Caedmon led her through the arched portal. “Christ Church Gate . . . the physical divide between the secular and the sacred.”
Emerging from the portal, Edie caught her first glimpse of Canterbury Cathedral.
“Wow,” she murmured, the cathedral so immense as to be downright daunting—one of those perpendicular Gothic structures purposefully constructed for maximum impact. Everywhere she looked, there were towers and spires and statues.
“Wow,” she again murmured, having yet to emerge from her dumbstruck state.
“We approach as did the medieval pilgrims, awed and bedazzled,” Caedmon remarked. “Of course, the magnificence of Canterbury is not surprising, this being the mother cathedral for the Church of England.”
“More like the mother ship,” Edie muttered, still overwhelmed by the sheer size of the place. “This is gonna take days. Particularly since we don’t even know what we’re looking for.”
“But we know that whatever it is, it’s located inside the cathedral. And I suspect the clue has something to do with the Ark of the Covenant.”
“But the clue could be anything. A piece of sculpture, a painting, a bas-relief. Anything. It could even have something to do with Thomas à Becket,” she added. “After all, he is the ‘blessed martyr,’ right?”
“I believe that Thomas is merely a peripheral character, little more than a reference point to direct us to Canterbury. For it’s this colossus of stone and glass”—raising his arm, Caedmon motioned to the cathedral—“that played a pivotal role in Philippa’s daily life before she left for Godmersham. Moreover, she—”
Caedmon abruptly stopped, in midsentence and midstep. Wordlessly, he stared at the exterior façade of the cathedral. Like a man transfixed.
“What’s the matter?” she asked, grabbing him by the upper arm.
“The clue is embedded in neither sculpture nor painting nor bas-relief.” He turned to her, a beatific smile upon his lips. “It is embedded in glass. Stained glass, to be precise. Arguably one of the greatest artistic achievements of the medieval world, it was the first modern medium of direct communication; complex ideas could be transmitted in a pictorial format.” His smile broadened. “Not to mention that stained glass acts a ‘veil between the two worlds.’”
Edie stared at the dark panes of glass that fronted the southern façade of the cathedral.
“Stained glass was intended as a barrier between the secular world existent in the city streets,” Caedmon continued, “and the sacred world contained within the cathedral. Illuminated by light, the first of God’s creations, stained glass can come to life before one’s very eyes.”
As though an affirmation from on high, a church bell sonorously tolled.
“Come, Miss Miller. Destiny beckons,” Caedmon remarked, ushering her toward the main entrance.
Following on the tailcoats of an American tour group, they entered the elaborately carved doors at the western end of the church. Immediately they were assaulted by the twin scents of incense and flowers and the twin sounds of clicking camera flashes and a Midwestern twang.
“Above you, in what is known as the West Window, you will see a brilliant example of medieval stained glass,” the American tour guide expounded, in what was obviously a canned speech. “The sixty-three glass panels, which depict various saints, prophets, and kings, are just a drop in the bucket to what you’re gonna see on the tour; the cathedral boasts hundreds of glass panels. Make no mistake, folks, this is one of the cultural treasures of Europe.”
Along with everyone else in the group, Edie peered upward.
“Oh, God.” She groaned, stunned. “It’s gonna be like finding a holy needle in a sacred haystack.”
Placing a hand to her elbow, Caedmon led her away from the tour group. “Admittedly, we have a daunting task ahead of us.”
Edie craned her neck, taking another gander at the sixty-three glass panels on the West Window.
“You think?”
CHAPTER 54
His neck inclined at an awkward angle, Caedmon stared at the top register of the stained glass panel, the blaze of color near dazzling, casting what could only be described as psychedelic patterns of light onto the cavernous gloom of the gothic interior.
Les belles-verrières, he silently mused. Certainly more beautiful glass than one man and one woman could reasonably absorb in a single day. But mindful of the fact that MacFarlane might have correctly deciphered the quatrains, he and Edie forged onward.
Some two hours into the search, they now stood in the Corona, a semicircular chapel originally built to house the relics of St. Thomas à Becket. Despite the fact that they had methodically examined dozens of stained glass panels created before the mid-fourteenth century, thus far they’d seen no images or references to the Ark of the Covenant.
As he swayed slightly on his feet, the colorful windows having a hypnotic effect, several lines of Bible verse came to mind. “‘I will lay thy stones with fair colors, and lay their foundations with sapphires. And I will make thy windows of agates, and thy gates of—’”
Edie raised a hand, preempting him in midsentence. “Enough already. I am totally and completely Bibled out. Trying to decipher these stained glass windows is an awful lot like learning a foreign language. Except we don’t have the Berlitz tapes. And you spouting verses from the Good Book does not help matters.”
“Understood,” he contritely replied.
Though Caedmon was at an advantage, having studied medieval iconography while at Oxford, the symbolism and didactic meaning contained within the Canterbury windows was, to the modern observer, not unlike a foreign language. Although it was a language well known eight hundred years ago. Illiteracy was the norm during the Middle Ages, so stained glass enabled the faithful to learn the stories of the Bible in an easily accessible format, thus making medieval stained glass a picture book for the masses.
Ignoring the painful crick in his neck, he continued to study the glass panels, forcing himself to examine only those images specific to the Old Testament. Moses consecrating Aaron. The ascent of Elijah. Samson and Delilah.
As they continued to the next group of glass panels, he caught sight of a leather-clad blur out of the corner of his eye. The size and heft of the blurred figure were similar to that of the assailant in Oxford; he slowed his step. Almost instantly, his heartbeat escalated, goose bumps prickling his skin. He knew this feeling. He’d had had it any number of times when he worked for Her Majesty’s service. Something in Denmark most definitely stank to high heaven.
Muscles tightening, he slowly turned to face the enemy.
It took but an instant to verify that the “enemy” was simply a tourist. Though the robust physique was similar, the facial features were completely off cue.
Bloody hell, but he was on edge.
And had been since the incident on High Street.
“Is something the matter?” Edie inquired. “All of a sudden, you’re looking awfully tight around the jaw.”
“No, no, nothing is the matter,” he assured her, taking her by the elbow and steering her toward the aisle of the cathedral choir. To one side of them, massive columns supported incised stone arches; on the other side, stained glass windows beautifully gleamed.
“Ah! The famed Typology Windows,” he announced, effectively changing the subject. Knowing that the Typology Windows had been created prior to the thirteenth century, he angled his head to examine the upper panes of glass, ignoring the bolt of pain that traveled from his nape to the base of his spine.