Stones of Fire

‘And the Feet of Fines clearly indicates that Galen of Godmersham had within his possession a gold chest measuring one and a half by two cubits. The Feet of Fines also indicates that the gold chest was kept in Galen’s personal chapel in the grounds of his estate. In addition to the gold chest, Galen owned a king’s ransom in miscellaneous gold objects. “Objets sacres”, as they are listed in the official records.’

‘So when Galen of Godmersham discovered the gold chest, he went from rags to riches, huh?’

The Oxford don nodded. ‘Like many a crusader, Galen of Godmersham profited from his sojourn in the Holy Land. Although he seems to have had a generous streak. In 1340 he bequeathed to St Lawrence the Martyr church several “vestiges d’ancien Testament ”.’

‘Old Testament relics,’ C?dmon said in a quick aside to Edie. Then, to his former mentor, ‘Bound by his vows of celibacy, Galen would have had no legal offspring. Who inherited the gold chest and all the objets sacres when Galen died?’

‘While it’s true that Galen of Godmersham had neither son nor daughter, it wasn’t for lack of trying. No sooner did he return to England than Galen left the Hospitallers, taking up worldly pleasures with a vengeance.’

‘So who inherited the gold chest?’ Edie enquired, playing the wide-eyed ingenue to perfection.

‘That, my dear, is a mystery, a mystery that has confounded historian and treasure seeker alike. Bear in mind that when the plague struck in the middle of the fourteenth century, its effects were devastating, one third of England’s population succumbing. As you can well imagine, chaos ensued, record keeping thrown into a state of complete disarray. It has been suggested that Galen, who was nearing his eighty-fifth year when the bubonic plague reached English shores, took the precaution of removing his precious gold chest from the family chapel in order to safeguard it from the looting that followed in the plague’s wake. Generations of treasure hunters have focused on Galen of Godmersham’s deathbed burst of creative inspiration, the wily old knight having composed several poetic quatrains just prior to his death in 1348.’

‘Oh, I get it!’ Edie exclaimed, nearly falling off her chair in her excitement. ‘The clues to the whereabouts of the gold chest are contained within the poetic quatrains.’

‘Possibly,’ Sir Kenneth replied, refusing to commit himself. ‘Although Galen’s verse is cryptic in nature, there is reference in the quatrains to an arca.’

‘Arca being the Latin word for chest,’ C?dmon said, taking a moment to consider all that Sir Kenneth had divulged. If clues to the gold chest’s whereabouts were contained within the quatrains, it would explain why a Harvard scholar had expressed an interest in those very lines of verse. And if the scholar was in Stanford MacFarlane’s employ, it meant the bastard had a twenty-four-hour head start in solving the centuries- old mystery.

‘Is there any chance that the gold chest discovered by Galen of Godmersham was the Ark of the Covenant?’ Edie enquired abruptly.

No sooner was the question posed than Sir Kenneth’s woolly head swivelled in C?dmon’s direction. ‘Is that your purpose in grilling me, so that you can chase after a myth?’

C?dmon opened his mouth to speak, but Edie beat him to the punch.

‘We thought there might be a slim possibility that Galen of Godmersham had discovered the Ark of the Covenant.’

‘A fool’s errand, my dear. The Holy Land fair brimmed with golden gewgaws, more than one impoverished knight returning to England a wealthy man.’

Undeterred, Edie said, ‘If Galen didn’t discover the Ark of the Covenant then —’

‘I didn’t say he didn’t.’

‘But you just said —’

‘I said that Galen of Godmersham discovered a gold chest. It has yet to be proved whether the gold chest is the much-ballyhooed Ark of the Covenant. I am a scholar not a conspiracy theorist, and as such, I deal in fact not innuendo,’ the older man brusquely stated. As he spoke, he locked gazes with C?dmon. Then, his expression softening, he returned his attention to Edie, ‘Did you know there’s an old Irish legend which claims that not only did a band of intrepid Hebrews take refuge on the Emerald Isle, but that they brought with them the Ark of the Covenant. Supposedly they buried the blasted thing under a hill in Ulster. Nearly as preposterous a tale as that of Galen of Godmersham discovering the Ark on the Plain of Esdraelon.’

Just then the door of the pub opened, a gaggle of giggling women crossing the threshold, a birthday cake held aloft.

‘It would appear that the lacy-frock brigade has taken the field,’ Sir Kenneth dryly remarked. ‘Shall we continue the conversation at Rose Chapel?’

Not bothering to wait for a reply — it being more of a summons than an invitation — Sir Kenneth rose to his feet.

Leaning towards him, Edie whispered in C?dmon’s ear, ‘He wants to go to church?’

‘Not in the sense that you mean. Sir Kenneth resides at Rose Chapel.’

‘Just like a medieval monk, huh?’

C?dmon watched as Sir Kenneth appraised the cake bearer’s backside.

‘Hardly.’

35

Leading the way through the twisting labyrinth of narrow streets, Sir Kenneth came to a halt in front of a fan-vaulted entryway. ‘After you, Miss Miller.’

Edie pushed open a wrought-iron gate. At hearing the spine-jangling squeak, she said, ‘A little WD-40 will fix that right up.’

‘My dear, I have no idea what you just said, but it sounded utterly delightful.’

She forced her lips into a tight smile. God save me from horny college professors.

Discovering that they had entered an ancient cemetery, a good many of the weathered headstones tilted at drunken inclines, Edie unthinkingly leaned into C?dmon.

‘Very creepy,’ she murmured, not wanting to disturb the dead.

‘The scenery improves on the other side,’ he assured her, gently squeezing her hand.

A few moments later she breathed a sigh of relief at finding herself in a medieval knot garden. Taking the lead, his red cashmere scarf jauntily flapping in the breeze, Sir Kenneth guided them through the clipped boxes. Imagining the older man manoeuvring through the maze after a night at the pub, Edie bit back a smile.

The knot garden navigated, they strolled through a copse of cedar trees and copper beeches.

Peering through the tree limbs, Edie’s breath caught in her throat.

Lovely to behold, even dressed in winter’s stark garb, Rose Chapel was constructed of rubbled stone beautifully punctuated with arched stained-glass windows. Adjacent to the chapel was a three-storey Norman tower that seemed out of place with its plain facade and arrow slits, tower married to chapel like a masculine — feminine yin yang.

Stepping through an irreverently painted canary-yellow door, Sir Kenneth led them into a lobby. He removed his red scarf with a theatrical flourish, draping it round a marble bust of a bald-headed, beaked-nosed man.

‘Who’s that?’ Edie mouthed.

‘Pope Clement V,’ C?dmon mouthed back.

An older woman in a plain navy-blue dress — Edie placed her around fifty — scurried into the lobby. Any notion of the woman being Mrs Campbell-Brown was instantly dispelled when she obsequiously bobbed her head and said, ‘Good day, Sir Kenneth.’

Acknowledging the greeting with little more than a brusque nod, Sir Kenneth removed his leather bomber jacket and shoved it at the woman. With a distracted wave of his hand, he indicated that Edie and C?dmon should do likewise.