The Tudor Plot A Cotton Malone Novella - By Steve Berry Page 0,33

died. Incredible. This is his obituary, 6th-century style.”

Malone noticed the intricate carving of a horse, a warrior perched on top, his chest protected by a cuirass, the head helmeted. The right hand wielded a sword, the left a lance. The man sat tall atop the animal, ready for a fight.

“Arthur would have fought on horseback,” Goulding said.

On a slab beside the cauldron lay more items. Buckles of bronze. A sword hilt and scabbard embellished with blackened silver. Armlets decorated with elaborate filigree. Thumb rings of enameled copper and tin. A boar’s tusk carved with more scenes from battle.

“His things?” he asked.

“It was tradition to bury a warrior with his possessions. They would be needed in the afterworld.”

Porticos notched the wall, and a few contained the remnants of skulls.

“Defeated enemies,” Goulding noted. “It was a sign of respect to bury their skulls with the dead warrior.”

A cross filled one niche, fashioned from stone, its face divided into clear panels, each a maze of animals and knotwork designs. A burst of light caught Malone’s gaze, and he stepped close to see the center filled with a crystal the size of his fist.

“Diamond?” he asked.

Goulding shook his head. “Celts would not have known diamonds. Quartz of some sort, more than likely. Oh … my.”

He caught the surprise in the voice and saw Goulding heading for a container lying on the rock floor. It was shaped like a house with a gabled roof and ridgepoles attached to the crown. A band adorned with a beast head wrapped the eaves and sides. Its exterior appeared a combination of bronze and silver inlaid with gems.

“It’s a cumdach. Portable shrine. They were used to store books and manuscripts. I’ve only seen drawings of them. Yet here’s one in absolute pristine condition.”

Malone studied the construction. “It appears it’ll take us both to open it.”

“Is that wise?”

“We’re not on an archaeological dig. We need to see what’s inside.”

He gripped one set of the ridgepoles and Goulding clasped the other. They lifted in unison and the lid came free, sending a cascade of sand showering off as they laid the gabled top on the ground. The interior was lined with more bronze, the space empty save for a single volume, which measured about six by eight inches and two inches thick.

He carefully swiped the air above the book and shooed away centuries of dust. Faded writing could be seen.

DE EXCIDIO ET CONQUESTO BRITANNIE

“On the Ruin and Conquest of Britain. This is a Gildas manuscript.”

He listened as Goulding told him about Gildas Sapiens, who lived in Britain and died somewhere around 572 CE—but not before penning a scathing attack on his contemporary churchmen and political rulers.

“His words were a history of post-Roman, pre–St. Augustine Britain, a clear denunciation of secular and ecclesiastical authority. Most historians, though, regard his observations as more fiction than fact. But they remain the only firsthand account of 6th-century Britain.”

He caught Goulding’s excitement.

“There are about seventy editions of his work still around. I’ve seen the one in the British Museum. It’s a 10th-century handwritten copy of an 8th-century text.”

“Double hearsay?”

“Exactly. Who knows if it’s accurate. It’s also badly burned in places, and less than half the pages are legible.”

“You think this is an original?”

“If this tomb was fashioned in the 6th century, it’s entirely possible. Gildas lived during Arthur’s time. He was an ardent observer, a political critic at a time when criticism was not tolerated. He was learned in Latin and could read and write.” Goulding caressed the top sheet, as if carefully probing a sore. “Vellum. Much better than parchment or papyrus, and this giant refrigerator has preserved it. So, yes, Mr. Malone, this could be an original.”

“Go ahead.”

“Disturb it?”

“Why not? You know you want to. Frankly, I’m curious, too.”

Goulding reverently lifted the book from its container, balancing it on one palm, studying the pages, which rested on top of one another with no binding. A quick count revealed about sixty, and the vellum was waffled from time. The professor laid the bundle across one corner of the chest and carefully lifted off the top page, using both hands from underneath, cradling the sheet before setting it aside. Each one possessed a creamy white patina, an almost unused look, the writing faded to a light gray, the penmanship small and tight, words running the entire length with no paragraphs or punctuation.

Malone knew about Dark Age manuscripts. Writing materials were scarce, so every bit of surface was used with no margins.

“Can you translate?”

Goulding read in silence.