor asked me to write an article. I hope you don’t mind.’
Mind? It’s not like it was the only one.
‘Not at all. As long as it’s not some bollocks about an alleged suicide.’
Nicole’s eyebrows narrowed. This was an interesting start. ‘Do you mind if I tape this? It’s so much easier than writing it all down.’
A subtle nod. ‘Sure.’
Nicole picked up her handbag and instantly began rummaging through the content. She removed a hand-held digital voice recorder and showed it to Matt.
Matt watched her. He had seen similar devices in countless movies – particularly police ones.
Just say nothing incriminating.
Nicole opened her notebook and immediately started flicking through the pages. She licked the tips of her middle and index fingers as she scanned the text. She had made a list of questions earlier that day, but on la
ter reflection, she was not overly happy with them. She was already aware of the basics from browsing his father’s profile on the University of St. Andrews’ faculty section and his Wikipedia page provided by her editor, but she wanted to concentrate more on the present, a window into the recent circumstances.
She forced a smile and began. ‘Perhaps we can begin by clarifying the formalities: Your father was fifty-six, born in Ayr. His parents were Nigel and Andrea, an officer in the navy and nurse respectively.’
‘Correct.’
‘A graduate of Oriel College, Oxford, and later Harvard, he worked for several universities as a lecturer and historian, most recently St. Andrews. Prior to his PhD, he had served briefly in the navy, but he decided against continuing in service. In addition to his academia, he had authored twenty-two books on philosophy and history and was co-author of another ten, six of which had been with another scholar, a professor named Luke Bowden.’
He nodded. His thoughts momentarily returned to Bowden’s voice message.
Nicole brushed her fringe from her forehead. ‘So tell me about his latest work.’
Matt broke off a piece of garlic bread, now cold, from Nicole’s side plate.
‘I couldn’t really tell you,’ he said, his tone slightly sombre. ‘As far as I’m aware, Dad was on sabbatical and had been working on a new book, this time a history of Europe. He had been working on it for years; possibly even since before I was born.’
‘Wow. Any details?’
‘His fascination was medieval history, but he also had a passion for the ancient past – particularly the Old Testament. He believed that history as we know it is bogus, that the way it is viewed is full of holes. He, Professor Bowden and some other academic had apparently spent thousands of hours looking through various archives all over the world.’
The Larmenius Inheritance Page 6