Ark of Fire (36 page)

“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.”

“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.

“All that remains of St. George’s Church,” he remarked, “the tower having somehow weathered the travails of time and history.”

“Although it looks like most of the town fared pretty well.” She gestured to the neat line of half-timbered structures that fronted the narrow street. “I feel like I’m walking through a medieval living history museum.”

“Indeed the inns, taverns, and shops are little changed from the days of Chaucer, all still vying for the traveler’s coin.”

Like Oxford, the town was dressed in its Christmas finery, fairy lights merrily twinkling behind storefront windows. But Canterbury had about it a magical air that the staid Oxford had lacked. Probably on account of its fairy-tale appearance.

As they walked along Mercery Lane, the pavement teemed with tourists, the modern-day pilgrims undeterred by the chilly weather. With each footstep, Edie was very much aware that she walked in another woman’s footsteps—none other than Philippa of Canterbury. Like most medieval women, Philippa’s life story had been written at birth. A man’s life in the fourteenth century was recorded on vellum, enabling changes to be made. But a woman’s life was struck in stone. Unchangeable.

As they neared the city center, the thorny spires of the cathedral began to fill more and more of the skyline. To Edie’s surprise, she began to experience a sense of agitated excitement. Caedmon evidently felt it too, taking her by the hand as they approached a massive three-story gatehouse. Bedecked with tiers of medieval shields and a contingent of stone angels, the Savior stood front and center, welcoming saint and sinner alike.

Caedmon led her through the arched portal. “Christ Church Gate . . . the physical divide between the secular and the sacred.”

Emerging from the portal, Edie caught her first glimpse of Canterbury Cathedral.

“Wow,” she murmured, the cathedral so immense as to be downright daunting—one of those perpendicular Gothic structures purposefully constructed for maximum impact. Everywhere she looked, there were towers and spires and statues.

“Wow,” she again murmured, having yet to emerge from her dumbstruck state.

“We approach as did the medieval pilgrims, awed and bedazzled,” Caedmon remarked. “Of course, the magnificence of Canterbury is not surprising, this being the mother cathedral for the Church of England.”

“More like the mother ship,” Edie muttered, still overwhelmed by the sheer size of the place. “This is gonna take days. Particularly since we don’t even know what we’re looking for.”

“But we know that whatever it is, it’s located inside the cathedral. And I suspect the clue has something to do with the Ark of the Covenant.”

“But the clue could be anything. A piece of sculpture, a painting, a bas-relief.
Anything.
It could even have something to do with Thomas à Becket,” she added. “After all, he is the ‘blessed martyr,’ right?”

“I believe that Thomas is merely a peripheral character, little more than a reference point to direct us to Canterbury. For it’s this colossus of stone and glass”—raising his arm, Caedmon motioned to the cathedral—“that played a pivotal role in Philippa’s daily life before she left for Godmersham. Moreover, she—”

Caedmon abruptly stopped, in midsentence and midstep. Wordlessly, he stared at the exterior façade of the cathedral. Like a man transfixed.

“What’s the matter?” she asked, grabbing him by the upper arm.

“The clue is embedded in neither sculpture nor painting nor bas-relief.” He turned to her, a beatific smile upon his lips. “It is embedded in glass. Stained glass, to be precise. Arguably one of the greatest artistic achievements of the medieval world, it was the first modern medium of direct communication; complex ideas could be transmitted in a pictorial format.” His smile broadened. “Not to mention that stained glass acts a ‘veil between the two worlds.’”

Edie stared at the dark panes of glass that fronted the southern façade of the cathedral.

“Stained glass was intended as a barrier between the secular world existent in the city streets,” Caedmon continued, “and the sacred world contained within the cathedral. Illuminated by light, the first of God’s creations, stained glass can come to life before one’s very eyes.”

As though an affirmation from on high, a church bell sonorously tolled.

“Come, Miss Miller. Destiny beckons,” Caedmon remarked, ushering her toward the main entrance.

Following on the tailcoats of an American tour group, they entered the elaborately carved doors at the western end of the church. Immediately they were assaulted by the twin scents of incense and flowers and the twin sounds of clicking camera flashes and a Midwestern twang.

“Above you, in what is known as the West Window, you will see a brilliant example of medieval stained glass,” the American tour guide expounded, in what was obviously a canned speech. “The sixty-three glass panels, which depict various saints, prophets, and kings, are just a drop in the bucket to what you’re gonna see on the tour; the cathedral boasts hundreds of glass panels. Make no mistake, folks,
this
is one of the cultural treasures of Europe.”

Along with everyone else in the group, Edie peered upward.

“Oh, God.” She groaned, stunned. “It’s gonna be like finding a holy needle in a sacred haystack.”

Placing a hand to her elbow, Caedmon led her away from the tour group. “Admittedly, we have a daunting task ahead of us.”

Edie craned her neck, taking another gander at the sixty-three glass panels on the West Window.

“You think?”

His neck inclined at an awkward angle, Caedmon stared at the top register of the stained glass panel, the blaze of color near dazzling, casting what could only be described as psychedelic patterns of light onto the cavernous gloom of the gothic interior.

Les belles-verrières,
he silently mused. Certainly more beautiful glass than one man and one woman could reasonably absorb in a single day. But mindful of the fact that MacFarlane might have correctly deciphered the quatrains, he and Edie forged onward.

Some two hours into the search, they now stood in the Corona, a semicircular chapel originally built to house the relics of St. Thomas à Becket. Despite the fact that they had methodically examined dozens of stained glass panels created before the mid-fourteenth century, thus far they’d seen no images or references to the Ark of the Covenant.

As he swayed slightly on his feet, the colorful windows having a hypnotic effect, several lines of Bible verse came to mind. “‘I will lay thy stones with fair colors, and lay their foundations with sapphires. And I will make thy windows of agates, and thy gates of—’”

Edie raised a hand, preempting him in midsentence. “Enough already. I am totally and completely Bibled out. Trying to decipher these stained glass windows is an awful lot like learning a foreign language. Except we don’t have the Berlitz tapes. And you spouting verses from the Good Book does not help matters.”

“Understood,” he contritely replied.

Though Caedmon was at an advantage, having studied medieval iconography while at Oxford, the symbolism and didactic meaning contained within the Canterbury windows was, to the modern observer, not unlike a foreign language. Although it was a language well known eight hundred years ago. Illiteracy was the norm during the Middle Ages, so stained glass enabled the faithful to learn the stories of the Bible in an easily accessible format, thus making medieval stained glass a picture book for the masses.