C. Palov - Ark of Fire

She had been one of the lucky few who managed to escape Poland, having paid an exorbitant fee to a “guide” who smuggled her out of Gdansk in the hull of a fishing vessel. Her husband, Witold, had not been so fortunate. Ensnared in the crackdown imposed by the Communist bosses, he’d been sent to prison for crimes against the state. He was a bricklayer by trade; his only crime had been to dream of a Poland free of Communist rule. Sentenced to ten years of hard labor, he lasted but three. Marta did not receive word of his death until he’d already been dead and buried sixteen months. She spoke of his death to no one. Not even Sir Kenneth, obeying what was an unspoken rule in Rose Chapel: Never speak of matters of the heart.

She supposed the rule came about because Sir Kenneth did not possess a heart. Or if he did, it was in rare evidence. In twenty-seven years, there were only two occasions when Sir Kenneth Campbell-Brown exhibited any sort of tender regard. The first occasion was when, having read of her plight in a local newspaper, he rang up the Catholic charity that had sponsored her when she first arrived in England, informing them that he would provide gainful employment for as long as need be. Nearly ten years would pass before the second occasion.

Although there were countless incidents in between—incidents that bespoke a decadent and depraved existence. Many nights Sir Kenneth did not return to Rose Chapel. Many nights were spent in drunken revelry. One such night she happened upon two naked, giggling girls in the kitchen smearing butter on each other’s bare breasts. Another night she went to turn down the bed, only to discover Sir Kenneth and a muscular black man committing an unspeakable act. Some nights she thought him the devil incarnate. Other nights, a beautiful Bacchus.

He’d certainly been beautiful that long-ago December eve, attired in a crisply tailored black tuxedo, his gray curls gleaming like polished pewter. He’d returned early from a party, claiming that it had been a “ghastly bore.” Marta offered him a cup of mulled wine and asked if he would like to help trim the Christmas tree. He laughed at the invitation, but loosened his bow tie and helped nonetheless. He’d even steadied a chair so she could place a twinkling star atop the tree. But the chair wobbled and she accidentally fell into his arms. Before she knew it, they were rolling together on the recently vacuumed carpet, pulling at each other’s garments like two crazed animals. She had not lain with a man in the ten years since she’d left her native Poland. In that impassioned instant, Sir Kenneth ceased to be the master of Rose Chapel. He was simply a man. Forceful. Hard. Commanding. She’d cried out, the pain so exquisite, she thought she would be torn asunder.

The next morning silence returned to Rose Chapel. Not unlike the first year of her tenure, Sir Kenneth did little but point and mutter. She did nothing but sweep and vacuum. No mention was made of the previous night’s passion. Had it not been for the crystal angel smashed beneath the tree and Sir Kenneth’s bow tie entangled in a tree limb, she could almost believe it had never happened. The broken angel went into the dustbin; the satin tie into her keepsake box.

One week later, on Boxing Day, when masters traditionally gave gifts to their servants, a small box wrapped in plain brown paper mysteriously appeared on her dresser. Inside was a handblown crystal angel. There was no card attached to the gift.

Each year the mystery angel was the first to be unwrapped. And each year, despite his protests and complaints, Marta trimmed a Christmas tree, forcing the master of Rose Chapel to remember their night of passion.

She’d long since given up any hope that Sir Kenneth’s soul could be saved. For to have a soul, one must first have a heart. Heartless man that he was, she feared the day would come when she would be replaced with a younger woman. A woman whose hair had not turned gray, whose body had not gone flaccid. Marta feared what would become of her if she were made to face the wolves, penniless and pensionless.

But there was a way to avoid the wolves.

An American angel had come to deliver her from that which she most feared. She could now leave Rose Chapel on her own terms, her gray head held high.

It required but one phone call.

Reaching into her apron pocket, Marta removed the scrap of paper with the scrawled mobile phone number. For two days she’d carried the slip of paper in her pocket.

Staring at the mobile number, she hesitated. Uncertain what to do. Assailed with the memories of that long-ago December eve.

Like a woman lost in a dazzling white blizzard, Marta turned her gaze to the neat line of Christmas ornaments waiting to be placed upon the tree. In the kitchen, a buzzer noisily pealed. Time to take the buns out of the oven.

Marta turned away from the table with the neat line of ornaments. As she did, her hip jostled the edge of the table. One hideous blue-and-green Santa rolled to the edge, falling to the stone floor.

Marta stared at the broken bits of porcelain.

No longer uncertain.

CHAPTER 38

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking,” Edie said in a lowered voice, “that the Harvard ‘chap’ stole the quatrains from Sir Kenneth?”

“Indeed, we are of like mind,” Caedmon replied, the missing quatrains proof positive that Stanford MacFarlane believed Galen of Godmersham uncovered the Ark of the Covenant. It also proved that MacFarlane believed the Ark’s whereabouts were contained within the lines of those archaic verses. A poetic treasure map, as it were. He and Edie had to move quickly.

“Sir, did you not say that Galen’s poetry is housed at the Bod?”

Still shuffling through various piles of paper on top of his desk, Sir Kenneth glanced up. “What’s that? Er, yes. The original copy of the quatrains is kept at Duke Humfrey’s Library.”

Duke Humfrey’s Library was one of fourteen various libraries in the Bodleian system. Unless things had greatly changed, only matriculated students and researchers who’d obtained written permission could gain entry to Duke Humfrey’s Library; the premises were strictly off limits to visitors. To circumvent the restrictions, MacFarlane’s man had stolen a copy of the quatrains from Sir Kenneth.

“Is there any possibility that I might be able to examine the original quatrains?”

Sir Kenneth stopped in midshuffle. For several long seconds the older man stared at him from across the paper-strewn desk. Caedmon felt very much like a child expectantly awaiting a parent’s decision about attending an upcoming football match.

“I could call the head librarian and ask that the two of you be granted a special dispensation to view the library’s collection. But I warn you, Galen’s quatrains are a linguistic puzzle tied with an encrypted knot.”

Having assumed no less, Caedmon respectfully bowed his head. “I am in your debt, Sir Kenneth.”

“Did you know, my dear, that young Aisquith graduated with First Honors?” Sir Kenneth remarked, abruptly changing the subject.

About to raise a tankard to her lips, Edie stopped in midmotion. “Um, no. Guess that makes Caedmon a really smart cookie, huh?”

“Indeed, it does. The smart cookie then went on to write a brilliant master’s thesis on St. Bernard of Clairvaux and the founding of the Knights Templar. Later, when he went off to Jerusalem to conduct his dissertation research, I had every expectation that he would submit an equally brilliant dissertation.”

The knot in Caedmon’s belly painfully tightened.

Bloody hell.