with kindness but with judgment. I remembered being in the passageway off the cloister of Dartford and running in terror from this same feeling. I peered up at the carved face of Athelstan, his face sterner than in the stained glass. This was a king who, when still very young, forced his own brother into a boat with no sail, no food or water, and cast him out into the sea.
The prior crossed himself and rose to his feet. We did likewise.
I ached to escape from this room, but Brother Edmund did not appear disturbed by any presence. He scanned the tomb with great interest. “I have studied history my whole life, but I know little of this king. I have no explanation for why I am so unfamiliar with his reign. Did he have a queen, a family?”
“Oh, no,” said the prior with a shudder, as if such an idea were distasteful. “Athelstan never knew the touch of woman. He dedicated himself to God.”
“Did he take vows?” asked Brother Edmund. “Was the king a monk?”
“No, he was something else. Something not seen before his ascension or since his death. A king of utter purity.” The prior smiled. “We have many documents honoring him in our library, which is undamaged. The writings of William of Malmesbury, our esteemed historian, are collected there.” He ran his hand along the corner of the monument. “I fear though that in our country, history is written by the conquerors. Few come to visit the library anymore. Since the family of Alfred, Edward, and Athelstan died out, no truly English king has held the throne. They have all carried the blood of the foreign conquerors, the Normans and the Plantagenets.” He paused again. “Sometimes I think a mist was sent out by Athelstan to obscure his memory, to help protect his sacred relics from the touch of those who have proven unworthy, who would misuse them.”
Brother Edmund and I both tensed.
“Do you speak of his crown?” I asked.
The prior’s green eyes glittered in the candlelight. “Yes.”
I looked over at Brother Edmund, questioningly. He nodded.
I took a step toward the prior. “My name is Sister Joanna Stafford; I am a novice at the Dominican Order in Dartford Priory. This is Brother Edmund Sommerville, a friar at Dartford. We believe King Athelstan’s crown to be hidden at our priory, since the time of its foundation. We’ve traveled here to learn more about the king and his crown, to better understand its powers.”
Prior Roger nodded, as if this were exactly what he expected to hear. “Come with me.”
Brother Edmund touched my elbow, gently, and I followed him and the prior back up the stairs. We walked down a long passageway to the prior’s own chamber.
I expected him to offer us chairs. But instead he went to a bookshelf in the corner and reached up, to a place in the upper right-hand corner. He pushed, hard. There was a sliding noise. The bookshelf eased back to reveal a narrow, secret place.
I covered my mouth with my hands. This was precisely the sort of thing I had been hunting for at Dartford, without luck, for weeks. At first my pulse raced, exultant. When I returned to my own priory, I would search the walls in the prioress’s chamber for a similar point of entry. But then I remembered how Cromwell’s men had pounded on all of the walls in that room, torn up the floor. They’d suspected an entranceway was there, yet found nothing.
The prior beckoned for us to follow. “Bring the candle,” he said.
We slid inside the space, Brother Edmund carrying the source of light. Almost immediately it led down a steep set of stairs.
“Was this place created to hide the relics of Athelstan?” Brother Edmund asked as we descended.
“No,” said the prior. “It leads to our dark house. We moved the relics into it later.”
“What is a ‘dark house’?” I asked.
“A place of punishment for those who have sinned against the order so greatly they must be set apart for a period of time,” the prior said.
“A prison cell?” asked Brother Edmund, shocked.
We’d reached the bottom of the steps.
“Of a sort. There were monks who, judged guilty by their priors, spent years down here, in chains.” The prior turned back to us, reassuringly. “We do not use it this way, and haven’t for many, many years, even before the Holy Father send out an edict discouraging their usage in 1420. But many of the monasteries and abbeys of