make sense of what I find.”
“He brought me the manuscript,” said the archbishop, “because it was written in an unfamiliar language. A language he had never seen and that few others ever have.”
“It turned out to be Aramaic,” said Duncan’s father. “The tongue, I am told, in which Jesus spoke.”
Duncan looked from one to the other of them. What was going on? he asked himself. What was this all about?
What did it have to do with him?
“You’re wondering,” said the archbishop, “what this may have to do with you.”
“Yes, I am,” said Duncan.
“We’ll get to it in time.”
“I’m afraid you will,” said Duncan.
“Our good fathers had a terrible time with the manuscript,” the archbishop said. “There are only two of them who have any acquaintance with the language. One of them can manage to spell it out, the other may have some real knowledge of it. But I suspect not as much as he might wish that I should think. The trouble is, of course, that we cannot decide if the manuscript is a true account. It could be a hoax.
“It purports to be a journal that gives an account of the ministry of Jesus. Not necessarily day to day. There are portions of it in which daily entries are made. Then a few days may elapse, but when the journal takes up again the entry of that date will cover all that has happened since the last entry had been made. It reads as if the diarist was someone who lived at the time and witnessed what he wrote — as if he might have been a man not necessarily in the company of Jesus, but who somehow tagged along. A sort of hanger-on, perhaps. There is not the barest hint of who he might have been. He does not tell us who he is and there are no clues to his identity.”
The archbishop ended speaking and stared owlishly at Duncan. “You realize, of course,” he said, “if the document is true, what this would mean?”
“Why, yes, of course,” Duncan answered. “It would give us a detailed, day-by-day account of the ministry of Our Lord.”
“It would do more than that, my son,” his father said. “It would give us the first eyewitness account of Him. It would provide the proof that there really was a man named Jesus.”
“But, I don’t — I can’t…”
“What your father says is true,” the archbishop said. “Aside from these few pages of manuscript we have, there is nothing that could be used to prove the historicity of Jesus. There do exist a few bits of writing that could be grasped at to prove there was such a man, but they are all suspect. Either outright hoaxes and forgeries or interpolations, perhaps performed by scriptorium monks who should have had better sense, who allowed devotion to run ahead of honesty. We of the faith do not need the proof; Holy Church does not doubt His existence for a moment, but our belief is based on faith, not on anything like proof. It is a thing we do not talk about. We are faced with so many infidels and pagans that it would be unwise to talk about it. We ourselves do not need such proof, if proof it is, that lies in the manuscript, but Mother Church could use it to convince those who do not share our faith.”
“It would end, as well,” Duncan’s father said, “some of the doubt and skepticism in the Church itself.”
“But it might be a hoax, you say.”
“It could be,” the archbishop said. “We’re inclined to think it’s not. But Father Jonathan, our man at the abbey, does not have the expertise to rule it out. What we need is a scholar who knows his Aramaic, who has spent years in the study of the language, the changes that have come about in it, and when they came about. It is a language that over the fifteen hundred years it was in use had many dialectical forms. A modern dialect of it is spoken still in some small corners of the eastern world, but the modern form differs greatly from that used in the time of Jesus, and even the form that Jesus used could have been considerably different than the dialect that was used a hundred miles away.”
“I’m excited, of course,” said Duncan, “and impressed. Excited that from this house could have come something of such significance. But I don’t understand you. You said that I…”
“There is only one man in the world,” the archbishop said, “who would have any chance of knowing if the manuscript were authentic. That man lives at Oxenford.”
“Oxenford? You mean in the south?”
“That’s right. He lives in that small community of scholars that in the last century or so…”
“Between here and Oxenford,” Duncan’s father said, “lies the Desolated Land.”
“It is our thought,” said the archbishop, “that a small band of brave and devoted men might be able to slip through. We had talked, your father and I, of sending the manuscript by sea, but these coasts are so beset by pirates that an honest vessel scarcely dares to leave its anchorage.”
“How small a band?”
“As small as possible,” Duncan’s father said. “We can’t send out a regiment of men-at-arms to go crashing through almost half of Britain. Such a force would call too much attention to itself. A small band that could move silently and unobtrusively would have a better chance. The bad part is, of course, that such a band would have to go straight across the Desolated Land. There is no way to go around it. From all accounts, it cuts a broad swath across the entire country. The expedition would be much easier if we had some idea of where the Harriers might be, but from the reports we get, they seem to be everywhere throughout the north. In recent weeks, however, from the more recent news that we have had, it seems that they may be moving in a northeasterly direction.”
His Grace nodded solemnly. “Straight at us,” he said.
“You mean that Standish House…”
Duncan’s father laughed, a clipped, short laugh that was not quite a laugh. “No need for us to fear them here, son.
Not in this ancient castle. For almost a thousand years it has stood against everything that could be hurled against it.
But if a party were to attempt to get through to Oxenford, it might be best that they get started soon, before this horde of Harriers is camping on our doorstep.”
“And you think that I…”
His father said, “We thought we’d mention it.”
“I know of no better man to do it,” said His Grace. “But it is your decision. It is a venture that must be weighed most carefully.”
“I think that if you should decide to go,” Duncan’s father said, “you might have a fair chance of success. If I had not thought so, we would not have brought it up.”
“He’s well trained in the arts of combat,” said His Grace, speaking to Duncan’s father. “I am told, although I do not know it personally, that this son of yours is the most accomplished swordsman in the north, that he has read widely in the histories of campaigns…”
“But I’ve never drawn a blade in anger,” protested Duncan. “My knowledge of the sword is little more than fencing. We have been at peace for years. For years there have been no wars…”
“You would not be sent out to engage in battle,” his father told him smoothly. “The less you do of that the better.
Your job would be to get through the Desolated Land without being seen.”
“But there’d always be a chance that we’d run into the Harriers. I suppose that somehow I would manage, although it’s not the kind of role in which I’ve ever thought to place myself. My interest, as it has been yours and your father’s before you, lies in this estate, in the people and the land…”
“In that you’re not unique,” his father told him. “Many of the Standish men have lived in peace on these very acres, but when the call came, they rode off to battle and there was none who ever shamed us. So you can rest easy on that score. There’s a long warrior line behind you.”
“Blood will tell,” said His Grace pontifically. “Blood will always tell. The fine old families, like the Standishes, are the bulwark of Britain and Our Lord.”
“Well,” said Duncan, “since you’ve settled it, since you have picked me to take part in this sally to the south, perhaps you’ll tell me what you know of the Desolated Land.”
“Only that it’s a cyclic phenomenon,” said the archbishop. “A cycle that strikes at a different place every five centuries or thereabouts. We know that approximately five hundred years ago it came to pass in Iberia. Five
