by C. M. Palov
“Yes, it always is.” Turning his back on the tree, Sir Kenneth cleared his throat. “The Choral Society is singing Handel’s Messiah at seven thirty. Perhaps you and Miss Miller would care to join me? There is nothing that compares to the sound of crystal voices lifted to the heavens. Quite moving. Even if one does not believe in the Christmas myth that’s been spoon-fed to us by power hungry Church fathers, eh?”
Having obtained all that he needed from his old mentor, Caedmon shook his head. He’d had enough strained conversation for one day. “Thank you, Sir Kenneth. Unfortunately, we—”
“Yes, yes, I understand.” Then, his right index finger pointing heavenward, like a man struck with an inspired idea, he said, “I’ve got just the thing. The crate arrived only this morning.” Turning his back, he searched the boxes piled high on the console table. “Where is the blasted—Ah! There it is!” Reaching into a wooden crate, he removed a bottle.
“Merry Christmas, young Aisquith.”
Caedmon hesitated a moment, instantly recognizing the label on the bottle of Queen’s College port that the older man offered to him. Collegii Reginae. He well recalled the port decanter being passed between the senior fellow and his small band of favorites long years ago. Those were fond memories, unsullied by the later rupture.
With a brusque nod, he accepted the bottle. “And a Merry Christmas to you, Sir Kenneth.”
The other man patted his stomach. “I don’t know about ‘merry,’ but it shall certainly be filling, what with Mrs. Janus stuffing me with Christmas gâteau and pecan tarts.”
Uncomfortable with the pleasantries, knowing they hid the bitter feelings that had earlier bubbled to the surface, Caedmon took Edie by the elbow. “Come. We must be on our way.”
To his surprise, she disengaged herself from his grasp, stepped over to Sir Kenneth, and kissed him on his withered right cheek. “I hope you have a very Merry Christmas!”
Grinning like a besotted fool, Sir Kenneth followed them to the door. “And, in turn, I hope that you and young Aisquith uncover Galen’s blasted box. If the gold chest is to be found, you are the man to find it.” This last remark was directed to Caedmon.
Surprised by his old mentor’s show of support, Caedmon said the first thing that came to mind.
“Thank you, sir. That means a great deal to me.”
CHAPTER 39
Enraged, Stan MacFarlane snapped shut his cell phone.
Aisquith and the woman were in Oxford.
Although the how of it eluded him, the why was plainly evident. Somehow they’d managed to find out that the medieval knight Galen of Godmersham had uncovered the Ark of the Covenant while on crusade in the Holy Land. The museum director, Eliot Hopkins, must have passed that information on to Aisquith before his death.
“Do you want me to take care of it, sir?”
Stan glanced over his shoulder. He knew that former gunnery sergeant Boyd Braxton was anxious to make amends for the debacle in Washington.
“Sometimes it’s in one’s best interest to be merciful.”
It took a few moments for the other man’s befuddled expression to morph into an amused grin. “Oh, I get it, Colonel. Like Tony Soprano, you want to keep your friends close and your enemies even closer.”
That being as good an answer as any, Stan tersely nodded. “Tell Sanchez to put a tail on Aisquith. I want to know the Brit’s every move.”
Turning on his heel, he strode down the low-ceilinged hall, his booted footfall muffled by the well-worn Persian runner. On either side of him hung gilt-framed landscape paintings.
A tastefully appointed house for the discriminating traveler.
When he leased the house on the website, he hadn’t given a rat’s ass about the décor. He only cared that the manor house was located midway between London and Oxford at the end of a half-mile oak-lined driveway. He needed a base camp to set up operations. Oakdale Manor fit the bill.
Brusquely nodding, he acknowledged the armed sentry standing ramrod straight beside the upholstered chair. The Heckler & Koch MP5 clutched to the sentry’s chest came courtesy of a sergeant major in the Royal Marines who routinely padded his retirement account with illegal small-arms sales.
Passing the age-blackened doors that led to the formal dining room, he gave a quick, cursory inspection, verifying that his highly paid contract worker was busy deciphering Galen of Godmersham’s archaic poetry. A postgraduate student enrolled in Harvard’s medieval studies program, the scraggly-haired twenty-nine-year-old had jumped at the chance to pay off the nearly seventy thousand dollars in student loans that hung over him like a well-honed ax blade. Soft-spoken and effeminate, the man put Stan in mind of a loose bowel movement. If not for the fact that he possessed the arcane body of knowledge necessary to decipher the fourteenth-century quatrains, he would have cut the stoop-shouldered pencil dick after yesterday’s meeting with the Oxford highbrow. For the moment, however, he served a purpose.
Satisfied to observe the bespectacled scholar intently staring at his laptop, an eight-hundred-year-old map of England spread out on the table beside him, Stan continued down the hall to the kitchen.
For some reason the stone-floored country kitchen put him mind of his grandmother’s kitchen back home in Boone, North Carolina. Maybe it was the green-mottled crockware that lined the open shelves. Or the scarred wood-planked table that dominated the center of the room. Whatever the reason, he could envision his aproned grandmother standing at the oversized gas stove frying up some freshly laid eggs with big slabs of salted ham.
Reduced to eating English slop, he cut himself a thick slice of bread from the loaf that’d been left on the table. Slathering it with plum jam, he carried it over to the casement window that overlooked the garden. Through the gnarled branches of dead wisteria that framed the outside of the window, he could see a fine-looking white horse frolicking in a distant field.
How much did Aisquith know?
Probably not much. That’s why he was in Oxford consulting with the foremost expert on the English crusaders. How ironic that the two men were acquainted with one another. The intelligence dossier on Aisquith had made no mention of the relationship. Luckily, he’d had the foresight to buy off the housekeeper.
Still it was troubling to discover that Aisquith knew about the quatrains. Although given that he possessed the sole copy of the quatrains outside Duke Humfrey’s Library and given that the library was only open to Oxford faculty and students, the Brit didn’t have a prayer of examining the original codex. Without the quatrains, Aisquith was just pissing in a gusty wind.
He glanced at his watch.
It was 1331 local time.
He’d hoped to have the quatrains deciphered by now, his excitement mounting with each passing hour. No doubt this was how Moses felt when he crafted the Ark of the Covenant, placing inside it the two stones inscribed with the Ten Commandments. With the creation of the Ark, Moses had ushered in a new world order. The hinge of history had swung upon the Ark. And it would soon swing again.
Praise be to the Almighty! For the battle is the Lord’s.
Although he knew that he had a tough fight ahead of him, he took solace in the knowledge that he would have at the ready the best weapon a soldier could have.
For twenty-five years he’d been readying himself. Love of God. Purity of heart. Cleanliness of mind and body. Those were the qualities of the Ark guardian.
Harliss, a burly ex-Marine, now a “consultant” with Rosemont Security, poked his head into the kitchen. “Sir, he’s got something for you.”
Knowing that “he” referred to the Harvard scholar, Stan headed for the dining room.
“What do you have?” he barked without preamble as he entered the room. The side chairs had all been pushed to one wall, enabling a free flow of movement around the large oval-shaped table. Several framed paintings were on the floor, propped against the same wall.
The scholar walked over and dimmed the overhead chandelier, a PowerPoint slide projected o
nto the now-pictureless dining room wall. Stan found himself staring at the four quatrains that Galen of Godmersham had composed prior to his death.
The despitous Zephirus rood forth from Salomon’s Cite jubilant they sang
But a goost forney followed as a tempest of deeth
Repentaunt for his sins the shiten shepherd yeve penaunce
Thanne homeward he him spedde the ill-got treasure on holy stronders
From Jerusalem a companye of knights in hethenesse they ryden out
Ech of hem made other for to winne on the heeth of Esdraelon
They bataille ther to the deeth the vertuous knight the feeld he woone
And ther-withal chivalrye he kepte wel the holy covenaunt
This ilke worthy knight from sundry londes to Engelond he wende
Arca and gold ful shene he carried to the toun he was born With open yë he now did see the blake pestilence he wrought And whan this wrecche knight saugh it was so his deeth ful well deserved
Sore weep the goos on whom he truste for oon of hem were deed
I couthe not how the world be served by swich adversitee
But if a manne with ful devout corage seken the holy blissful martir
In the veyl bitwixen worlds tweye ther the hidden trouthe be fond
“Just as you thought, this word arca is the key to deciphering the quatrains.” Using a pointer, the younger man indicated the third quatrain. “Arca, of course, is the Latin word for ‘chest.’”
Because the bespectacled nimrod hadn’t told him anything he didn’t already know, Stan made no reply. Although he’d provided his paid scholar with a high-speed Internet connection enabling him to hook into the world’s best libraries, he’d parsed his words carefully, refusing to disclose the details of the mission.
By those who come near Me I will be treated as holy.
Not one to disobey God’s dictates, Stan intended to do all in his power to ensure that the unholy did not cast their gaze upon the Ark. The scholar had merely been told that he and his men represented a consortium of art collectors trying to track down a medieval chest believed to have been buried in the mid-fourteenth century somewhere in England. If his Harvard-educated boy wonder wondered at the trio of armed guards, he’d been wise enough to keep his own counsel. Unbridled greed had a way of making a man turn a blind eye.
When no reply to his “arca” comment was forthcoming, the pasty-faced scholar nervously rubbed his hands together. “Slowly but surely, it’s all coming together. I’ve got the first three quatrains more or less figured out, but I’m still trying to hammer out quatrain number four. Don’t you guys worry. I’m guessing that I’ll have this baby cracked in the next couple of hours.”
“You’ve been deciphering the verses since late yesterday. I had expected some tangible results by now.” Stan made no attempt to hide his annoyance; the scholar was unaware that he was working on a carefully crafted timetable.
“Hey, you can’t rush these things. Although I can tell you that the four quatrains form a rectilinear allegory.”
“What the hell does that mean?” Boyd Braxton muttered, staring at the scholar as though he were a turd on the bottom of his boot heel.
Smirking, the turd replied, “For those of us who never took geometry, I am referring to the four-sided geometric configuration known as a square.”
CHAPTER 40
More slowly this time, Caedmon reread Galen of Godmersham’s poetic quatrains.
“Admittedly, we are clinging to the thinnest of reeds.”
Or the thinnest of reads, depending on one’s take.
This wasn’t the first time he’d been ensconced in the wood-paneled reading room of Duke Humfrey’s Library, muddling his way through a thorny conundrum. In his student days, he’d spent countless hours in this very room seated at the very same table, medieval texts piled high.
Believing that a tidy work area elicited a similar tidiness in one’s thinking, he organized the miscellaneous items that had been placed on the reading table. The librarian, no doubt spurred by Sir Kenneth Campbell-Brown’s advance phone call, had been most solicitous in delivering the requested materials to their table. In addition to a leather-bound codex that contained a selection of fourteenth-century poetry, including Galen’s quatrains, she had conveyed a slim volume that contained the Godmersham Feet of Fines records for the years 1300 to 1350. Paper, pencils, and cotton gloves had also been provided.
An exasperated frown on her face, Edie pointed a gloved index finger at the open codex. “Just look at this, will ya. It’s written in Old English. Which is whole lot like saying it’s written in a dead language.”
Noticing that several library patrons irritably glowered, Caedmon raised a finger to his lips, reminding Edie that silence reigned supreme within the paneled walls of Duke Humfrey’s Library. If one must speak, a muffled whisper was the preferred mode of communication.
“Actually, the quatrains are written in Middle English rather than the more remote Old English—thus enabling me to produce a fairly accurate interlinear translation.”
“You’re talking about a line-by-line translation, right?” Her voice had noticeably lowered. “When I was a graduate student, I wrote a research paper on the Wife of Bath. You know, from The Canterbury Tales. The paper was for a seminar class on women in the Middle Ages, and it darned near did me in.”
Hoping to bolster her spirits, he patted her hand. “Don’t worry. I’m certain that you’ll survive the ordeal.” Then, not wanting to dwell on the fact that an ordeal was by its very nature a trying endeavor, he reached for a pencil and a sheet of blank paper.
Although it’d been a number of years since he’d last translated Middle English, he managed to quickly work his way through the archaic spelling and phraseology with only a few missteps.
“Hopefully, this will make for more coherent verse,” he said, pushing the sheet of paper in his companion’s direction.
Lifting the handwritten sheet off the table, Edie held it at arm’s length from her face. Lips silently moving, she read the translation.
The merciless west wind rode forth from Solomon’s city jubilantly singing But a ghost fire followed like a deadly tempest Repentant for his sins, the befouled shepherd did penance Then homeward he sped, the ill-gotten treasure left on holy shores
From Jerusalem, a company of knights rode out in heathen lands Each of them tried to profit from the other on the field of Esdraelon They battled to the death, the virtuous knight winning the field.
And with his show of valor, he kept the holy covenant
This same worthy knight went from sundry lands to England He carried a chest and bright gold to the town where he was born With open eyes he now saw the black plague that he wrought And when the wretched knight saw this, his death was well deserved
The trusted goose sorely wept for all of them were dead I know not how the world be served by such adversity But if a man with a fully devout heart seek the blessed martyr There in the veil between two worlds, the hidden truth be found
As she wordlessly lowered the sheet of paper to the table, Caedmon discerned from Edie’s frown that she was as befuddled by the translation as she had been by the original text.
“I suggest that we take the allegorical and symbolic references in turn. Phrases such as ‘the merciless west wind,’ ‘the befouled shepherd,’ and ‘the veil between two worlds’ should be thought of as pieces of code which have been strategically placed within the quatrains. The key to solving the riddle will hinge on how we decode the symbols contained within each line of verse.”
“And what if Galen loaded his word puzzle with a bunch of mixed signals?” she asked, still frowning.
“Oh, I have no doubt that Galen deliberately inserted semiotic decoys into the quatrains. The medieval mind was quite nimble when it came to inserting secret messages into seemingly innocuous text.”
Edie stared at the handwritten sheet of paper. “Something tells me that we’re gonna need a CIA code break
er.”
“Here, take this, for instance,” he said, pointing to the first line of text. “‘The merciless west wind rode forth from Solomon’s city jubilantly singing.’ I detect a bit of linguistic legerdemain at work. Clearly, this refers to the pharaoh Shishak leaving Jerusalem after successfully pillaging Solomon’s Temple. Death then followed in the Egyptian’s wake, the first quatrain ending with Shishak leaving the pilfered treasure behind as he and his army scurried back to Egypt.”
Edie’s eyes suspiciously narrowed. “Unless I’m greatly mistaken, you’re actually enjoying yourself.”
“Who among us does not enjoy the intricacies of a well-constructed word puzzle?”
“Well, me, for starters,” his companion groused. “I’m more of a sudoku person. It’s a number puzzle that—Never mind.” She waved away the thought. “You know, the only reason we’re sitting here in Duke Humfrey’s Library is because we assume that when Galen of Godmersham composed his quatrains, he was actually leaving clues as to where he hid the gold chest.”
“That is our base assumption,” he said with a nod.
“Then I guess it’s already crossed your mind that someone may have deciphered the quatrains and recovered the treasure long years ago.”
“Since the cart has yet to pull the horse, we shall deal with that issue if and when it presents itself.”
Edie smiled, a teasing glint in her eyes. “I think this is where I’m supposed to make a rude comparison between you and the back end of a horse.”
Unable to help himself, he stared into those lively brown eyes. Since the earlier kiss on the Oxford coach, the air between them had become more sexually charged. He wondered if the storm would pass without fanfare. Or if they would be caught in a driving rain.
“Shall we continue?” Tapping the pencil on the handwritten sheet of paper, he redirected her attention.
Catching him by surprise, Edie snatched the pencil out of his hand. “This is just a guess, mind you, but I think Galen’s puzzle is configured like a square.”