Ark of Fire (31 page)

“. . . at which time Galen of Godmersham succumbed to the Black Death, the great plague of 1348.”

Pointer in hand, Marshall Mendolson underlined the last line of the third quatrain, having had no choice but to begin deciphering the verses. Guns at the ready, these guys were a tough crowd, the older dude with the buzz cut the scariest of them all. He wanted the goods, no two ways about it.

Marshall doubted the head dude even knew his name. Earlier he’d overheard one of his steroid-enhanced bodyguards refer to him as “the li’l Harvard prick.”

“And the fourth quatrain, what of it?” his benefactor pressed, making no attempt to hide his impatience.

Marshall struck a thoughtful pose, doing a fair imitation of one of his favorite Harvard professors. “Hmm . . . good question.” And one he had no intention of truthfully answering.

It took only a quick, cursory reading of Galen’s poetic verses for him to figure out that the
arca
in the third quatrain was an oblique reference to the Ark of the Covenant.
Not
the medieval chest the head dude had hired him to find. These guys wanted him to hunt down the Ark of the Covenant so they could cash in on it, his cut being a paltry seventy thousand dollars. After he paid off his student loans, there wouldn’t be enough left for a Happy Meal at McDonald’s.

Jesus. The freaking Ark of the Covenant.

According to the Bible, the Ark could raze fortified cities, part seas, and kick some serious ass.

And if you believed
that
, he had some mountain property in Florida to sell you.

Although you didn’t have to be a Bible thumper to know that the Ark of the Covenant was a treasure of immeasurable worth. As in more money than he could ever count.

Given that his mother had once sued the Fairfax County school board over the phrase
one nation under God
in the Pledge of Allegiance—the groundswell of religious fervor nearly swallowing Adele Mendolson whole—his finding the Ark of the Covenant would be friggin’ ironic.

“The ‘goos’ reference in the fourth quatrain is pretty straightforward,” he answered after a long drawn-out pause, figuring some straight talk was in order, every good lie cloaked in the truth.

“You’re talking about the goose that laid the golden egg, right?” This from the brawny bruiser named Boyd, the man straddling an expensive Sheraton chair like a lap dancer straddling a paying crotch.

“Very good, Sir Rambo. You go to the head of the class.” A measured half beat later, he mockingly exclaimed,
“Not!”
At that moment he wanted nothing more than to smash the muscled behemoth’s face into the wood-planked floor. As had been done to him by countless bullies in years gone by.

Knowing he could take the put-down only so far, he switched gears, once more the erudite Harvard grad. “In the medieval lexicon, the goose represented vigilance. And given the fact that Galen composed his quatrains just prior to his death, it specifically means vigilance
in
death.”

Liking the sound of that, Marshall smiled, having just figured out how he could outmaneuver his benefactor.

“Line two of the last quatrain is simply a ‘woe is me’ commentary on the plague,” he continued, barely able to suppress an excited grin. “That takes us to line three, which is an offhand reference to Saint—”

“I want to know where Galen hid his chest,” the older dude hissed, his eyes narrowing as he stared him down.

“Well, now, that
is
the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question, isn’t it?” Or a thousand times that amount.

It was all he could do not to break into song. Like the bearded Tevye in
Fiddler on the Roof.
Except he really would be a rich man. No “if” about it.

Stepping over to his laptop, Marshall clicked several keys, projecting the next slide—a page from a nearly seven-hundred-year-old document—onto the wall. “From the Feet of Fines record, I discovered that Galen donated a hefty number of golden objects to”—he snatched his handwritten notes from the table—“St. Lawrence the Martyr Church in Godmersham. That being the ‘holy blissful martir’ of the fourth quatrain. Like most medieval men, Galen no doubt believed that he could buy his way into heaven.” Or bribe his way into heaven, depending on your point of view. “Put it all together, my guess is that Galen, quite literally, took the
arca
to his grave.”

The older dude cogitated on that for a few seconds. Then, obviously an anal sort who liked to verify the facts, he asked, “Are you saying that the gold chest is buried in Galen of Godmersham’s tomb at St. Lawrence the Martyr Church?”

“Yup. That’s as good a hypothesis as any.” Seeing the flash of annoyance on his benefactor’s face, he hastily added, “It was the custom of the time to wrap a corpse in linen, that being the ‘veyl bitwixen worlds tweye’—aka the veil between two worlds.”

Marshall inwardly breathed a sigh of relief. Although crafted on the fly, the lie had the ring of truth about it. Actually, when the Ark had been housed in Solomon’s Temple, inside the Holy of Holies, a veil had been hung in front of it to keep it hidden, the “veyl” in Galen’s last quatrain referring to the Ark, not a medieval death shroud.

Although the quatrains provided scant clues, he figured the Ark was really hidden inside the church under a statue of the martyred St. Lawrence. Or maybe behind a plaque or wall carving. Which is why he intended to steer the old dude and his three big bad bears away from the church building, focusing, instead, on the adjacent cemetery. Then, once his benefactor had given up the search, he would return on the sly to St. Lawrence the Martyr Church and lay claim to the prize.

“Galen of Godmersham’s tomb . . . you’re completely certain of this?”

“Certain enough,” he retorted, not liking the way he was being raked over the coals.

A man clearly accustomed to giving orders, the older dude brusquely gestured to the paper-laden table. “Pack it up. We leave in ten minutes.”

“I don’t know about you, but I’m not a big fan of dark and dreary weather,” Edie grumbled. For the last few minutes she’d been standing guard at their hotel window, closely monitoring the courtyard below, relieved they weren’t in a ground-floor room.

Relieved because her sixth sense told her that they were being watched.

Although given that she had zilch psychic ability, she couldn’t rule out the possibility that her “intuition” was nothing more than an irrational fear.

Busying himself with placing pencils and paper on the small circular table that was tucked into the oriel window on the other side of the room, Caedmon glanced over at her. “Small wonder we English are such a gloomy lot.”

“The Mahler doesn’t help.” Turning her head away from the window, Edie pointedly glanced at the small radio on the bedside table. The incessant sound of rain striking cobblestones competed with the ponderous strains of the Sixth Symphony in A Minor.

“Ah, but it doesn’t hurt.” Caedmon had earlier informed her that the drippy classical music helped him think. Something about musical notes and higher math.

Preferring rhythm and blues—Macy Gray was her favorite singer—Edie let it slide. There were worse faults than having questionable taste in music.

With a quick tug, she pulled the damask drapes across the window. That done, she glanced around the small hotel room. As had repeatedly happened since they checked in, her gaze landed on the king-sized bed decked out in a red-striped coverlet. Evidently a hotel room with two doubles was an unheard-of commodity in England; the front desk clerk had stared at her as though she were bonkers when she made the request.

She averted her gaze.

If she overlooked the bed—and it was darned difficult—the room had a warm, inviting feel to it. Ivory-colored walls were punctuated with dark wood beams and lots of pleated floral fabric. In a nod to the season, a ribbon-strewn garland hung above the entryway.

Again, she glanced at the bed.

“Yes, I know,” Caedmon said, seeing the direction of her gaze. “Rather imposing, isn’t it?”

“It’s just that we’re not . . . you know.” She fought the urge to look away, the unspoken topic of sex having reared its tempting head.

Caedmon held her gaze a second too long. Although her dating skills were rusty, she had the distinct impression that he was silently asking. When no answer was forthcoming, he strode over to the foot of the bed. His jaw tightly locked, he placed a palm on either side of the mattress and—

—separated the bed into two twin-sized mattresses.

“Not certain what we should do about the bedding.” He gestured to the mess he’d made of the red coverlet.

Acting on a hunch, Edie walked over to the armoire, opened it, and removed two sets of twin sheets. “We’re in luck. There’s a stockpile of twin sheets stowed away for this very emergency.” She tossed the folded sheets onto the bed. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it later.”

If he was disappointed, he hid it well.

“Afraid we’ll have to share the loo. My Herculean powers don’t extend beyond dividing the bed.” Turning away from the mussed coverlet, he reached for the bottle of port. “For some reason, I feel oddly buoyed by our progress today. Like a medieval monk who’s completed his daily chores and can now sit down to a jug of wine in the full knowledge that he has earned his simple pleasure.” As he spoke, Caedmon inserted a corkscrew into the top of the bottle, having procured the implement from the front desk clerk.

A wet
plunk!
could be heard as the cork slid free from the bottle.

Holding a glass in each hand, he walked over to where she stood. “I apologize that the port isn’t properly decanted. Since we’re slumming it, we must make do.” Then, smiling, “Careful. This stuff is dangerously gluggable.”

Edie took the proffered glass. Returning his smile, she took a sip of the ruby-colored port. “Yum. This stuff
is
gluggable.”

Caedmon laughed, the sound deep, rich, inviting. A lot like the port wine, it made her smile.

“Now, to the task at hand.” He motioned to the oriel window and the small circular table. “Hopefully, we’ll be able to yoke together the last four lines of verse.”

Not sure how much help she would be, her brain working in slo-mo because of the jet lag, Edie seated herself at one of the two wingback chairs wedged into the projecting bay window. Having a funny feeling that the port wine wasn’t going to help matters, she stared at the last four lines of translated text.

Using her index finger as a pointer, she underscored the first line. “Undoubtedly, a thinly disguised reference to Mother Goose.” Tongue literally in cheek, she winked at him.

All business, Caedmon circled the word
goose
with one of the sharpened pencils. “The words
goose
and
swan
were interchangeable in the medieval lexicon; the goose was symbolic of vigilance. In light of all that we know, that makes complete and utter sense.”

“It does? Sorry, but I’m not following.”

“Remember that Galen took upon himself the role of Ark guardian, vigilance
the
most important attribute of a sentinel.”

“And let’s not forget that the quatrains were also Galen’s swan song.”

Caedmon glanced at her glass, as if to silently inquire,
Just how much of that stuff have you had?

Edie pushed her glass aside. “Sir Kenneth mentioned that everyone in Godmersham except for Galen’s wife succumbed to the plague. So I’m guessing that’s the gist of line two.”

“That would be a correct assumption. As for the third line”—lifting his glass, Caedmon took a measured sip—“it’s the typical admonition that one finds in any medieval tale.”

“Only the knight who is pure of heart can seek the Holy Grail, right?”

“Mmmm . . . quite.”

Slowly, he drummed his fingers on the wood tabletop, lost in thought.

A few moments later the finger tapping increased to a rapid
rat-a-tat-tat
.

“I take it that’s a good sign.”

“So good it makes my bollocks tingle,” he bawdily replied, slapping his palm against the tabletop. “Unless I’m mistaken, the bloody ‘blessed martyr’ is none other than St. Lawrence the Martyr.”

Edie searched her memory banks, the name vaguely familiar. It took a second for her to access the correct data file, the one about Galen donating a slew of sacred relics to the local church. “Oh my gosh! Galen hid the Ark at—”