Chapter 11 #2
But the churning in my stomach was identical. The electric certainty of what I’d found warred with the desperate need for someone with the right expertise to tell me I wasn’t imagining it.
But I didn’t have anyone like that anymore.
The man who’d been browsing the book in the small chapel approached me. “Excuse me?”
“Yes?”
“I couldn’t help but notice your work in the tower.” He spoke with a faint British accent and gestured at the sword. “But I was wondering if I could take a closer look at this?”
I closed the laptop halfway. “Sorry, I’m busy with some academic research.”
“My apologies. I should have introduced myself properly.” He held out a hand. “Theo Hopkins.”
It couldn’t be. “Theodore Hopkins? The Dr. Theodore Hopkins who wrote the British Museum’s paper on the Crediton fibulae?”
“Guilty.” He smiled warmly.
I practically leaped out of my chair to shake his hand. I’d cited his Crediton paper in my last contract job. I needed an expert, and now I had one in a close enough discipline. “I’m working on the provenance of this piece.”
“And you are?”
“Dr. Gwen Lyons. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
A flicker passed behind his eyes. The same one I’d seen too many times to count. He recognized my name. He probably traveled in the same circles as Lionel and had heard the rumors.
My excitement died, but I forced my smile to stay in place.
This sword was a treasure—as long as it was authentic—and maybe he could help me figure out its mysteries.
“Would you like to look at the pommel? It’s fragile, so please don’t touch it, but the hilt has some features I think you’d find interesting. ”
Dr. Hopkins pulled a chair around and sat next to the case. “The cloisonné work reminds me of the Sutton Hoo enamel.”
I took my seat again. “I was thinking the same thing.”
“A connection like that would place this in the East Anglian tradition, or at least attribute it to a smith trained in it.” He straightened. “That’s a long way away from Cornwall, though. What brought you here?”
I reached for the laptop screen, about to open it and show him, but a tiny voice in my head told me to stop. What if I was wrong? What if I’d dragged three of us across the ocean for a figment of my imagination? What if my brain was buzzing and my soul was dancing, but the inscription was graffiti?
Stop doubting yourself, Gwen. What if he has answers? Or what if he can point you at some other research?
“There’s an inscription on the tower wall that says Porta Novae Avallonis. It’s hard to read, but…” I opened the laptop and showed him the adjusted image. “But it’s there. There’s also an inscription on the sword’s pommel that appears to be Clavis Novae Avallonis.”
Dr. Hopkins studied the screen, not as excited by the discovery as I was, which stung a little. “That’s a remarkable coincidence. A shared Latin phrase between a portable artifact and a fixed site.”
“There’s also a symbol by the words in the tower, which is mirrored on the pommel.”
“The church was substantially reconstructed over a hundred years ago. The letters and symbols could have been added then?”
“The tower wall is largely original.” I was trying to convince him. I knew it. That wasn’t the way research worked. I had to let the facts guide me, not shape them to fit my narrative. “But you’re right. The reconstruction complicates things.”
He lifted his glasses and leaned closer to the sword, hovering only inches from it. “I have some materials at my office relating to medieval metalwork provenance in the West Country that might help.”
“That would be fantastic. Let me give you my email.”
“I have a better idea.” He pulled a thin wallet out of his pocket and produced a business card. “Will you be in town long? My office is local, and I’d love for you to drop by with the sword.”
“I’ll be here for a few days.” Would I? I hadn’t discussed when we were heading home with Lance or Arthur. But I accepted the card. “Actually, I’ll have to check with my travel companions.”
“I’m available all day tomorrow, if you can come by.” He straightened, settling his glasses on his nose. “Perhaps you can show me the inscription.”
“Of course.”
The church door opened, and Lance came through, running a hand through his hair. “Sorry about the delay. Got sucked into a conversation with a couple exploring the cemetery. They had questions about the Templar crosses, and Arthur had all the answers.”
So why did Lance stay outside for that? For the history lesson? Or because he also thought the eyes-on-me routine was overkill?
Dr. Hopkins stood. “I should let you get back to your research. A pleasure, Dr. Lyons.” He shook my hand, nodded to Lance, and walked out.
“Who was he?” Lance dropped into the chair next to mine.
“An expert in early medieval metalwork. He invited me to his office.” I handed Lance the card, trying to keep the excitement out of my voice.
I’d have to calm that down before I visited Dr. Hopkins.
I swiveled the laptop to face Lance. “But I found the inscription on the tower wall. It says Porta Novae Avallonis—the Door of New Avalon. And the sword says Clavis. Key. They’re connected. ”
He nodded, obviously not interested in my history lesson. He glanced over his shoulder toward the door. “We’ll need to vet him before you meet with him.”
Of course they would. Because even though Lance wasn’t wound as tight as Arthur was, Arthur would insist he found out everything about Dr. Hopkins before we went.
Did that fall under the “Don’t go anywhere alone” or the “I need to know your schedule, your plans, and your intentions before you act on them” rule?
“I’ve still got a lot to do,” I said, plucking the card out of his hand and stuffing it into my messenger bag. “I should get back to work.”