C. Palov - Ark of Fire

“Right-O. An Adam’s ale for the lady and a Kingfisher for the gent. I won’t be but a second.” Turning around, Sir Kenneth placed the order with a barmaid.

As he steered Edie toward the booth, Caedmon wondered how, after so many years, his estranged mentor remembered his preferred lager.

The old bastard always did have a mind like a steel trap.

Which meant he’d have to be on his guard to keep from ending up in the poacher’s sack.

As they sidestepped a jovial group arguing the merits of the new PM, Edie elbowed him in the ribs. “You didn’t tell me that you knew Sir Kenneth.”

“Forgive the omission,” he replied, failing to mention that the oversight had been quite intentional.

“You also didn’t tell me that you were ‘booted’ out of Oxford. Geez, what else are you hiding from me? You’re not wanted by the police or anything like that, are you?”

“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.