Most of the Field Team’s work is on building sites. Contractors are obliged to call in the archaeologists if they are working on a historic site. However, there is pressure on the team not to find anything so valuable that building work is delayed. Big business tends to outrank historical research.
‘Yeah,’ says Ted. ‘It was on the new Asda site. We knew there’d been a church there once, one of the early ones. But we didn’t expect to find chummy there, all sealed up in his coffin. Gave us quite a turn.’
‘Did you know who it was?’
‘Well, there’s a pretty big clue on the coffin itself.’ The word ‘Augustin’ and a bishop’s staff are carved into the coffin. ‘And we’d heard the legend.’
‘What legend?’ asks Ruth, despite herself.
‘Old Augustine put a curse on anyone who opened his coffin. It’s all in the records up at the cathedral. If anyone despoiled his body, a great serpent was going to come and devour them.’
‘A great serpent?’ A memory stirs in Ruth’s brain.
‘Yes. Satan himself, presumably. Augustine was known for being able to cast out devils. His statue in the cathedral shows him with his foot on a snake. Maybe the devil was about to have his revenge.’
He grins and swallows the rest of his pizza in one easy bite.
CHAPTER 11
The setting for the second opening of the coffin is very different from the first. Instead of canapes and wine boxes, a sterile room in the university’s science block. Instead of the press and assorted dignitaries, a small group of people in disposable coveralls: Phil, Ruth, Chris Stephenson, Lord Smith and – to Ruth’s surprise and discomfort – Nelson. She is also surprised that Cathbad hasn’t managed to con his way in; he works in the science department after all. But Cathbad is still not answering his phone. Ted was invited to represent the Field Team who had discovered the coffin, but he had declined. He was scared of the curse, he said.
But despite the bland surroundings there is a definite frisson in the room. The coffin itself, balanced on two trestle tables, looks neither sterile nor scientific. In fact it looks almost sinister, a brooding dark shape amidst the white. Next to the coffin is a table covered with a white sheet, intended for the Bishop’s skeleton. It is this more than anything that reminds Ruth that there is a person inside the wooden box, a direct ancestor of the tall grey- haired man currently chatting to Nelson about horse-racing. Who knew that Nelson was interested in horses? Ruth and Nelson have not yet exchanged one word.
The door opens and a technician comes in, carrying a hammer and a chisel. These instruments, placed beside the trestles, look far too B &Q-ish to suit the occasion but Ruth knows that the coffin lid may be hard to shift, there are a lot of nails in it.
‘Shall we start?’ Phil asks Ruth rather nervously. The technician gets out a camera – he is going to video the whole thing. Ruth prays she won’t end up on YouTube.
‘What’s the coffin made of?’ asks Lord Smith.
‘Oak,’ says Ruth. ‘It’s good-quality wood. Some coffins from this time are made from lots of small pieces of wood nailed together but these are good, large pieces. Look how the top forms a ridge. That’s quite unusual too. The shape as well, tapering to a point. We’re just starting to see this in medieval coffins. Previously they were basic rectangles.’
‘You know your stuff,’ says Smith approvingly. Ruth, who has spent several days reading up on medieval burial practices, tries not to look pleased.
‘Is there another coffin inside?’ asks Chris Stephenson.
‘No. We’ve scanned it and all that’s inside is a body wrapped in some kind of cloth or shroud. Some bodies from this time were buried in lead inner coffins but it’s rare. There was a body excavated from the site of a monastery in St Bees in Cumbria buried in a box within a box within a box, like a Russian doll. But, like I say, it’s rare. Besides, lead was expensive.’
‘But he was a bishop,’ protests Smith, perhaps stung by the suggestion that his ancestor couldn’t afford the best.
‘Maybe he gave all his money to the poor,’ says Ruth. It’s unlikely, given what she knows of medieval bishops, but it effectively silences Danforth Smith.
Phil, rather gingerly (he’s not known for his DIY skills), starts to prise up the nails, which come out easily. Too easily, thinks Ruth, though she keeps this thought to herself. The nails, thick and black, made from badly rusted iron, are laid aside for further examination. The atmosphere becomes tenser, people move closer to the coffin. Then, just when Phil removes the last nail, Ruth’s phone rings.
She curses inwardly. She’d meant to turn her phone off. She almost does so now, but a glance at it tells her that the caller is Cathbad. Backing away from the main group, she hisses, ‘Cathbad? I can’t talk now.’
Cathbad sounds amused. ‘Is it the great unveiling?’
‘Yes. Why aren’t you here?’
‘I wasn’t invited.’
That’s never stopped you before, thinks Ruth.
‘Can we talk later?’ she asks.
‘Sure. I’ll come round to your house at about six.’
This isn’t quite what Ruth had in mind but she hasn’t got time to argue. She sees, to her annoyance, that the lid has been lifted and Nelson and Lord Smith are peering into the open coffin. The technician is videoing frantically.
‘I’ve got to go,’ she says. ‘Bye.’
‘Over to you, Ruth,’ Phil says graciously, though he is probably cross with her about the phone call. Getting closer, she sees that the skeleton is wrapped in something that looks like silk, though it has a strange waxy sheen to it. Next to the head is the crook of a bishop’s crosier, beautifully preserved.
‘Bishops were often buried with their crosiers,’ Phil is saying. ‘An interesting survival of the superstition that you take your goods with you into the next life. This one might even have been specially made for funerary use. The crook looks as if it’s made of jet.’ The tip of the staff does indeed have a dull black gleam to it.
Ruth pulls on her gloves and leans into the coffin. The silk is well preserved due, no doubt, to the thin coating of wax. ‘Beeswax,’ she says, ‘a natural preservative.’ Gently she unwraps the silken shroud. Behind her, there is a sharp intake of breath as the bishop’s skeleton is revealed.
It is a perfect skeleton, laid out on its back, arms crossed across the chest. There is a ring on one of the fingers and below the feet something that looks like a shoe. But, looking closer, Ruth realises something else.
Bishop Augustine is a woman.
‘So the old boy was really an old girl. How priceless!’ Cathbad leans back in his chair and laughs uproariously. Kate, who is watching him closely, laughs too. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course I’m sure,’ says Ruth with some asperity. ‘Female pelvic bones are quite different from male. The female pelvis is shallower and broader, the pubic ramus is longer. It was a woman’s skeleton all right.’
‘Do you think the bodies were switched, or was Bishop Augustine a woman all along?’
‘I don’t know. There was meant to be a pope who was a woman, wasn’t there?’
‘Pope Joan,’ Cathbad nods, taking a swig of wine. ‘She was only found out because she gave birth in the middle of a public procession.’
‘Well, that would tend to give it away,’ says Ruth, filling up their glasses. She hadn’t really wanted Cathbad to come over (entertaining is too much of a pain these days) but now he’s here it’s surprisingly pleasant. Cathbad had spent the first ten minutes playing wildly with Kate and now she looks satisfyingly sleepy, though she is keeping her eyes fixed on him in case he does anything fun. He also brought wine, which is always welcome. Ruth offers to make some pasta. She’s not much of cook but she’s hungry and Cathbad is hardly a demanding guest. He’s a vegetarian (of course) so all she has to do is shove some pesto on top. Kate loves pesto too. Then, with any luck, she’ll go to sleep.
‘What did Lord Smith say?’ asks Cathbad, pulling a funny face at Kate behind his wine glass. ‘Was he shocked that his famous ancestor turned out to be a cross-dresser?’
‘He was flabbergasted,’ says Ruth. ‘He kept asking if I was sure. Phil was delighted. It makes more of a story
