by C. M. Palov
“The police? No.” The RIRA, yes. Knowing he’d only frighten her if he disclosed that bit of unsavory business, Caedmon kept mum.
“So, what happened? Were you ‘sent down,’ as the high-brows on Masterpiece Theatre are wont to say?”
“No. I left on my own accord after it was made painfully clear to me by Sir Kenneth that my doctorate degree would not be conferred.”
She glanced at the curly-haired don. “I’m guessing there’s bad blood between the two of you, huh?”
“Of a sort. Although in England, we conduct our feuds in a chillingly polite manner,” he replied, relieved when she didn’t pry further. He’d been a cocky bastard in his student days, supremely confident of his intellectual prowess. He’d had his comeuppance. And preferred not to talk about it.
With a hand to her shoulder, he assisted Edie in removing her outerwear, hanging her red jacket on the brass hook embedded into the side of the wooden booth. That done, he removed his anorak and hung it on the sister hook. He then motioned her to the circular table that fronted the high-backed booth.
“Do you mind grabbing that basket of oyster crackers on the next table?” Edie asked as she seated herself, not in the booth, but in the Windsor chair opposite.
Caedmon complied with the request. Placing the snack basket in the middle of the table, he seated himself in a vacant chair just as Sir Kenneth, juggling a small tray, approached the table.
“Nothing like malt, hops and yeast to usher in a spirit of fraternal concord, eh?” A man of mercurial moods, Sir Kenneth had forsaken his earlier condescension for a show of bluff good humor. Drinks passed out, he seated himself in the booth. Surrounded on three sides by dark-stained wood, he looked like a Saxon king holding court.
Edie lifted her water glass. “I assume that I’m included in all that brotherly love.”
“Most certainly, my dear.” As Edie bent her head, Sir Kenneth slyly winked at him, Caedmon wanting very badly to bash him in the nose.
Although he hailed from the upper echelons of British society, Sir Kenneth wasn’t averse to mucking about with the common man. Or woman—Sir Kenneth was particularly fond of the fairer sex. In a day and age when reckless behavior could get one killed, the man had a voracious sexual appetite. An appetite that had evidently not diminished with age. According to rumor, the provost had once remarked that Oxford might do well to return to the days of celibate fellows, if for no other reason than to keep roaming dons like Sir Kenneth at bay.
“So, tell me, young Aisquith, to what do I owe the pleasure of this most unexpected visit?”
Puzzled as to why his estranged mentor had twice referred to him by his old pet name, Caedmon shrugged off his discomfort. “We’d like to inquire about a thirteenth-century knight named Galen of Godmersham.”
“How curious. I had an appointment yesterday with an American chap from Harvard. A professor of medieval literature interested in Galen of Godmersham’s poetic endeavors.”
Curious, indeed.
Caedmon immediately wondered if the “American chap” was an agent working for Colonel Stanford MacFarlane. Or was it mere coincidence that a Harvard scholar had been inquiring about an obscure thirteenth-century English knight? Sir Kenneth Campbell-Brown was the foremost authority on the English crusaders; it could be a coincidence. Although Caedmon had his doubts.
“What’s this about poetry?” Edie piped in. “Are we talking about the same knight?”
His tutorial style having always been to answer a question with a question, Sir Kenneth did just that. “How familiar are you with Galen of Godmersham?”
Plucking several oyster crackers out of the basket, Edie replied, “I know him by name only. Oh, and the fact that he discovered a gold chest while crusading in the Holy Land.”
“Ah . . . the fabled gold chest.” His eyes narrowing, Sir Kenneth directed his gaze at Caedmon. “I should have known you’d be mixed up in that harebrained bit of business.”
“I assume that the American professor expressed a similar interest in Galen’s treasure trove,” Caedmon countered, ignoring the gibe.
“If you must know, he never mentioned Galen’s gold chest. The chap’s field of expertise was thirteenth- and fourteenth-century English poetry. Recited reams of archaic verse between exhalations. Put me to bloody sleep, it did.”
Even more curious, Caedmon thought, still pondering the significance of the meeting.
“Time out,” Edie exclaimed, holding her hands in a T formation. “I’m totally confused. We’re talking about a gold chest and you’re talking about poetry. Is it just me or did we lose the connection?”
Sir Kenneth smiled, the question smoothing the old cock’s ruffled feathers. “Because you are such a lovely maid, what with your raven elf locks and skin so fair, I shall tell you all that I know of Galen of Godmersham. After which, you will tell me why you are chasing after old dead knights.”
“Okay, fair enough,” Edie replied, returning the smile.
Not wanting Sir Kenneth to know the full extent of their interest in Galen of Godmersham, Caedmon fully intended to intervene when the time came to pay the debt. If mishandled, such knowledge could get one killed.
“As your erstwhile swain may or may not have told you, during the medieval period the entire Holy Land, or the Middle East as it is now referred to, was under Muslim control. Given that this was the land of the biblical patriarchs and the birth-place of the Savior, Europeans believed that the Holy Land should be a Christian domain. The centuries-long bloodbath that ensued has come to be known as the Crusades. No sooner was Jerusalem conquered by the crusading knights than the Church moved in, organizing religious militias to oversee their new empire.
“The two best-known militias were the Knights Templar and the Hospitaller Knights of St. John; the rivalry between the two orders was legendary,” Caedmon mentioned, keeping his voice as neutral sounding as possible. The Knights Templar had once been a point of bitter contention between him and his former mentor.
“And it should be noted that the men who swelled the ranks of the Templars and the Hospitallers were anything but holy brothers,” Sir Kenneth remarked, right on his coattails. “These were trained soldiers who fought, and fought mercilessly, in the name of their God. One might even go so far as to liken the two orders of warrior monks to mercenary shock troops.”
On that point, Caedmon and Sir Kenneth greatly differed. Although he wasn’t about to argue the point. He was there to learn about Galen of Godmersham, not to rekindle a longstanding dispute.
“As the crusading knights soon discovered, the Holy Land was rich pickings, and religious artifacts were sent back to Europe by the shipload,” Sir Kenneth continued, folding his arms over his chest, an Oxford don in his element.
“Holy relics were a big fad during the Middle Ages, weren’t they?”
“More like an obsession; many a pilgrimage was made to view the bones or petrified appendages of the holy saints. St. Basil’s shriveled bollocks. St. Crispin’s arse bone. Such oddities abounded.”
Beside him, Caedmon felt Edie’s shoulders shake with silent laughter, his companion obviously amused by Sir Kenneth’s bawdy humor.
“Christians in the Middle Ages were convinced that holy relics were imbued with a divine power capable of healing the sick and dying while protecting the living from the malevolent clutches of the demon world.”
“Sounds like a lot of superstitious hooey.” Indictment issued, Edie popped an oyster cracker into her mouth.
Sir Kenneth pruriently observed the passage of cracker to lip before replying, “While superstition did exist, the medieval fascination with holy relics was more than mere cultish devotion. Given that we live in a disposable society with no thought to the past and little for the future, it is difficult to comprehend the medieval mind-set.”
“Guess you could call us the here-and-now generation,” Edie remarked, seemingly unaware of the effect she had on the Oxford don.
“Indeed. But the generation t
hat set forth for the Holy Land, donned in mail and armed with sword, full-heartedly believed that the land of their biblical forbears was a 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,” Caedmon pointed out, deciding to broach the subject in a roundabout manner. “No less a thinker than Thomas Aquinas declared that ‘God himself was signified by the Ark.’ Other Church fathers likened the Ark of the Covenant to the Virgin Mother of Christ.”
“Ah, yes . . . Faederis Arca.”
Edie tugged at his sleeve. “Translation, please.”
Secretly pleased that Edie had turned to him, Caedmon 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 Savior of the world.”
“So where does Galen of Godmersham fit into all of this?” Edie asked, proving herself a perceptive student.
“As with many younger sons with nary a prayer of inheriting, Galen of Godmersham decided to earn his fortune the old-fashioned way. That, of course, being the pillaging and sacking of the infidels in the far-flung Holy Land.”
“Rape and ruin . . . the stuff of English history,” Caedmon mordantly remarked.
Grinning, Sir Kenneth banged his palm against the table, setting half-filled glasses to rattling. “Ah! Those were the days, were they not?” Then, his voice noticeably subdued, he continued. “Both the Knights Templar and the Hospitallers were actively engaged in finding 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 mankind. 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, “Although 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 1286, while patrolling the region between Palestine and Egypt, Galen of Godmersham led 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,” Caedmon 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 on 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 tenure 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,” Caedmon 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 objets sacrés when the knight 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 inquired, 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 succumbed. As you can well imagine, chaos ensued, and compulsory record keeping was 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 the English shores, took the precaution of removing his precious gold chest from the family chapel in order to safeguard it from the looting rampage 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 coming bodily 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. “Although Galen’s verse is cryptic in nature, there is reference made in the quatrains to an arca.”
“Arca being the Latin word for ‘chest,’ ” Caedmon said, taking a moment to consider all that Sir Kenneth had divulged. If the clues to the gold chest’s whereabouts were contained within the poetic 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 unexpectedly inquired.
No sooner was the question posed than Sir Kenneth’s woolly head swiveled in Caedmon’s direction. “Is that your purpose in roasting me over the fire, so that you can chase after a myth?”
Caedmon opened his mouth to speak. But Edie beat him to the punch.
“We thought there might be a slim possibility that Galen of Godmersham uncovered the Ark of the Covenant.”
“A fool’s errand, my dear. The Holy Land fair brimmed with golden gewgaws, and more than one impoverished knight returned to England a wealthy man.”
Undeterred, Edie said, “If Galen didn’t discover the Ark of the Covenant, then—”
“I never said he didn’t discover the Ark of the Covenant.”
“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 muchballyhooed 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 asserted. As he spoke, he locked gazes with Caedmon. A glancing blow. Then, his expression softening, he returned his attention to Edie. “Did you know there’s an old Irish legend that claims that not only did a band of in trepid 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 an Ark tale as that of Galen of Godmersham discovering the Ark on the Plain of Esdraelon.”
Just then the door of the pub opened and a gaggle of giggling women crossed the threshold, holding a birthday cake 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 toward him, Edie whispered in Caedmon’s ear, �
�He wants to go to church?”
“Not in the sense that you mean it. Sir Kenneth resides at Rose Chapel.”
“Just like a medieval monk, huh?”
Caedmon watched as Sir Kenneth appraised the cake bearer’s backside.
“Hardly.”
CHAPTER 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 her from horny college professors.
Discovering that they had entered an ancient cemetery, a good many of the weathered headstones eerily tilted at a drunken incline, Edie unthinkingly leaned into Caedmon.
“Very creepy,” she murmured, not wanting to disturb the dead.
“The scenery improves on the other side of the marble yard,” 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 boxwoods. Imagining the older man maneuvering through the circuitous route after a night spent at the Isis Room, Edie bit back a smile.
The knot garden navigated, they strolled through a small cluster 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 articulated with arched stained glass windows. Adjacent to the chapel was a three-story Norman tower that seemed out of place with its plain façade and arrow slits, tower married to chapel like a masculine/feminine yin/yang.