An Unholy Communion

by Donna Fletcher Crow

  “Well, it’s not important now. Chloe took some pictures—” Felicity gestured toward the computer.

  “Good grief!” Lydia bent closer to the screen. “Where did you get these?”

  “I took them last night. We were walking along Caerbwdy Bay,” Chloe said.

  Lydia frowned. “Wrong time of the year for a Halloween party.”

  “We thought…” Felicity began and pointed to the small figure. “Rather, I thought it looked a lot like Adam.”

  Lydia considered. “Yeah, it does a little. That kid’s smaller, though.” She shook her head. “He doesn’t look too happy. Or maybe she—it’s hard to tell. Not that Adam deserves to be happy, either, of course.”

  “I’m glad Adam’s all right.” Antony realized as he spoke how very relieved he was. He hadn’t quite realized how responsible he had felt for the youth that had been under his care for ten days.

  “Well, he’ll be all right until I get my hands on him. It took me most of the day yesterday to talk the school into taking him back. I even had to walk into town just to get my mobile topped up at the newsagents.”

  “We’ll give thanks at morning prayer. Everyone has been worried.”

  “Yes, of course. Thanks.” Lydia turned toward the door. “I need my morning coffee now, though.”

  “I still think we should call the police,” Felicity insisted. “That’s obviously a minor in the photos and he was so still, so zombie-like. I think he must have been drugged.”

  Yes,” Antony agreed. “I’ll ring Detective Superintendent Pool.”

  “And there was that awful stuff the priest threw on the flames,” Felicity added. I wouldn’t be surprised if that was something illegal.”

  Antony shook his head. “Probably just incense. That’s normally used abundantly in occult practices. Fragrance offered to Satan as a counterpart to the liturgical incense we offer to God.”

  Chloe turned on through her pictures, showing Antony the figures caught in frozen distorted positions in their ritual dance. Felicity clapped her hands over her ears as if she were hearing the wailing again and turned away from the monitor. “‘Come, come, come…’ It made me think of our singing Veni, Sanctus Spiritus on Pentecost.” Then she stopped. “But wait. They weren’t chanting in English. It wouldn’t have been come. At first I thought it was Greek. Then it started sounding more like Latin…”

  “If it was a known language at all,” Antony reminded her.

  “Yes, but whatever it was, it was very intentional. Not gibberish. So if it was Latin it would have been cum.”

  Antony nodded. “As in union.”

  “Yes. Or together. A coming together.”

  “Did you get any other words?” Antony asked.

  Felicity thought. “I couldn’t hear very clearly—what with the cave echoing and the waves splashing behind us. But I thought I might have caught potentiae obiectum.”

  “Article of power,” Antony translated.

  “Potentiae obiectum,” Felicity repeated almost under her breath. “Something Hwyl found, maybe?”

  “Or was looking for,” Antony suggested. “Perhaps that’s what he was enquiring of Professor Meyerson about.”

  “What about that drawing of the Bishop’s Palace Dilys showed you? That couldn’t have been it, could it? What did Bishop Harry say?”

  “He was very interested, very appreciative that I’d brought it to him. He thought it should be looked after by the cathedral librarian, and asked him to come in. They’re calling in an archivist to humidify it so it can be unrolled without damage. We can check back today.”

  “Great! I can’t wait—” A sneeze interrupted Felicity’s sentence. “To see it,” she finished.

  After breakfast and morning prayers, Antony did his best to convince Felicity that she should spend the day in bed. But, of course, she wouldn’t hear of it. “And miss out on all the fun?” Antony smiled. He wasn’t sure what he adored most about her, but her energy and sheer grit had to be near the top of the list.

  The librarian greeted Antony at the cathedral library. “Ah, Father Antony, come to see your treasure, have you?”

  “It is a treasure, then? I was hoping it would turn out to be.”

  “It’s early days. Tests must be run, but we are anticipating exciting results.”

  Antony introduced Felicity to George Phipps, the librarian, and he led the way to a work room where a small woman in a neat navy blue dress was bending over a long table. “Ah, may I present Mary Ware, our archivist. Well, not really our archivist. We called her in from Cardiff University.” He introduced their visitors. “How is your work progressing?”

  “Splendid. It should be dry now. We had to re-humidify it, you see. It had some pretty severe cracks. I’d say it had been forced open by someone.” She looked at Antony accusingly.

  “No. I brought it straight here,” he assured her.

  “Good. Any more such violence and it might have been too late to save it. Vellum is particularly tricky to work with.” She turned back to her table. “ But I find the laminate stack usually works very well.” She indicated several items on the end of the table. “I placed the document on a sheet of Gore-Tex over a damp blotter, then put on a polyester cover to hold the moisture in. Gore-Tex, you see, is a very dense material that will only let water pass through it as a vapor, so it provides gentle humidification.”

  “How long did it take?” Felicity asked.

  “Oh, not long. I watched it carefully. You can tell when it’s done because the document relaxes. This took about fifteen minutes, I suppose.” She moved to another stack, this one still assembled. “Drying takes longer. This has been here more than twelve hours, so it should be all right.” She lifted the Plexiglas cover to reveal the document lying flat between two blotters. She touched one corner of the sheet gently. “Yes, you may examine it. But very carefully.”

  Felicity started to reach out. “Ah, aha,” Mary stopped her and produced a pair of white cotton gloves for each of them.

  “Can you tell how old it is?” asked Felicity.

  “We’ll run some tests on the vellum, but I’d say fourteenth century, judging by the style of the work.” She pointed to the words across the bottom of the page. “You’ll note how the Gothic lettering has a broad, open look. That’s very characteristic of the mid-fourteenth century. Also, the spreading branch of the ornamental brackets. Earlier you would have had a single bud, rather than a vine. By the next century the bud would have flowered.”

  “So this could be an original plan of the Bishop’s Palace?” Antony asked.

  “Not a working architect’s plan, if that’s what you’re thinking. It’s too ornamented for that. But it could have been done at that time. Perhaps for Bishop Gower himself, rather like one might take a photograph of their home today. But, of course, that’s speculation.”

  “I wish we knew where Hwyl found it,” Felicity mused, leaning over the drawing, but not touching it.

  Antony agreed. He longed to know the secret he felt sure this document must hold. He too, was reluctant to touch. Besides, they could see perfectly well with it laid out flat before them. What clues did this hold to the secret Hwyl must have died for?

  Mary moved around the room, tidying her tools and supplies. “Any ideas?” Antony asked Felicity.

  “What are we looking for?”

  Antony grinned. “It would be helpful to know, wouldn’t it?”

  “Do you think this could be the potentiae obiectum?”

  “It’s possible, but I think it’s more likely a clue to its location.”

  “A treasure map?” Felicity’s eyes widened.

  “If you like.”

  Felicity pulled a chair up to the table and picked up a pencil and notepad lying there. “I’ll work on translating the writing. You look for X marks the spot.”

  For several minutes the only sound in the room was the scratching of Felicity’s pencil. At last she set it down with a conclusive air. “Got it. Listen, this is
interesting: ‘Bishop Henry built his clausum honestum’—that translates ‘cathedral close,’ doesn’t it?” Antony nodded and she continued, “‘To safeguard canons, vicars and ministers of the cathedral from the depredations of the bishop’s temporal officers.’”

  “That is interesting,” Antony agreed. “I wish we knew what temporal officers: civil servants, lay workers or something further afield?”

  “I wonder if the Orbis Astri existed then?” Felicity answered her own question: “I wouldn’t think so. But I wonder what depredations: Physical safety? Wars? Thievery? Personal attack? Spiritual safety? Protection from heresy?” She removed her gloves, pulled a tissue from her pocket and blew her nose. “Oh. This is frustrating—too many questions; too few answers.”

  “Learn anything?” Mary returned to the table.

  “We certainly learned a great deal about unrolling brittle vellum.” Antony smiled and pulled off his gloves. “Thank you so much for your time. I’m glad your work was so successful.”

  “Thank you for bringing this to us, Father. It will be a wonderful addition to the cathedral archives. If you learn anything about its provenance do let us know.”

  Antony promised and led the way through the cathedral and back out the south door. Warm sunshine greeted them when they emerged into the close, as did the joyful voices of the youth choir scheduled to perform a concert there that evening, assembling with exuberance for a photograph on the 39 Steps. But Antony turned around back toward Bishop Gower’s palace.

  “Antony!” Felicity caught at his arm. “Where are we going? Did you spot something on that plan?”

  “Well, maybe. It’s worth a look, anyway.”

  “What? Where?”

  “Whoa, just wait. I’ll show you. If it’s still there.”

  They paid their admission fee at the gatehouse and entered the broad green courtyard. Tourists milled about them on every level of every range of the building. That could make any snooping difficult; or perhaps provide useful cover on the off-chance anyone was watching them. Antony hoped their investigations had managed to elude observation by anyone who might be seeking the same goal they were—but for vastly different purposes.

  He led up the outside steps that ran from the courtyard directly into the bishop’s private chapel, then slowly along the south wall dividing the chapel from the bishop’s solar. Craning his head back, he examined each corbel carefully.

  “If you’d tell me what we’re looking for I could help you,” Felicity pleaded, following so closely she nearly stepped on his foot.

  “I wanted to be sure…” He stopped in the corner. Looking up at the features on the face he felt his spine tingle. Yes, even in its ruinous state he was certain. Making sure they were alone in the chapel, he pointed. “There. That corbel. Tell me what you see.”

  Felicity considered. “It’s in a somewhat protected corner, so it’s in better condition than some.” She tipped her head to the side, looked at the others protruding at their intervals along the wall, then looked back. “Yes, I thought so. It’s larger.”

  “Right. Very good. Anything else?”

  “Well, it’s hard to say, but the features… Definitely a man. Not a beast, demon, or angel. And yet… Is it a depiction of Christ?”

  “Bingo! That one was drawn as a pop-out on the plan. It could have been out of respect. Or…”

  “It could have been our X marks the spot!”

  The anticipation was mounting inside him so that Antony could only nod. The stairway to the parapet walk in the corner of the bishop’s solar was roped off. Broken steps in the ascending spiral gaped like missing teeth. Still, it didn’t appear to be impassable. “I need to get a closer look.” He turned to Felicity. “Stay in the chapel. If anyone comes in, distract them. Get them to look out the window or something.”

  Felicity didn’t seem happy with the idea of being left on the ground when there was climbing about to be done, but she didn’t argue.

  Antony clung to the rough stone walls with both hands. Even the remaining triangular steps were uneven and broken. Falling down the ruined stairwell could result in nasty injuries. The first missing step still had a stone protruding from the wall, large enough to support his right foot. He gripped the step above it and pulled himself up.

  He breathed slightly easier now. At least he was high enough to be hidden from the view of anyone passing the open doorway. The second gap was harder to negotiate as two steps in a row were missing. He strained to reach a step high over his head, then, bracing his feet against the stones of the wall, heaved himself up. His purchase was almost secure when the stone under his left foot broke free and clattered to the floor below.

  Antony held his breath. Would anyone notice? Maybe come to investigate? “I’m so sorry.” Felicity’s voice traveled up the shaft. “We’ve had a report of falling stone. The inspector will be finished soon, but this part of the palace is closed off for safety at the moment. Perhaps you’d care to check back in half an hour?”

  Antony couldn’t hear the reply, but no one came chasing up to haul him down.

  When he reached the rampart, he had to lie flat on his stomach to avoid being observed from visitors walking along the arcade on the south range. He could hardly expect Felicity to close down the entire palace. He inched his way forward, painfully aware of the violence the jagged stones were doing to his clothes. His scraped skin would heal, but this would cost him a new shirt and pair of trousers.

  When he judged he was over the Christ corbel, he raised his head and looked around. The chapel was empty. But the corbel was further from the walkway than he had judged from below.

  He tried to reach it by sliding as far as he could along the rampart, then extending one arm while holding on for dear life with the other, but it was no good. His only hope was to extend one leg over the side and stick his foot into the hole left by one of the wooden ceiling trusses. With one more look to be certain the coast was clear, and a quickly breathed prayer, he went for it.

  The fingers of his left hand tingled as he grasped the stone head. He was here. Now what? If his guess had been right that Bishop Gower had designed a type of medieval safe to secure his treasure, how did he now access it?

  He grasped the head more firmly to pull himself forward. For a moment his tug was secure, then the corbel twisted in his hand.

  It was only his frantic grasp at the edge of the parapet with his free hand that kept him from pitching headlong to the floor below. He clung there for a moment, gasping, while the rush of blood receded from his head. It was only a few seconds, but it seemed like hours before he could relax and open his eyes to examine the bishop’s hidey-hole.

  A cavity, perhaps eight inches in diameter, extended into the stonework behind the angled corbel. Feeling carefully, Antony slid his hand into the hollow. His disappointment at feeling only rough stone was severe.

  And then his fingertip grazed something that felt like wood. Once again he strained forward, clasping at any available handhold with his right hand and stretching his left. He had to get a firm grasp. If he merely pushed the object deeper into the cavity he would be unable to retrieve it.

  At last he could feel the dimensions and realized it was a wooden box of some sort. Carved, from the feel of it. Sweat poured from his forehead and ran into his eyes. His heart was pounding so loudly in his ears he wouldn’t have been able to hear if someone had shouted at him from below. One more inch and he had it.

  He removed the small casket with one smooth gesture. Placing it on the rampart he arched over one final time to replace the corbel, then rolled onto his back on the walkway, grasping the precious object and gasping for air.

  It wasn’t until he was safely back in the bishop’s solar with the little wooden box chafing the skin under his shirt, that he thought to breathe a prayer of thanksgiving.

  Felicity threw her arms around him, squealing, “Oh, well done! I watched from the doorway. I almost shrieked when I thought you were going to fall! Oh—” She squ
eezed him even tighter, pressing the box into both their chests. “What is it? What is it? What did you find?”

  “I don’t know, but we can’t open it here.”

  “Where? I can’t wait!” Felicity was pulling him toward the exit.

  “The cathedral, I think,” Antony replied. “It is their property, after all.”

  The library was deserted, the staff probably at lunch. Antony unbuttoned his shirt and drew out a wooden rectangle less than a foot long and six inches wide. The dark oak, weathered with time and damp, was held together with tarnished, but ornate brass fittings, the top inlaid with ivory and semiprecious stones in the shape of a cross. Gold leaf highlighted the carved vines in a similar pattern to the brackets on the palace plan drawing.

  “Open it!” Felicity urged.

  Antony took a breath and lifted the lid.

  Felicity pulled back at the sight of a bone with shreds of rotting flesh clinging to it. “Eww. Disgusting.”

  “Yes. And worrying.” He set it on the floor as if afraid it would cut his fingers.

  “What—” Felicity began.

  “I’m guessing it’s a curse of some sort. A very recent one.”

  “But the box looks ancient.”

  “Yes, and whatever ancient relic or artifact it held has been removed and replaced with an instrument of evil.”

  Felicity moved back. “A curse on the person who finds it?”

  In spite of himself Antony shivered. “Possibly.” He took out a clean handkerchief, wrapped the case in it and picked it up again. “Come on. I’ll deal with this.”

  Antony led the way out of the cathedral grounds and around the back where a small stream flowed freely under a thicket of trees. He set the case on the ground, unwrapped it and opened the lid, then knelt down and scooped water into his cupped left hand, making the sign of the cross over it with his right hand. He sprinkled all with the blessed water. He tipped the malefice into the stream and held the case in his hand. “Lord, I beseech You, cleanse this vessel. Drive out every evil power, presence and influence and all evil actions aimed against Your servant. Where there is malice, give us an abundance of goodness, endurance and victory. Amen.”