C. Palov - Ark of Fire

He tried to focus, but couldn’t contain his flyaway thoughts. Couldn’t stop the ringing in his ears.

Bloody hell, but his head hurt.

“Caedmon! Are you all right?”

He turned, his vision still blurred.

“I’m fine,” he lied, uncertain to whom he spoke.

He blinked several times, willing the particulars to come into focus. They came in bits and bobs. Two parallel worry lines between two equally worried brown eyes. Long curly hair. A red bruise on a pale cheek.

“Edie . . . thank God . . . are you all right?” He immediately realized that it was an asinine question; he could see that she wasn’t.

“I’m fine.”

Hearing her automatic reply proved that they were woven from the same piece of fabric.

His vision clearing, he surveyed what was obviously the first floor of an old millhouse. All around him he saw solid eighteenth-century construction. Shuttered windows. Wood-planked floors. Thick stone walls. It was a prison from which there would be no escape, even if he could somehow disable his adversaries, of which he counted four. He wondered which of the quartet was responsible for the bruise on Edie’s cheek; any one of the brutes appeared capable of hitting a defenseless woman.

“Caedmon, what did they do to you?” Edie worriedly inquired, barred from approaching by an older man who had a hand manacled around her upper arm.

As though he were caught in one of those bizarre dreams in which he was naked and everyone else was fully clothed, he belatedly realized that while he was attired in trousers, shirt, and shoes, he held in his hands jumper, pants, and socks. Mercifully, his trousers were zipped, although his shirt was completely unbuttoned.

“I was subjected to a somewhat thorough body search. Needless to say, I feel a bit violated.”

“I hope my men weren’t too rough,” the older man remarked, mirthlessly smiling. “I ordered them to go easy on you.”

Assuming the gray-haired man to be none other than Stanford MacFarlane, Caedmon summoned an equally humorless smile. “No need to sound the alarm. Your boys merely tapped the claret.” He wiped his hand under his bloodied nostrils, his armed escorts having come damn close to breaking his nose. “I shall live to fight another day.”

“As you can well imagine, I have several questions that I’m hoping you can answer for me.”

“Mmmm. I believe this is where I’m supposed to say, ‘I want my solicitor,’” he deadpanned.

“First and foremost, where is the Ark of the Covenant?”

Knowing that Edie’s life was very much at stake, he truthfully replied, “I have no idea. Although I’m certain that if we put on our team bonnets, we can uncover its location.”

“That’s what the last scholar I enlisted said to me . . . right before his death.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Edie put a hand to her mouth, horrified. In truth, he felt a bit queasy himself at hearing of his predecessor’s demise.

“I’m not a bloody psychic. I’m an academic. And as such, I must insist that you give logic a chance to put on its pants. That said, in my anorak pocket, you’ll find a sketched drawing which I believe may be of some interest.”

Properly enticed, MacFarlane walked over to the thug in possession of his anorak. Removing two sheets of folded paper from the front pocket, he first examined the translated quartets, then the sketched drawing of The Presentation of Christ.

“Before I get to the drawing, I should tell you what we’ve learned to date. We now know that the quatrains were not written by Galen of Godmersham.” MacFarlane’s head jerked, the man clearly thunderstruck. “Rather they were written by Galen’s third wife, Philippa of Canterbury.”

“You’re certain of this?”

“There is no doubt in my mind.”

MacFarlane chewed on the morsel for several seconds. “And what about St. Lawrence the Martyr?”

“Another red herring,” Caedmon replied, suspecting the other scholar’s fate had been sealed with that particular mistranslation. “The ‘blessed martyr’ in question is Thomas à Becket. Which led us to Canterbury Cathedral, where we discovered a stained glass window.”

MacFarlane stared at the sketched drawing, like an addict staring at a full needle.

“As to the specifics of the window, one must bear in mind that it was created by an artisan with a very different set of cultural references. From a semiotic standpoint, deciphering the window is akin to peering through a dark lens. Complex theological tenets, historical fact, and archaic language structures are all jumbled together in that one seemingly innocuous drawing. Admittedly, it will take time to sort out the various strands.” Seeing the displeased expression on MacFarlane’s face, he hastily added, “However, we have reason to believe that the two geese in the basket are significant.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Because one of the geese represents Philippa herself, in the medieval guise of the good housewife. Unfortunately, we have yet to decipher the meaning of the second goose.”

“When will you have it deciphered?”

“When I am sufficiently rested.” Caedmon stood his ground, knowing that if he didn’t, there would be precious few roots to cling to. Then, gesturing to Edie, he said, “We both require bed and board.”

The added caveat was more for Edie’s sake than his own. He could see it in her strained expression; she was utterly exhausted. If an opportunity arose to escape, she would need to be sufficiently rested to turn opportunity to advantage.

MacFarlane impatiently tapped his watch crystal. “If the Ark of the Covenant is not in my hands in sixteen hours’ time, I’ll kill the woman.”

Although the proceedings had thus far proved civil, Caedmon recalled the old proverb advising the unsuspecting diner to use a long spoon when supping with the devil.

“I will do all in my power to find the Ark,” he assured his adversary.

MacFarlane locked gazes with him, a barely contained malevolence lurking beneath the controlled expression. “Behave like a guest and you’ll continue to be treated as such. Am I making myself clear?”

“As a bell.”

CHAPTER 62

“I don’t know about you, but I’ve had enough chips for one day,” Caedmon grumbled.

“And guys with big guns and things that go bump in the night.” Edie squinted, there being only a small glimmer of light shining through the locked door. MacFarlane’s twisted idea of “bed and board” was a small storage closet and a couple of bags of soggy fries.

“But on a bright note, we shall be lulled to sleep by the babbling brook that runs beneath the mill.”

Edie made no reply; a damp chill oozed up from the floorboards on account of that same babbling brook. Already she could feel the ache in her joints.

“By the by, I’ve got your metal nail file hidden under the insole of my shoe.”

“I can top that . . . I’ve got a thousand dollars stuffed inside my boot. After the attack in Oxford, I was worried someone might steal the Virgin Air bag.” Her thoughts running every which way, she abruptly changed gears. “There’s something I need to tell you . . . I have intimate knowledge of Stanford MacFarlane.”

“Indeed?”

“Not that I have biblical knowledge of the man,” Edie quickly amended. “But I do know the heart of Stanford MacFarlane.”

“And how is that?” There was no mistaking the interest in his voice.

“My maternal grandfather was something of a religious zealot. If not cut from the same bolt of cloth as MacFarlane, Pops was certainly cut from a similar one.” She caustically laughed, the memory an unpleasant one. “My grandfather believed that freedom of religion extended only to other fundamental Christians.”