Perhaps the crypt hadn’t yet been completed in the 1100s. Maybe he’d needed to locate an era when the crypt was not only finished but safe in order to ensure the ampullae he hid there would survive to the present day.
In truth, it didn’t really matter why he’d settled on 1382. That’s where he’d gone. Where he’d died. And now she needed to go back to May of 1381—a year earlier—and attempt to intervene in some way.
She had a sudden and overwhelming urge to touch her fingers to her lips again and travel back to the blue-eyed stranger. He was only inches away, alive, warm, and breathing. She sensed he was dangerous, but something about him drew her nonetheless.
No. She quickly stuffed her hands into her pockets. The next time she traveled to the past, she would do so intentionally and with a plan. First she had to research the year 1382 and develop a solid hypothesis for why her dad had selected that particular time. And then she had to get ready for her own departure to the year 1381. That needed to include writing out some kind of explanation for Ellen.
She wouldn’t be able to disclose everything. If the note fell into the wrong hands, she’d jeopardize the details of the ultimate cure, everything Dad tried so hard to keep hidden, probably from people who’d abuse the information.
Maybe she should wait to enact her plan. Until the police located Harrison and she had the opportunity to discuss it with him. Or until Ellen arrived. Or maybe she should call Jasper and finally explain what was going on.
“They won’t understand and will just try to talk me out of it.” That’s what she would have done with Dad if he’d revealed his plans. She suspected even Drake and Bojing would try to stop her.
She started to gather the pages on the bed, but she paused over a sheet torn from a newer book than the others. The top of the sheet was titled “Pilgrimages During the Middle Ages.”
She’d already read the article several times. The author noted that after a long period of silence in Canterbury, a slew of supposed miracles occurred in the late 1300s, the last ever to be recorded there. But he claimed the leaders falsely invented the miracles in order to entice more pilgrimages as a means of filling the Church’s coffers.
What if the resurgence of miracles hadn’t simply been Church propaganda? What if something really had caused a reappearance of miracles in the late 1300s? Like the rediscovery of the holy water?
She extricated her phone from her pocket and typed in a search for the year 1382 in Canterbury, England. At the sight of the results, her mouth dropped open.
There had been an earthquake in Kent on May 21, 1382, with an estimated magnitude of 5.8. It had a great enough force that the shock was felt in London. Interestingly, the earthquake interrupted a synod of religious leaders who had convened at Blackfriars in London to challenge the writings of John Wycliffe, accusing him of heresy for translating the Bible from Latin to English.
The earthquake damaged the Canterbury Cathedral belfry, dislodged the bells, and sent it crashing to the ground. It also caused severe structural damage to other churches, manors, and castles. Perhaps the shifting of the land had allowed a dormant spring at St. Sepulchre Priory to bubble to life.
She scrolled to the bottom of the article, noting that an aftershock had occurred May 24 with a 5.0 magnitude. Her dad had gone back five days ago on May 21. He’d probably timed his visit to occur right after the chaos of the earthquake to have the greatest chance of locating the wellspring that may have sprung to life after years of dormancy.
Obviously he’d found holy water someplace—if not from the cathedral then maybe from the wellspring. He’d had time to put those ampullae into the crypt. Then the aftershock hit.
What if somehow he’d been hurt during that second earthquake and it led to his death? After all, most of the structures of the Middle Ages wouldn’t have been built to withstand such tremors.
Whatever had happened, now she was more convinced than ever she had to go back. She couldn’t allow her dad to die somewhere in the past, not if she still had any chance of helping him. And not if she still had a chance to carry on his life’s work and find the ultimate cure.
~ 10 ~
THEY WERE BEING FOLLOWED.
Marian glanced out the rear window and caught a glimpse of the silver Range Rover that had trailed them since they’d pulled out of Chesterfield Park.
“This is nuts, eh,” Drake muttered from his spot next to Bojing in the front of the Bentley. “Foolhardy.”
She didn’t blame Drake for his caution, especially because the police still hadn’t discovered Harrison’s whereabouts. In fact, the local daily news reports had spoken of little else but the ongoing search for the abducted Lord Burlington.
Even with the danger, she had no choice but to venture out. She’d gone first to her dad’s terraced house on St. Peter’s Lane with the excuse that she needed to pick out his funeral outfit as well as gather more of her own clothing. Drake had positioned himself outside the front door and had given her five minutes. The house had been in the same state of disarray as the first time she’d visited it. So, she’d easily located the ancient coins scattered on the dining room floor.
She pressed a hand against her skirt and the pouch of coins now in her pocket. She wasn’t sure what items would travel with her to the past. But since Dad had apparently been able to take whatever he’d had on him when he’d lapsed into the coma—like his watch—she hoped the same would be true for her.
Her already taut nerves stretched tighter. Was she doing the right thing? The question ricocheted through her mind as it had a hundred times over the past hours while she’d prepared to leave.
Drake’s gaze darted to the rearview mirror. “You got what you wanted, miss. Let’s get on to Chesterfield Park straightaway.”
“Only one more stop. I promise.” She pulled her phone out of her purse and scrolled through her photos. She halted at the picture of her, Ellen, and Dad together last Christmas. Harrison had taken the photo at Chesterfield Park in the spacious drawing room in front of a twelve-foot-tall Christmas tree.
Dad was in the middle, his hulking frame dwarfing her and Ellen. His gray hair was unkempt, his smile slight, and his eyes distant, as though his mind was a thousand miles away. Marian touched his face, guessing he actually had been a thousand miles away in the past. He’d probably already known at that point his plans to cross time, had likely been waiting for May when he could steal the St. Thomas ampulla relic when it came to Canterbury Cathedral.
“Good-bye,” she whispered. Even though she had every intention of returning to the present, she needed to see the picture of them one last time. Just in case she didn’t recover . . .
She didn’t want to think about that happening. But going back a year before Dad was risky. There was so much that could go wrong, including not being able to find more holy water—especially if Dad had gotten it from the opening of the wellspring after the earthquake and hadn’t been able to purchase it from the cathedral. It was possible that before the earthquake the flasks sold at the cathedral hadn’t contained the miraculous holy water and had only been an imitation. Even if that was the case, surely the original St. Thomas ampullae were still available. She was resourceful and would find them. Like her dad, she would search for two—one to revive herself from the coma and then one to heal Ellen.