Stones of Fire

‘These are the altar vessels from the destroyed church,’ he said, running his hand over an exquisitely fashioned paten. ‘No doubt the nuns had advance warning that the king’s men were en route to the priory. I imagine they hid them so they wouldn’t be confiscated.’ He gestured to the gold objects. ‘Not exactly a king’s ransom, I admit, but still valuable. You should have no problem finding a buyer for —’

‘I’m not interested in earthly profit,’ MacFarlane interjected. ‘My reward will come in the next life.’ Turning his head, he looked pointedly at Edie. Then, like an Old Testament patriarch, he very quietly and calmly said, ‘Kill her.’

The behemoth raised his pickaxe.

C?dmon lurched forward but, anticipating the move, Harliss and Sanchez seized hold of him.

‘No!’ he shouted, violently struggling to free himself.

Not like this! God in heaven, not like this!

67

‘Last night you gave me sixteen hours to find the Ark of the Covenant! I have forty minutes left!’ C?dmon yelled, twisting and straining to free himself from his captors.

MacFarlane stared at him as he considered his appeal, Michelangelo’s stern-faced Moses come to life.

‘Colonel MacFarlane, I know you to be a man of your word,’ Edie croaked, her eyes flooded with tears, every limb in her body quivering with fright. ‘Please give C?dmon a chance. Without him, you’ll never find the Ark.’

Pondering it later, C?dmon decided that this last throw by Edie had swung it. MacFarlane nodded curtly. ‘You have exactly forty minutes. If you don’t want to see Miss Miller’s head split open like a Fourth of July watermelon, you will find the Ark of the Covenant.’ He glanced dismissively at the gleaming altar vessels in the still-open trunk. ‘I’m not interested in digging up any more golden trinkets.’

Stay of execution issued, Braxton lowered the pickaxe. Glancing at Edie, C?dmon battled the strong desire to bend over and retch.

It had been close. With one swing, the behemoth would have punched a gaping hole right through her skull.

‘I’ll find your bloody gold box,’ he muttered, glancing at his watch, the countdown already begun.

Christ. Forty minutes to find something buried centuries ago.

The clock ticking, he ignored the stricken expression still plastered on Edie’s face. They had to stay focused on the task at hand. To that end, he slowly turned, studying the wintry landscape that surrounded the cloister. Leafless trees. Dead grass. The shattered walls of the church.

There was something here that he wasn’t seeing. But what?

In the distance he heard a loud honking sound. A swan searching for its mate.

Bloody hell.

‘Swans and geese,’ he murmured, wondering if the answer to Philippa’s riddle could really be so simple. He turned to MacFarlane. ‘In the medieval lexicon, the two words are interchangeable, one and the same. And if you’ll recall, there were two geese depicted in the Canterbury window, symbolizing the fact that swans and geese mate for life.’

The older man’s brow furrowed. ‘I’m not following.’

‘The name of this place is Swanley. In the Middle English of the fourteenth century, a ley was a meadow.’

‘I got the clue!’ Edie exclaimed, realizing the significance of the place name. ‘“Swanley” would translate as “swan meadow”. Meaning that we need to start searching for a meadow. Or some swans. Or maybe even both.’

The furrow in MacFarlane’s forehead deepened. ‘What kind of bullshit are you trying to pull? Swans swim on the water; they don’t flap around on a grassy field.’ He gestured to the surrounding dell.

‘I’m the first to admit it’s a nonsensical word combination. But that doesn’t detract from the fact that it is highly significant. In the quatrains Philippa referred to herself as the “trusted goose”. At Canterbury we discovered a stained-glass window in which the Ark of the Covenant was depicted along with two geese in a basket. Now we find ourselves here at Swanley. Trust me. It does mean something.’ He turned to Harliss, the keeper of the GPS navigation device. ‘Is there a lake or pond in the vicinity?’

Given the go-ahead by his commander, the muscle-bound lackey consulted his hand-held device. ‘Yeah, I got a body of water about two hundred yards east of here.’

‘Then I suggest we proceed there with all haste.’

When no objection was raised, he motioned to Harliss to lead the way. Sanchez remained behind at the cloister to pack up the equipment. Braxton, the pickaxe jauntily swung over his left shoulder, a powerful Desert Eagle pistol clutched in his right hand, brought up the rear.

As they trooped off towards the new destination, bare branches rustled in the damp breeze. Whispering. Warning.

‘Please tell me that I’ve got more than thirty-some minutes to live,’ Edie said in a lowered voice, glancing furtively at MacFarlane.

‘Hold up,’ C?dmon answered in an equally hushed tone, not wanting her to dwell on the time. He knew from experience that it was best to deal with those variables one could control rather than to obsess on something beyond one’s grasp.

‘Yeah, yeah, I know. I need to stand tall. Or stand my ground. Or some silly cliche.’ While she appeared composed, C?dmon detected a note of panic in her voice.

He reached over and squeezed her hand. ‘An opening will present itself. It always does. And when that happens, we must seize the moment. No time for hesitation, right?’

She nodded, a vengeful gleam in her brown eyes. C?dmon suspected that she entertained a gruesome fantasy that involved a certain behemoth and a very sharp pickaxe.

A few moments later they arrived at a fish pond that he estimated to be a good ten acres. Towards the centre of the pond there was a small island. The swan meadow. In the middle of the isle a simple stone cross had been erected. It appeared to have taken root centuries ago.

‘This is looking really, really good,’ Edie said, clearly relieved at seeing the rough- hewn cross. ‘As the priory cellaress, the fish pond would certainly have been Philippa’s domain. Do you think she had the cross placed in the middle of the island as a sign?’

C?dmon shook his head. ‘I suspect the cross was erected before the construction of the priory. However, Philippa would certainly have recognized its significance. As with the Ark of the Covenant, the cross is a point of direct communication between heaven and earth.’ He cast a quick sideways glance at MacFarlane, the older man staring intently at the lone cross. As though it were some sort of mystical beacon.

He’d made his case. Thank God.

‘It could very well be that even before the priory was built, this was a religious site,’ he continued. Then, gesturing to the surprisingly clear, glassy surface of the pond, ‘Undoubtedly the pond is fed by a natural spring. Such springs were often dedicated to a local saint.’

‘Making this a holy place, right?’

C?dmon nodded. ‘And that would have made the isle a fitting place for Philippa of Canterbury to hide the most sacred relic in all Christendom.’ He gestured to a quartet of small rowing dinghies moored to the nearby bank. ‘I doubt if the local anglers will mind if we make use of their boats.’

MacFarlane walked over and inspected the boats bobbing on the water. ‘Gunnery Sergeant, I want you to row across with the woman. Harliss, you wait for Sanchez to arrive with the equipment. Aisquith and I will take the lead.’ Orders given, he untied one of the boats, brusquely gesturing for C?dmon to precede him into the vessel.

‘Hopefully she’s still seaworthy,’ C?dmon muttered as he took hold of the oars and began the laborious business of rowing towards the isle.

MacFarlane made no reply, his unblinking gaze set upon the limestone Lorelei that stood sentry in the middle of the isle.