Glenn Cooper - Book of Souls

“Who’s that?”

“John Calvin! The father of Calvinism, predestination and all that. Only the greatest ecclesiastical mind of the sixteenth century!” She scanned the page with wild eyes. “And Will, he’s writing about our book!”

1527

Wroxall

A midwinter snowfall that blanketed the forest and the fields surrounding Cantwell Hall made for a satisfying day of hunting. The boar that Thomas Cantwell’s party had been following all morning was a fast, healthy creature but he was trapped and soon to be roasted because his tracks were easy to follow in the white crust, and the hounds were not distracted by the usual smells of the soil.

The moment of the kill provided enough drama to be retold by the fire for the rest of the season. When the sun was at its highest, the glare off the snow stinging the riders’ eyes, the greyhounds finally cornered the boar against a thicket of impenetrable briars. The beast lashed out and gored one of the hounds and, in turn, was bitten in its hindquarter by another. It stood its ground, grunting and panting, with blood dripping from its haunches. All this was in full view of the hunting party, who had pulled their horses into a semicircle a safe distance away.

The baron turned in his saddle to his son, Edgar, a scrawny, hatchet-faced seventeen-year-old, and said, “Take it, Edgar. Make me proud.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you!” the baron said with irritation.

His brother William advanced his horse till he was saddle by saddle with his father and complained. “Why not me, Father?”

William was a year younger than Edgar but in many ways seemed older. He was more powerfully built, had a squarer chin and a hunter’s blood-filled eyes.

“Because I say so!” the baron growled. William’s face contorted in anger, but he held his tongue.

Edgar looked around at his cousins and uncles, who shouted encouragement and a few good-natured jests. His chest swelled as he dismounted and was handed the tokke by one of the servants. It was a long spear, specially constructed for the boar hunt, with a crossbar beneath the point to prevent overpenetration. Properly wielded, it would pierce the heart and easily be withdrawn through the tough hide.

Edgar tightly gripped the tokke with both hands, advancing slowly through the snow. The frightened boar saw him coming and started to grunt and squeal, which in turn stirred the dogs to loud and feverish baying. Edgar felt his heart in his throat as he slowly drew within a few feet of the mass of animals. He had never been given this honor before. He was desperate to get it right and not show fear. When he saw his opening, he would charge and use his height to strike over the backs of the hounds. He hesitated for a few moments and looked over his shoulder. His father angrily motioned him to get on with it.

At the instant he plucked up the courage to strike, the boar decided to break for it by running headlong through the dogs. A hound reared up in panic just as Edgar was about to thrust his spear, forcing him to hold back. The boar engaged the greyhound in a furious skirmish that lasted only seconds before the dog’s belly was torn asunder. Then, with the other dogs snapping at the boar’s hind legs, the enraged creature leapt forward into the air, its tusks aimed squarely at Edgar’s groin.

Edgar instinctively took a step in retreat but his boot stayed buried in the snow. He immediately lost his balance and started to fall backward, and when he did, the butt of the spear wedged into the ground. Providentially, the snarling, leaping boar literally impaled its own thorax upon the blade of the tokke less than a foot away from where it would have turned young Edgar into a eunuch. With an horrific shriek and a gush of blood, the boar died right between the boy’s supine legs.

Edgar was still shivering from cold and mental trauma when the hunting party reassembled by the blazing fire in the Great Hall. The men were talking loudly and laughing themselves silly as they consumed large wedges of cake washed down by jugs of wine. Young William was merrily partaking in the banter, elated at his brother’s travails. Only Edgar and his father were quiet. The baron sat in his large fireside chair, moodily drinking, Edgar off in a corner pouring sweet wine down his throat.

“Are we going to eat that boar?” one of Edgar’s cousins asked.

“Why should we not?” another wanted to know.

“Because I have never before eaten a beast who took its own life!”

The men laughed so hard they cried, which only made the baron more taciturn. His oldest son was a source of worry and vexation. He seemed to excel at nothing of importance. He was an unenthusiastic scholar whom his tutors tolerated rather than praised, his piety and attention to prayer were suspect, and his ability at the hunt was debatable. Today had confirmed his father’s doubts. It was a miracle the boy had not been killed. As the baron was painfully aware, the only skills Edgar had firmly mastered were wenching and drinking.

During the Twelve Days of Christmas, the baron had prayed in the family chapel, searched his soul, and reached a decision about the boy’s fate. Now he was more certain than ever of its wisdom.

Edgar emptied his goblet and called the manservant for a refill. He caught the sour expression on his father’s face and started shivering again.

In the evening, Edgar awoke from a nap in his cold, dark room on the upper floor of Cantwell Hall. He used the only active candle to light some others and tossed a few small logs onto the embers of his shallow fireplace. He pulled a heavy cloak over his nightshirt and poked his head out from the door. At the far end of the hall, Molly, the chambermaid, was sitting on a bench at her station outside Lady Cantwell’s room, waiting at her beck and call. She was a small, buxom girl, a year or so younger than Edgar, her black hair stuffed into a linen bonnet. She had been watching out for him, and she shyly smiled.

He beckoned her with a finger and she cautiously rose and crept in his direction. Without exchanging a word, she followed him inside his room in a well-practiced routine. Just as the door was about to close behind her, William Cantwell emerged from his room and spied Molly slipping into his brother’s chamber. He gleefully scuttled off down the stairs, ready to do his own brand of mischief.

Edgar flopped onto his bed and grinned at the chambermaid. “Hello, Molly!”

“Hello, my lord.”

“Did you miss me?”

“I saw you yesterday?” she said sweetly.

“That was such a long time ago,” he sulked. Then he pounded the bed with the flat of his palms. “Will you come see me again?”

“We need to hurry.” She giggled. “My lady might call at any time.”

“It will take precisely as long as it takes. One cannot interfere with the immutable laws of nature.”

When she climbed onto the foot of the bed, he grabbed her and pulled her on top. They proceeded to roll from one side of the bed to the other, groping and tickling each other until she let out a loud, “Ow!” She was frowning and rubbing the top of her head. “What do you have under your pillow?” she asked.

She pulled the cushion away and underneath it was a large, heavy book marked on its spine: 1527.

“Leave that be!” he said.

“What is it?”

“It is just a book, and it is of no concern to you, Missy.”

“Then why is it hidden?”

Her curiosity, so keenly aroused, was going to have to be addressed before he could get on with the business at hand. “My father does not know I took it from his library. He is protective of his books.”

“Why does it interest you?” she asked.

“You see the date on it-1527? When I was a child, I would wonder about a book that possessed a future date. It held a fascination. My father always told me the book contained a great secret, and when I was twenty-one, he would show me an ancient letter he keeps in his strongbox that would reveal all. I used to dream about what I would be like in 1527, the year in which I would become eighteen. Well, that year has come. It is 1527, if you did not know. The book has come of age, and so have I.”