Chapter 9
CERENSTHORPE ABBEY – PRESENT DAY
Tabitha stared at the page in surprise. The first entry of Wilbur Swanne’s journal was not at all as she had imagined; she had expected ribald comments about the weather, perhaps a few asides about the politics of the day, maybe family news, but not what appeared to be a clue for a treasure hunt.
She flipped through the journal to see if there were poems on every page, but the rest appeared to be more traditional entries, with no more obvious directions. However, there might be hints hidden within the prose.
Was this rhyme and the strange prophecy-style final paragraph the basis of Edith’s belief there was a priceless book hidden at Cerensthorpe Abbey?
Even if these few lines did represent the beginning of a trail, if they were scattered around the house, did the clues even still exist?
The house had changed a great deal since Wilbur’s day.
Tabitha gazed at the poem again. She was eager to help Edith, but she also did not want to raise the older woman’s hopes.
‘“Under the branch where the wizard waits”,’ she murmured. It sounded like a crossword clue.
What harm can it do to investigate further? she thought. If it transpired there was a possibility the pathway of clues remained, she would share her discoveries with Edith.
With a strong sense her endeavours would be a waste of time, Tabitha pulled her notebook in front of her and wrote out the poem. She left several blank lines between each phrase to make notes while she deciphered the meaning. Would she discover instructions or was it simply a piece of doggerel?
Tabitha read it through again and, bringing her analytical brain to the puzzle, focused on the individual words.
Under the branch where the wizard waits
The Aquila chrysaetos guards our words
With blood on his beak, the vulture is the key
For eagles of a lesser kind
On which scholars choose to bate.
She read it through a few times before typing the words:
Aquila chrysaetos
into a translate app to discover it was the Latin name for the golden eagle.
‘Eagles, vultures and what else?’ she murmured, running her fingers along the lines. ‘A wizard?’
She turned back to her screen and typed:
Wizard bird
Images of cartoon birds dressed as wizards appeared, but as she scrolled down, she came to various blogs concerning a falcon known as a merlin and the debates as to which had come first: the wizard in Arthurian legend or the bird.
From her own studies during her history degree, she knew the wizard, Merlin, was mentioned in documents written by a cleric named Geoffrey of Monmouth.
He had written the Prophetiae Merlini – or Prophecies of Merlin – in the twelfth century.
She pulled up a website about Geoffrey, frustrated she did not have her own books for reference, but they were all in storage.
The website explained Prophetiae Merlini appeared as an individual poem but was also included in The History of the Kings of Britain by Geoffrey of Monmouth, which was published in 1135.
Reading on, she found Monmouth had written a poem entitled ‘Vita Merlini’ – Life of Merlin – where he was known as Merlin of the Woods.
Next, she searched for:
The Boke of St Albans
which was named at the top of the journal entry and confirmed it was a book of bird knowledge.
She discovered it was first published in 1486 – a considerable time after Merlin, the wizard, first appeared in print.
It was possible the name of the wizard had inspired the description of the bird, but there were no dated records to show definitively when merlin was first used in its avian form or whether the two names were even connected.
‘Birds,’ she mused and the black feather she had found flickered into her mind.
Her plan had been to sketch it, but, instead, she had found a blood-drenched Gulliver on her doorstep and it had slipped her mind.
She reached into her bag and searched for the feather, her fingers finding the silky edge.
She pulled it out and placed it on her desk, the small piece of nature making her smile.
It was an appropriate talisman as she began her next task: searching for mythology connected with vultures to see if this offered a link.
Expecting stories of death and decay, she was surprised to discover vultures were connected with purity and rebirth.
There was an Egyptian goddess, Nekhbet, patron of Upper Egypt and protector of the pharaohs, to whom the vulture was sacred.
The goddess was often depicted as a vulture-headed woman, symbolising protection and the eternal cycle of death and rebirth.
Tabitha returned to her computer and searched the spreadsheets she had collated to see if there were references to any Egyptian artefacts in the house, but nothing emerged.
Tapping her pen on her front teeth as she considered the poem again, she reread it aloud several times to see if this offered any insights; then she remembered.
‘“The Parliament of Fowls”,’ she said, in excitement to the empty room. ‘A poem by Geoffrey Chaucer. Is that why there are so many bird references? Vulture, merlin, golden eagle. Vulture, merlin, golden eagle… Oh, my goodness, the horrible painting upstairs.’
She opened one of the spreadsheets she had created cataloguing the paintings at Cerensthorpe Abbey. After scrolling through multiple pages, she stopped at one of her own detailed descriptions:
First-floor landing, third painting on the left-hand wall.
Unsigned oil-worked image, quite small – 60cm x 35cm, framed in mahogany with scroll work.
Image of an eagle and a bird of prey (species unclear) watching a vulture as it devours the carcass of a deer.
Mentioned in an inventory from 1897 but no other provenance or proof of purchase.
The painting gave her the creeps. It was one of the few in the collection that depicted violence.
She found the blood and carnage a disturbing subject for a painting.
Her historical expertise did not include a study of fine art, but even with her limited knowledge, she could tell it was not well rendered.
When she had been adding it to her catalogue, she had wondered if it had been painted by a family member – if so, it would explain why such an unpleasant image had remained in situ for so many years.
She read the rhyme again, wondering if the bird of prey in the painting could be a merlin. It seemed like a huge leap, but, as she had promised Edith she would help, she decided to examine the artwork in more detail.
Outside, a grey sky had replaced the bright autumn morning, and the threat of the rolling clouds made her shiver. Her office usually felt calm and cosy, but today, there was a strange atmosphere and she put it down to the pressure of the storm brewing in the hills behind the abbey.
A movement caught her eye and she stared out across the open fields towards the ruins of the old cloisters.
The darkening sky cast unnatural shadows and she thought she glimpsed a figure, clad in white, standing between the tumbled stones, its back to her, its face raised to the clouds.
A loud bang from a distant field, followed by the eerily human clapping sound of wings as three wood pigeons flew into the sky, made her jump.
When she looked again, the figure had vanished.
A conversation she had shared with Edith about a ghostly presence in the ruins came back to Tabitha.
During the Victorian era, when the house had been owned by Edith’s great-great grandparents, Charles and Alys Swanne, they had considered flattening the half-collapsed walls and clearing the debris of a time long past.
‘What stopped them?’ Tabitha had asked.
‘One day, when Alys glanced outside, the sun was shining directly upon the stones, making them glow, and she saw a figure surrounded with an angelic light,’ Edith had told her. ‘She realised the ruins were special and insisted they remain.’
‘Who did she think it was?’ Tabitha had asked.
‘One of the nuns, sent to protect their former home,’ Edith had replied with complete conviction.
Tabitha stared at the ruins for a few more moments, watching as the first drops of rain began to fall, the intensity of the downpour increasing, the wind whipping through the trees, and she felt an overwhelming desire to leave the room.
She gathered her phone, her notebook and several pens which she pushed into the back pocket of her indigo jeans and pulled her short red boxy cardigan over her black and white striped, long-sleeved T-shirt.
Her trainers squeaked like tiny mice on the polished floor as she hurried from the room and along the corridor to the elegant entrance hall with its grand sweeping staircase leading to the first floor.
The house was quiet; it was one of the few days when there were no outdoor contractors fulfilling cleaning or maintenance contracts. The gardening team was working outside in the greenhouses, but Tabitha wondered whether the storm would cut their day short.
As she climbed the main staircase, she felt a sense of unease creep over her, as though she were being watched, but she knew there was no one near her.
She paused and took a deep calming breath as her counsellor had advised when anxiety overwhelmed her; these were her demons, not those of the house.
Cerensthorpe Abbey held a tranquil and peaceful atmosphere.
There were no dark corners or shadows where gothic mysteries resided.
‘No vengeful nuns or howling Victorian governesses inhabiting these corridors,’ Edith had cheerfully explained during Tabitha’s first tour. ‘Cerensthorpe is a house of calm and love. A place to escape the troubles of the world.’