Book of Souls

He promised to be careful but gave no guarantees. He selected the smallest, thinnest flat-edged screwdriver and a light hammer. Then, holding his breath, he began gently tapping the chiseled end into the smooth, hard grout.

It was slow, painstaking work, but the grout was softer than the tile, so it gradually yielded to the steel. When a vertical line was cleared, he started on the top horizontal one. In half an hour, both horizontal rows were grout-free. Because he was working so closely to his exuberant fire, he was slathered in sweat, and his shirt was damp. He thought he might be able to tap under the tile and pry it loose without removing the last row of grout. She was almost pressing against his back, watching every move. She gave nervous approval.

It took only three light, oblique taps of the screwdriver to make the tile lift from the fascia a satisfying eighth of an inch. Blessedly, it was in one piece. Will put the tools down and used his hands, raising and lowering the tile fractionally, then wiggling it laterally.

It came free in his hands, intact.

Immediately, they saw a round plug of wood in the center of the exposed square.

“That’s why it sounded the same as the others when I tapped on it yesterday,” she said.

Will used the edge of the screwdriver to lever out the plug. It was covering a one-inch hole bored deeply into the wood.

“I need a flashlight,” Will said urgently.

There was a penlight in the toolbox. He shined it in the hole and grabbed a pair of needle-nosed pliers.

“What do you see?” she pressed.

He closed the pliers on something, then pulled them out. “This.”

There was a single sheet of parchment, rolled into a cylinder.

“Let me see!” she almost screamed.

He let her unroll it and stood over her as she dropped to a chair. “It’s in French,” she said.

“Are we screwed?”

“Of course not,” she sniffed. “I read French quite well, thank you.”

“Like I said, I’m glad you’re here.”

“It’s a bit hard to make out, atrocious penmanship. It’s addressed to Edgar Cantwell. It’s dated 1530! Good Lord, Will, look who’s written it! It’s signed, Jean Cauvin.”

“Who’s that?”

“John Calvin! The father of Calvinism, predestination and all that. Only the greatest ecclesiastical mind of the sixteenth century!” She scanned the page with wild eyes. “And Will, he’s writing about our book!”

1527 WROXALL

A MIDWINTER SNOWFALL that blanketed the forest and the fields surrounding Cantwell Hall made for a satisfying day of hunting. The boar that Thomas Cantwell’s party had been following all morning was a fast, healthy creature but he was trapped and soon to be roasted because his tracks were easy to follow in the white crust, and the hounds were not distracted by the usual smells of the soil.

The moment of the kill provided enough drama to be retold by the fire for the rest of the season. When the sun was at its highest, the glare off the snow stinging the riders’ eyes, the greyhounds finally cornered the boar against a thicket of impenetrable briars. The beast lashed out and gored one of the hounds and, in turn, was bitten in its hindquarter by another. It stood its ground, grunting and panting, with blood dripping from its haunches. All this was in full view of the hunting party, who had pulled their horses into a semicircle a safe distance away.

The baron turned in his saddle to his son, Edgar, a scrawny, hatchet-faced seventeen-year-old, and said, “Take it, Edgar. Make me proud.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you!” the baron said with irritation.

His brother William advanced his horse till he was saddle by saddle with his father and complained. “Why not me, Father?”

William was a year younger than Edgar but in many ways seemed older. He was more powerfully built, had a squarer chin and a hunter’s blood-filled eyes.

“Because I say so!” the baron growled. William’s face contorted in anger, but he held his tongue.

Edgar looked around at his cousins and uncles, who shouted encouragement and a few good-natured jests. His chest swelled as he dismounted and was handed the tokke by one of the servants. It was a long spear, specially constructed for the boar hunt, with a crossbar beneath the point to prevent overpenetration. Properly wielded, it would pierce the heart and easily be withdrawn through the tough hide.

Edgar tightly gripped the tokke with both hands, advancing slowly through the snow. The frightened boar saw him coming and started to grunt and squeal, which in turn stirred the dogs to loud and feverish baying. Edgar felt his heart in his throat as he slowly drew within a few feet of the mass of animals. He had never been given this honor before. He was desperate to get it right and not show fear. When he saw his opening, he would charge and use his height to strike over the backs of the hounds. He hesitated for a few moments and looked over his shoulder. His father angrily motioned him to get on with it.