Ark of Fire

CHAPTER 52

Positioning himself near the rear of the lorry, Caedmon shoved his foot against one of the double doors, ensuring that they wouldn’t be locked inside the refrigerated vehicle. As the lorry took off, the door gently bounced against the sole of his shoe.

“How long do we have to stay cooped up in the chickenmobile?” Edie grumped, her head and shoulders slumped to avoid being broadsided by the swinging fowl overhead. She held his wadded handkerchief to her mouth, blotting the blood from a cut lip.

“We remain in the lorry as long as I deem it necessary. And the birds in question are geese.” Bound for Christmas tables all across the shire.

He spared Edie a quick glance, still furious about her foolhardy sprint through the Covered Market; the woman had more blasted moves than the Bolshoi Ballet.

Bloody hell. She’d nearly got herself killed.

Had he not arrived in time, she would have suffered a grievous injury, the goon’s fist on the verge of making contact with her cheekbone.

“I figured he’d take you out first,” Edie explained. “That’s why I pushed you into the street. To cause a diversion.”

And to ensure that the assailant chased after her, not him.

Good God, but he wanted to throttle her.

“Like the repentant thief crucified beside our Lord, you are quick on your feet. But that doesn’t mean that you made a wise or reasoned decision,” he chastised, not in a forgiving mood. Then, dreading what her answer might be, “Did he harm you in any way?”

“I wouldn’t go so far as to say he violated my person, but he did take a few liberties.”

“Bloody bastard!”

“It was nothing. Trust me. Other than a cut lip, I’m fine.”

Caedmon stared into Edie Miller’s brown eyes and saw the scared, vulnerable child she once had been. He fought the urge to pull her to him, worried that he might say something utterly asinine.

Evidently suffering from no such qualms, Edie crawled toward him, nearly losing her balance when the lorry made a sudden left turn. He snatched the bottom of the door with his hand, preventing it from swinging wide open. Despite the anger, he stretched out his free arm, cradling her face in his hand.

“It’s cold in here,” she complained, nestling alongside him.

Caedmon gently rubbed his thumb over her swollen lip. “Thank God you’re all right.”

“What now?”

“Taking any form of public transportation is out of the question, as MacFarlane’s men will undoubtedly be monitoring the coach depot and the train station. Therefore we’ll remain in the lorry until we’ve safely departed Oxford. Hopefully, we’ll be able to find a sympathetic motorist willing to take us to London.”

“Maybe we should notify the authorities.”

“It’s not as though we can have the villain brought to book. And given your rampage in the market, should you contact the police, you’d probably end up an overnight guest of the Thames Valley Authority.”

“So where does that leave us?”

“Floundering about like two—”

“Geese,” she interjected, staring at the trussed birds swinging overhead.

“I was about to say two landlocked mackerel, but I suppose a pair of frightened geese would suffice.”

“No. I’m talking about the first line of the fourth quatrain.” Snatching the airline bag, she unzipped it, removing the folded sheet of paper with the translated quatrains. “Here it is,” she said, underscoring the line as she read aloud. “‘The trusted goose sorely wept for all of them were dead.’ Do you remember I told you that I once wrote a research paper on the Wife of Bath from Chaucer’s The Canterbury Tales?”

He nodded, wondering where this particular projectile would land.

“Well, the swinging geese overhead 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 the word 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 about Philippa has rich possibilities. However—”

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

“Save Philippa,” he murmured, her premise beginning to ring with perfect pitch. “And once her husband was dead, Philippa hid the gold arca somewhere on 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 continued, “I’m beginning to think that we got the martyr part of the quatrains all wrong.”

“I take it that you refer 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’m not following your argument.” Unhindered by ego, he didn’t care who exposed the truth; only that it be found.

“Okay, we now know that the goose refers to Philippa, the good housewife,” Edie replied, ticking off her first point on her pinky finger. She next moved to her ring finger. “Per Sir Kenneth, Philippa was the daughter of the justice of the peace for Canterbury.” She delineated the next point on her middle finger. “And Canterbury, as you know from having read Chaucer, is where medieval pilgrims journeyed—”

“—to see the sight where the archbishop, Thomas à Becket, was killed in 1170 by Henry the Second’s henchmen,” Caedmon finished, well acquainted with the historical incident, the murdered archbishop a victim in the conflict that raged between church and state. “Within weeks of the murder, wild rumors began to circulate throughout England, those who came into contact with the bloodied vestments of the now-dead archbishop attesting to all sorts of astonishing miracles. Soon thereafter, the Catholic Church canonized Thomas à Becket as a martyred saint.”

“And thus the cult of St. Thomas was born.”

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

Edie leaned against the metal wall of the lorry, 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 has any familiarity with, that being 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—’”

“‘He will find the truth.’ 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 the roadblock put before them, he didn’t waste his time with peevish laments, having assumed from the onset that they would traverse a crooked path.

“Thomas à Becket was murdered inside the cathedral. I suggest that as a starting point for our search.” As he spoke, the lorry slowed to a stop.

Caedmon peered out the rear door and saw that the driver had pulled into a car park with a roadside café. 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.”