The Gawain Legacy

by Jon Mackley

  Will shrugged. ‘I’d have given anything to find out what those supernatural investigators had really seen. I bet she saw … or felt … something important and that was why they left.’ His gaze became distant. ‘I wonder why they chose to hide what they found instead of confronting it.’

  ‘Maybe there was nothing there.’

  Will snorted. ‘You know she saw something real. But you were the one it was calling to.’ He gave a long sigh. ‘No. It was something else. Maybe it was just too big for them.’

  The shadows had taken a life of their own as they flickered across the wall. Cold hands squeezed at her heart. She thought something would burst in her chest. The paths of terror were clogging up her brain. She struggled against the surrounding darkness. Realisation dawned on her. ‘It was the Seal. He must have seen the seal at the top of the stairs, and knew that if anyone went past it …’

  Will looked at her incredulously. ‘What seal?’

  ‘Gawain referred to the seal on his shield as “the endless knot”. It was at the top of the stairs. It wasn’t broken until you went past it.’

  ‘What seal?’

  She spoke with sudden realisation. ‘That was the Seal of Solomon on the wall by the entrance: the seal of wisdom. It wasn’t supposed to be broken.’ She took a deep breath and her lungs were filled with a sickly stench, like rotten cheese. She retched, but didn’t vomit. ‘Do you realise what we’ve done? We untied the endless knot.’

  ‘I don’t believe this,’ Will said aghast. ‘You let me walk past a Seal and you didn’t even tell me?’

  ‘I didn’t know what it was.’

  Will’s hands were livid. Then, as quickly as his rage had come, the anger flowed from his face. ‘You wouldn’t have known. It’s not your fault.’

  ‘What wouldn’t I have known?’ she demanded, annoyed at his presumption of her ignorance.

  ‘That a Seal would’ve been put at the top of the stairs to keep some force in, or out … my guess is the woman you saw … she sensed something beyond the seal, but it was psychic emanations from whatever’s down here. Nothing else. She reached out with her mind and touched it, woke it. I’m hoping that we haven’t done the same.’

  ‘Woken what?’ Lara said. Her imagination conjured unspeakable creatures in her mind. Will gave no answer, instead he continued down the stairs. She followed.

  When she expected to have to go down a further step, her foot met solid stone. Her footfall echoed around the small chamber. Will’s torch pierced the darkness. She saw rows of composite pillars, joined to the ribs of the vaulting across the ceiling. Will’s breath coiled in front of him like the breath of a sleeping dragon. Shadowy alcoves adorned the walls, each containing a tomb. Marble effigies of the deceased lay across the top of some of them. Carvings of knights in their battle armour lined the sides.

  Is this what’s meant by stepping back in time? Lara wondered. She tried to follow Will’s torchlight. The vast unknown was a precipice in front of her and she was teetering on the edge. One single misplaced step would force her into the Abyss.

  She stepped forward, ducking under a partially-decayed arch. Her movement echoed around the vault. It was slow and uncertain. She did not want to stumble and fall. In the torchlight she made her way towards the nearest of the tombs, running her fingers along the stone statue of a great knight at rest. She traced through the dust on the epitaph; the torchlight glanced across the tomb. Thomas de Masci, she read. Through the torchlight she saw seven great stone vaults in the crypt. Seven tombs, all that remained of the house of de Masci.

  ‘Seven,’ Will said. ‘And arranged like the points of the star in Holywell.’

  Lara jerked. The distant sounds had become more prominent, like someone following them down the steps. Her heart thumped violently in her chest. Dust clung to the nervous perspiration on her hands. For a moment she imagined a mason chiselling the stone; then the vault was filled with grieving relatives. She saw their sombre expressions and their funeral weeds. An elderly woman was being comforted by a younger man, presumably her son. She heard the minister reciting the Latin mass, commending the soul of ‘the most faithful of brethren’ to the cradle of God. This was no pauper’s funeral.

  She gazed at the tomb and at the effigy of the deceased. The hands were livid, as though he had valiantly fought death and almost succeeded in his struggle. The proud face was wan, with thick hair and beard. Age had traced lines into his gaunt face, but the muscles were those of a warrior, even in old age and death. The armour glinted with the lights from the mass’s candles and she even thought there was a trace of incense in the air.

  For a moment, she was a part of the funeral, one of the mourners. Her heart fell, like when she had realised her friends at school had a mother and she had not. She drew some comfort from having a family briefly, even if it was not her own. But she was also unnerved about these glimpses across time and she needed to be away, back in her present.

  She felt a touch on her arm, waking her from her dream. Will was looking at her, his face lined with concern. ‘Are you all right?’

  Lara nodded. ‘It frightens me when you drift off like that,’ he admitted. ‘I don’t know what you’re thinking.’

  ‘All this death,’ she murmured softly. ‘These people were loved. They had folk to mourn them when they died. This man was someone’s husband, he was someone’s father.’ She did not tell him about her insight into the funeral. She didn’t trust him with any of her thoughts. There was still time for him to turn against her. ‘One thing I don’t understand,’ she said. ‘We’ve just followed clues to a man’s grave. How did he know where to lead us if he was leading us to his tomb?’

  ‘This is a family tomb, Lara,’ Will said. ‘All of the names here are from the de Masci family. Here’s Gerard. Then there’s Thomas, William,’ he scurried round the tombs. ‘That’s John de Masci.’ He stopped, overawed. ‘This is Hugo. He must be the poet.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘The first page of Gawain, has the name “Hugo” at the top of the folio.’ He reluctantly moved away from the sarcophagus. ‘There’s Alison. She must have been his wife, and next to her.’ His voice fell, ‘Margery de Masci, the subject of Pearl.’

  ‘The little girl?’

  Will nodded sadly. ‘Alison must have been her mother and at the end of the line of tombs, Margery’s father. Hugo.’ He touched the stone lovingly. ‘At last we know who the poet truly is.’ He returned to Hugo’s tomb and pointed to a clasp at the top. The metal was rusted and flaking. ‘It’s on a hinge. He was expecting someone to find him and to open the tomb without breaking it.’ He reached for the clasp, but Lara held his hand. ‘What’s the matter?’ Will said. His voice was edgy.

  ‘Just something you said on the stairs about “death with wings”,’ she said softly. ‘We’ve come this far. Do you really think the poet will give all of his secrets without a final little surprise?’

  ‘What are you thinking?’

  Lara tried to answer, but she was momentarily silenced. An infinity of thoughts crowded into her mind. Her heart thumped in her chest. She shivered again. ‘I think the name on the manuscript, “Hugo”, might be a red herring, or maybe a dedication to the poet’s father, or something. It floats on the first folio like a spectre; it doesn’t have any relevance. I think there’s something we’ve missed. I need the manuscript.’

  Will pointed to the tomb once more. ‘But it’s a hinge,’ he said irritated.

  ‘The manuscript,’ Lara said, holding out her hand.

  Will surrendered it reluctantly. Lara turned through the pages to Gawain. ‘Something’s been bothering me,’ she said. ‘When the poet talks about the Seal of Solomon, he keeps talking about the symbolism of the five points.’

  ‘Yes,’ Will said patiently, as if Lara was pointing out the obvious.

  ‘Five senses, five fingers, five wounds of Christ, five joys of the Virgin, five virtues …’

  ‘Yes,’ Will said again. ‘We worked that ou
t. Stanza 25 is reversed to 52, which is where the code starts.’

  ‘Five, five, five, five, five,’ Lara said. ‘He’s really labouring the point.’

  Will rolled his eyes. ‘He’s not the only one. What’s your point?’

  ‘So obvious,’ Lara said. ‘Suppose he’s pointing us to the fifth stanza.’ She turned to the folio describing the Court before the arrival of the Green Knight.

  Bot Arthure wolde not ete til al were serued,

  He watz so ioly of his ioyfnes, and sumquat childgered:

  His lif liked hym lyᵹt, he louied þe lasse

  Auþer to longe lye or to longe sitte,

  So bisied him his ᵹonge blod and his brayn wylde.

  And also an oþer maner meued him eke

  Þat he þurᵹ nobelay had nomen, he wolde neuer ete

  Vpon such a dere day er hym deuised were

  Of sum auenturus þyng an vncouþe tale,

  Of sum mayn meruayle, þat he myᵹt trawe,

  Of alderes, of armes, of oþer auenturus,

  Oþer sum segg hym bisoᵹt of sum siker knyᵹt

  To ioyne wyth hym in iustyng, in iopardé to lay

  She translated aloud: ‘But Arthur would not eat until all were served. He was so jolly in his joyousness, and childlike in his excitement. He liked the carefree life and loathed the thought of lazing or sitting around, so he busied his young blood and his wild brain. And, in another way, he was also moved, that through nobility, he had undertaken that he would never eat upon such a dear day until he had heard of some adventurous thing, an unknown tale, of many marvels that he might hear of princes, of prowess or other adventures, or that a knight would seek them out to join with him in jousting, to lay his life in jeopardy …’

  ‘This is fascinating,’ Will said impatiently. ‘But I don’t see what you’re getting at.’

  Lara squinted at the characters. ‘It’s the alliteration and the stresses on the letters, Will. Look what it spells out.’

  Will squinted to read the manuscript. He spoke uncertainly. ‘“Wolde” … “were” … “ser-werd”,’ he glanced over at Lara. She nodded, her eyes glittering with excitement. He continued: ‘“ioly” … “ioyfulnes” … “childgered”.’

  ‘That’s it,’ Lara said, almost jumping.

  Will spelled out the letters: ‘W … I … L … L …’ He went to the next line. ‘bisied’… ‘blood.’

  Lara put a hand on his arm. ‘No,’ she said, urgently. ‘Look at the stresses in the words. “Bisied … him … his … brayn … wylde”. The “I” sound is repeated.’

  Will gave an unconvinced snort. ‘Let’s assume you’re correct. And by that rationale, the next line is “A” … “And also an oþer maner”.’ He looked at the next lines: ‘The “N” is repeated, and the “D”, then the “A”, then “M” … “A” … “S” … “I”.’ He stared at her in astonishment. ‘Willian da Masi,’ he breathed. ‘It’s not perfect, but …’

  ‘When has anything the poet did been “perfect”?’ Lara said. ‘The seven sided star? The pentangle in Avignon? The whole point of the poem is to show that even the most perfect knight can’t be perfect.’ She pointed again to the line of imperfection: ‘He þurᵹ nobelay had nomen …’

  ‘“Through nobility he had undertaken …”’ Will started.

  ‘But that’s not all it says. “Nomen” in Latin means “named”. It could read “he had been nobly named”.’

  Astonishment washed over Will’s face. ‘And that’s the name of the poet? It was there all along? William de Masi?’

  She moved over to William’s tomb, tracing her fingers over the top, brushing the dust away. The inscription read: William da Masci – Kt.

  There was a simple emblem on the stone. Two knights sharing a horse, with the inscription: Sigillum militum Xpisti.

  ‘Now,’ she said, returning the manuscript to Will, who placed it in his pocket. ‘Sir William’s a clever man. He worked out how to write in a way only someone with … lateral thinking … is going to realise there’s a code. Anyone else is going to think it’s a clever piece of literature.’

  ‘It is a clever piece of literature,’ Will said.

  ‘But even now,’ she said. ‘He wants to make sure we’ve been paying attention. He isn’t going to leave the answer in his own grave. He can’t do that. And it’d be too obvious. He’s going to make sure the clue is where he wants it.’ Lara reached into her pocket and pulled out her own notebook. She turned to a page where she had written out letters substituted by numbers. She peered at the inscription on Sir William’s grave. ‘His name is written as William da Masci – with an “A” as in the manuscript. All the other names are spelled with an “E”.’

  Will took the notebook from her. ‘He doesn’t use a “C” in the manuscript either,’ he said. He substituted letters for numbers: 23, 10, 12, 12, 10, 1, 14. He did the same for the rest of his name, then added them together. “One hundred and thirty-two,” Will announced. He moved over to the rows of tombs. ‘I guess we need to start counting.’

  Lara shook her head. ‘That’s not what it says. It says “William da Masci – Kt”. I think it means you have to deduct the sum of “K” and “T” from the total.’

  Will used her notebook to find the numerical values of the letters. ‘Deduct 20 and 11.’ He paused. ‘Total: 101.’

  ‘Now we start counting,’ Lara said.

  Will started with Sir William’s tomb, then moved clockwise: John, Hugo, Alison, Margery, then Gerard, Thomas, back to William and onwards, round and round, like a wheel of chance, until he counted, ‘ninety-nine, one hundred, one hundred and one.’ He stopped, pointing at Margery’s tomb. The statue on top was of a small child. A cap covered her hair, her hands held together in prayer over a long white gown. The epitaph written for her was simply þe pryuy perle. There was a flower engraved in the lid: a rose.

  ‘I’d have thought it would be a daisy: a marguerite,’ Will said. ‘The rose has thorns.’

  ‘So does the poem,’ Lara said.

  Will became quiet. ‘Margery …’ His eyes became both sad and anxious. ‘Lara, you can’t expect me to defile the tomb of a three year old girl?’

  ‘What’s the difference between that and a seventy year old man? It’s still defiling a tomb.’

  ‘I don’t understand this, why would he leave his secrets in the tomb of his daughter? I’d have thought he’d have wanted to give her eternal rest.’

  ‘It’s not his daughter’s tomb,’ Lara said, snapping her fingers. ‘In the story of Pearl, he says he “lost her in a garden”, she wasn’t buried in the family tomb, she must have been buried on the family lands, after all, that’s where the dreamer goes to sleep.’

  ‘All right,’ Will said slowly. ‘You’ve convinced me, but I really don’t like this.’ He walked over to Margery’s tomb, placing his torch down onto the floor. The light made a wide yellow arc across the side, highlighting the carvings of ancient angelic faces set to guard the child while she slept for eternity.

  ‘Here goes nothing,’ Will said, tracing his fingers along the side of the coffin. Then, trying to gain purchase on the stone, he tried to heave it up. His face contorted with exertion and he exhaled loudly, thumping the top of the coffin in frustration.

  ‘This isn’t going anywhere,’ he spat. He looked around, as if searching for something to smash open the tomb.

  Lara moved to his side, looking down at the slab and the effigy of the little girl. She could make out a few words: Hic jacet. Her eyes ran over the rest of the words, obiit 1398.

  Lara’s eyes narrowed. Something was wrong, something she couldn’t quite put her finger on.

  Then she saw it. The date. It should have been in Roman numerals.

  She traced her fingers over the numerals. They were slightly indented. She pressed down.

  As if on a spring, the number gave way. Lara gasped, releasing it. The number returned to where it had been. She touched it again. With a little pressure, she was able to
slide the number along until the number 7 was showing.

  ‘Will?’ she breathed, as she pushed the number next to it to reveal the number 8. Will watched, his jaw hanging open as Lara pushed the next number, but in a slightly different way: the number 3 slid downwards to become the number 4. When she touched the number 1 it remained fixed in position.

  ‘What do you think?’ Lara said.

  Will moved closer, pushing one of the numbers himself. ‘There’ll be a sequence. Something the poet would expect us to know.’ He leaned over, squinting in the gloom, sliding the numbers up and down. When he clicked the last one into place, he stepped back. Lara saw that the number sequence now read 1212 – the number of lines of Pearl.

  Nothing.

  ‘The first number doesn’t move,’ Lara observed. ‘It’s not part of the combination. This is something more subtle.’ She squeezed her eyes closed, sifting through her mind. ‘It’s something we would have noticed.’ She gently placed her hands over his and began to move the numbers.

  ‘It’ll take forever to try all the combinations,’ Will protested

  ‘We’d better make a start then,’ Lara whispered. She reached out with her mind. A thought fluttered just beyond her grasp. A feather caught by a gust.

  ‘Something’s missing,’ she breathed. Then, something clicked in her mind. ‘Everything that the poet did was flawed,’ she said as she moved the first number to 4. She laughed to herself. ‘It’s like he was perfect with his imperfections.’ She pushed the second number up to 7. Finally, she slid the last number down to 2: 472.

  There was an audible click.

  ‘The missing line from Pearl,’ Lara explained.

  Will nodded slowly. He gripped the end of the tomb and heaved.

  Hinges protested, grinding with centuries of neglect. The sound of grating stone. There was a hiss of dark vapours as the lid opened. A foul stench filled the room: decay and disease. Will stepped back, gagging on the foul clouds of death gases clawing at his mouth, as he tried to prevent himself from vomiting. The stone lid crashed down. The sound thundered through the crypt like an explosion. Tiny shards of stone and dust fell from the ceiling. Lara felt the floor trembling. She rushed to Will’s side, regretting it as the nauseating odour of decomposition and putrefaction became more intense. Will was choking, coughing. His eyes were rheumy.