C. Palov - Ark of Fire

“So where does that leave us?”

“Floundering about like two—”

“Geese,” she interjected, staring at the trussed birds swinging overhead.

“I was about to say two landlocked mackerel, but I suppose a pair of frightened geese would suffice.”

“No. I’m talking about the first line of the fourth quatrain.” Snatching the airline bag, she unzipped it, removing the folded sheet of paper with the translated quatrains. “Here it is,” she said, underscoring the line as she read aloud. “‘The trusted goose sorely wept for all of them were dead.’ Do you remember I told you that I once wrote a research paper on the Wife of Bath from Chaucer’s The Canterbury Tales ?”

He nodded, wondering where this particular projectile would land.

“Well, the swinging geese overhead reminded me of a line from the prologue to that particular tale. Mind you, it’s been more than ten years, so I’m paraphrasing big-time, but Chaucer wrote, ‘Nor does any grey goose swim there in the lake that, as you see, will be without a mate.’ In fact, the whole premise of my paper was that women in the Middle Ages had to wed. Or join a nunnery. Those were the only two options available.”

Admittedly baffled, he raised a brow. “Your point?”

“I just remembered that in medieval literature the word goose always refers to the good housewife. Yesterday, you said that the goose was a symbol for vigilance. And you’re right. Who in the medieval world was more vigilant than the good housewife? I suspect no one ever considered the possibility that the quatrains were written by Mrs. Galen of Godmersham, Philippa being the ‘trusted goose.’” She folded her arms over her chest, theatrically rolling her eyes. “Male chauvinism at its academic best.”

“I admit that your theory about Philippa has rich possibilities. However—”

“Think about it, Caedmon. How would an eighty-five-year-old man hide a heavy gold chest? What do you want to bet that Galen’s dying wish was an urgent plea to his much younger wife to hide his precious arca from the looters rampaging the countryside during the plague? Sir Kenneth told us that everyone in Godmersham perished from the plague.”

“Save Philippa,” he murmured, her premise beginning to ring with perfect pitch. “And once her husband was dead, Philippa hid the gold arca somewhere on the grounds of St. Lawrence the Martyr Church.”

“Actually, I’ve got a theory about that, too,” Edie countered, surprising him yet again.

“Brains and beauty. I am totally bewitched.”

Edie playfully hit him in the arm. “Hey, you forgot to mention the brawn.” Then, her tone more serious, she continued, “I’m beginning to think that we got the martyr part of the quatrains all wrong.”

“I take it that you refer to the third line of the last quatrain?”

“Correct. ‘But if a man with a fully devout heart seek the blessed martyr’ does not refer to St. Lawrence the Martyr. At least I don’t think it does. I’m thinking it refers right back to the goose.”

“I’m not following your argument.” Unhindered by ego, he didn’t care who exposed the truth; only that it be found.

“Okay, we now know that the goose refers to Philippa, the good housewife,” Edie replied, ticking off her first point on her pinky finger. She next moved to her ring finger. “Per Sir Kenneth, Philippa was the daughter of the justice of the peace for Canterbury.” She delineated the next point on her middle finger. “And Canterbury, as you know from having read Chaucer, is where medieval pilgrims journeyed—”

“—to see the sight where the archbishop, Thomas à Becket, was killed in 1170 by Henry the Second’s henchmen,” Caedmon finished, well acquainted with the historical incident, the murdered archbishop a victim in the conflict that raged between church and state. “Within weeks of the murder, wild rumors began to circulate throughout England, those who came into contact with the bloodied vestments of the now-dead archbishop attesting to all sorts of astonishing miracles. Soon thereafter, the Catholic Church canonized Thomas à Becket as a martyred saint.”

“And thus the cult of St. Thomas was born.”

With perfect clarity, Caedmon knew that Edie was absolutely correct. When they originally deciphered the fourth quatrain, they misread the clue. As Philippa no doubt intended.

Edie leaned against the metal wall of the lorry, a satisfied smile on her lips. “It makes perfect sense, doesn’t it? Philippa, entrusted with hiding the Ark, takes it to the only place other than Godmersham that she has any familiarity with, that being the town of her birth, Canterbury.”

“Mmmm.” He mulled it over, still sifting through the pieces. “We don’t know that Philippa actually hid the Ark in Canterbury,” he said, well aware that Edie had a tendency to hurl herself at a conclusion.

“Of course we know that Philippa hid the Ark at Canterbury. It’s right there in the quatrains. ‘There in the veil between two worlds—’”

“‘He will find the truth.’ The truth, not the arca ,” he quietly emphasized. “Which may be an encrypted way of saying that we’ll find our next clue at Canterbury.”

Clearly disgruntled, Edie sighed. “And here I thought this was going to be easy. Okay, any ideas where in Canterbury we should look?”

More accepting of the roadblock put before them, he didn’t waste his time with peevish laments, having assumed from the onset that they would traverse a crooked path.

“Thomas à Becket was murdered inside the cathedral. I suggest that as a starting point for our search.” As he spoke, the lorry slowed to a stop.

Caedmon peered out the rear door and saw that the driver had pulled into a car park with a roadside café. Hopefully, they would be able to hitch a ride to London from one of the dozen or so motorists parked in the lot.

“I believe this is our stop.”

CHAPTER 53

“You might be interested to know that these medieval walls were built atop an older Roman foundation, the original village dubbed Durovernum Cantiacorum .”

As they strolled across the ancient stone battlements that rimmed the town of Canterbury, Edie was relieved that she and Caedmon had reverted to their earlier camaraderie. She wasn’t altogether certain, the male beast a difficult one to decipher, but she thought Caedmon had gotten angry back in the alleyway because he hadn’t been able to adequately safeguard her from MacFarlane’s goon.

Which raised a disturbing question . . . if the goon had a gun, why didn’t he use it?

Able to see in her mind’s eye a massive pair of shoulders, the scary buzz cut, and a rivulet of blood zigzagging down a throbbing temple, Edie shuddered.

“Cold?” Caedmon solicitously inquired, draping an arm over her shoulder.

Shoving the frightening image aside, she wordlessly snuggled closer to him. Although she couldn’t be 100 percent certain, she didn’t think that they had been followed. After hitching a ride to London, they caught a train out of Victoria Station, the trip to Canterbury taking only ninety minutes. The train station being located on the outskirts of town, they were now en route to the cathedral.

With a damp breeze raggedly sawing at her backside, Edie flipped up the collar on her coat. Overhead the clouds hung low in the sky, casting a dreary shadow.

Taking a quick peek at the town map they’d picked up at the train station, Caedmon ushered her to the left, past the remains of an old tower that she guessed had once been attached to an equally old church.