Stones of Fire

He nodded, wondering where this particular projectile would land.

‘Well, these geese 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 “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 has possibilities. However —’

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

‘Save Philippa,’ he murmured, Edie’s theory beginning to ring with perfect pitch. ‘And once her husband was dead, Philippa hid the gold arca somewhere in 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 said, ‘I’m beginning to think we got the martyr part of the quatrains all wrong.’

‘I take it you’re referring 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 don’t follow.’ Unhindered by ego, he didn’t care who exposed the truth, only that it was found.

‘Okay, we now know that the goose refers to Philippa, the good housewife,’ Edie said, ticking off her first point on her little finger. She next moved to her ring finger. ‘According to Sir Kenneth, Philippa was the daughter of the justice of the peace for Canterbury.’ Going on to her middle finger, she then declared, ‘And Canterbury, as you know from having read Chaucer, is where medieval pilgrims journeyed —’

‘To see the site where St Thomas a Becket was killed in 1170 by Henry II’s henchmen,’ C?dmon finished, well acquainted with the incident, the murdered archbishop a victim of the conflict between Church and state. ‘Within weeks of the murder, wild rumours began to circulate throughout England, those who came into contact with the bloodied vestments of the dead archbishop attesting to all sorts of astonishing miracles. Soon after, the Catholic Church canonized Thomas a Becket as a martyred saint.’

‘And thus the cult of St Thomas was born.’

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

Edie leaned against the side of the van, 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 knows, 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 —”’

‘The truth will be found. 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 this latest challenge, he didn’t waste his time on peevish complaints, having assumed from the onset that they would follow a crooked path.

‘Thomas a Becket was murdered inside the cathedral. I suggest that as a starting point.’ As he spoke, the van slowed to a stop.

C?dmon peered out the rear door, able to see that the driver had pulled into the car park of a roadside cafe. 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.’

53

‘You might be interested to know that these medieval walls were built on Roman foundations. The original settlement was called Durovernum Cantiacorum.’

As they strolled along the ancient stone battlements that ringed the town of Canterbury, Edie was relieved that she and C?dmon had reverted to their earlier camaraderie. She wasn’t altogether certain, the male beast a difficult one to decipher, but she thought C?dmon had been angry in the alley because he hadn’t been able to protect her from MacFarlane’s goon.

The goon had a gun, why hadn’t he used it?

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

‘Cold?’ C?dmon asked solicitously, draping an arm over her shoulder.

Shoving the frightening image aside, she wordlessly snuggled closer to him. Although she couldn’t be one- hundred-per-cent certain, she didn’t think they were being followed. Having hitched a ride to London, they had caught a train at Victoria station, the trip to Canterbury taking only ninety minutes. The station being on the outskirts of town, they were now en route to the cathedral.

A damp breeze chilling her back, Edie flipped up the collar on her coat. Overhead the clouds hung low in the sky, casting a dreary pall over the town.

Taking a quick peek at the map they’d picked up at the station, C?dmon 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 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. Much of Canterbury is little changed from the days of Chaucer.’

Like Oxford, the town was dressed in its Christmas finery, fairy lights twinkling merrily behind shop windows. Although Canterbury had about it a magical air that the staid Oxford 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 stride Edie was very much aware that she walked in another woman’s footsteps, that woman 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 carved in stone. Unchangeable.

Nearing the city centre, the thorny spires of the cathedral filled more and more of the skyline. To Edie’s surprise, she began to experience a sense of agitation. C?dmon evidently felt it too, taking her by the hand as they approached a massive three-storey gatehouse. Bedecked with tiers of carved shields and a contingent of stone angels, the Saviour stood front centre, welcoming saint and sinner alike.

C?dmon led her through the arched portal. ‘Christ Church Gate, the physical divide between the secular and the sacred.’