Canterbury, England
It was early morning as Morgan Sierra walked through the streets, navigating puddles from last night’s rain that reflected the pale blue sky above. Her dark curls were tucked into a woolen beanie and she thrust her hands deep into her pockets, huddling up in her fleece jacket against the chill. It was quiet, even though the cathedral precinct lay in the center of the city’s shopping area. British people were not early risers, especially in the depths of winter.
Director Marietti had called late last night about a theft from the cathedral, one that needed to be kept quiet. A simple theft didn’t seem like a mission for ARKANE, but after her years as an agent, Morgan knew things were often more complex than they seemed at first.
The Arcane Religious Knowledge And Numinous Experience (ARKANE) Institute investigated supernatural mysteries around the world. They focused on relics of power, religious and occult forces, and threats that verged on the supernatural. Her ARKANE partner, Jake Timber, was away on another case, but if needed, he would join her. She would assess what was going on first. Marietti had provided little insight, but it was a chance to see one of the country’s most famous cathedrals and that was worth a trip.
Morgan arrived at the imposing Christchurch Gate that led into the Canterbury Cathedral precinct. It brought to mind the entrance of a castle with two stone turrets and crenellations between, where archers could lean over to fire down on invaders. A bronze statue of Christ in Glory sat in the center flanked by stone carvings — the arms of the Tudor dynasty, heraldic symbols, and angels with outstretched wings. A huge arch surrounded a thick, oversized wooden door next to a smaller entrance, just big enough to step through. It had a bell mounted beside it, an out-of-place modern juxtaposition to the medieval grandeur of the gate.
Morgan pressed the bell and moments later, a young police constable opened the wooden door, her black uniform freshly pressed, her peaked cap marked with blue and white checks and the badge of the cathedral in the center.
“Morning, Ms Sierra,” the constable said. “The Dean told us you were coming.”
Morgan stepped through the gate. “Thank you for letting me in so early. I didn’t know the cathedral had its own police.”
The constable led the way into the precinct at a quick pace. “Yes, this is our patch. The custom goes back to the twelfth century, so we have a long pedigree.”
As they walked across the courtyard, the smell of coffee wafted out from the tiny office by the door. Morgan really wanted to ask for a cup, but the constable seemed to be in a hurry. A theft on the grounds would usually be their jurisdiction, so perhaps her presence wasn’t wanted — or perhaps the constabulary didn’t know of the theft as yet. Marietti said to speak only with the Dean about the situation.
Morgan looked up at the imposing cathedral as they walked through the grounds. Founded in the sixth century, it had been rebuilt in medieval times and expanded into the Gothic style. Primarily constructed of Caen limestone, the upper tower gleamed with golden light in the rising dawn, a truly magnificent site for weary pilgrims and inspiring awe in the faithful. But extensive renovation work currently shrouded the true grandeur of the cathedral. Scaffolding cloaked one tower like a metal skin and giant wooden boards stood around the base of the building telling the story of the renovation. They portrayed images of those who worked upon stone and stained glass, as well as listing the manuscripts and artifacts inside, some of which pre-dated even the cathedral.
As much as she would have liked to see the building in all its glory, Morgan felt privileged to witness the cathedral this way. Stonemasons worked here now as they had done for over a thousand years, an ancient craft passed down through family ties and apprenticeships. The work they did with their hands and traditional tools gave the cathedral hundreds more years of life, and generations to come would look upon their carvings.
Much of the renovation fought against the inevitable process of entropy, the gradual decline into disorder that happened to everything in life. The artisans only replaced parts of the building when it was absolutely necessary, choosing to restore rather than rebuild in most cases. It was slow and painstaking, the work of a generation and a poignant reminder of the brevity of human life against the backdrop of history.
Morgan accepted that everything she did would disappear, that no one would remember the missions where she and Jake risked everything, that their actions were ultimately ephemeral. But when they passed on, these stones would remain — and that was a kind of comfort.
Tiers of niches flanked the arched entranceway into the cathedral, each containing a statue of a notable person in Church history. Amongst them, Morgan could make out the medieval Archbishop Anselm, and Thomas Cranmer, leader of the English Reformation, burned at the stake in 1556. Unusually, there was also a female figure, St Bertha, a sixth-century queen of Kent, whose Christian influence helped to spread the faith across pagan England.
There were fifty-five statues around the entranceway, but two new figures stood out in particular from the weathered stone. Queen Elizabeth II and the Duke of Edinburgh, their mature features carved with care. The British monarch was the Supreme Governor of the Church of England, but Morgan wondered whether this Queen would be the last honored here. The popularity of the monarchy waned in these modern times, but then again, the cathedral was testament to the longevity of tradition against the tide of history. Time answered all questions, solved all conflicts, and these stones had witnessed much in over a thousand years of faith.
The constable opened the door and gestured for Morgan to enter. “The Dean is waiting near the altar.”
Morgan walked into the shadowed nave, her footsteps echoing on the stone floor. A single ray of sunlight lanced through one of the high arched windows and illuminated slender pillars rising to the vault above. The nave was set with modern chairs, much easier to move around than the wooden pews so often found in English churches.
After the glimpse of wild nature in the hunt for the Tree of Life on her last mission, Morgan appreciated this architectural order. There was beauty in the stark lines of stone pillars and soaring arches, and in the carvings made by skilled artisans. Yet, even as she stood in this sacred place, the air dense with a millennium of prayers offered by the faithful, disquiet edged into her mind. The chill of winter seemed more intense here, as if the stone amplified the cold and sucked warmth from her body.
She walked further in. A lone figure knelt on the flagstones in front of a plain altar, head bent in prayer, dwarfed by the grandeur of the surrounding cathedral. Morgan hung back, waiting for the Dean to finish.
Before the Reformation, this had been a Catholic cathedral, but now it was the seat of the Archbishop of the Church of England. There were no bloody crucifixes or icons of tortured saints. Only an altar covered with a white cloth, and topped with a plain cross. An ornate Victorian pulpit stood against a pillar to one side, its colored imagery of the crucifixion and annunciation a contrast to the surrounding stark stone.
A compass rose lay inset into the flagstones before the altar, a symbol of Anglican Communion worldwide, engraved with Greek words from the New Testament. “The truth will set you free.” Morgan recognized the text from the book of John, chapter eight. But whose truth, she wondered — and not for the first time.
The Dean stood up from prayer and turned to greet her. He was a tall, angular man with tightly cropped white hair that stood out against his black skin. Deep laughter lines crinkled around his eyes and as he smiled, Morgan couldn’t help but respond in kind. If only all clergy were so inviting. His warmth radiated in the frosty morning, but she also sensed an underlying anxiety.
“Good morning. You must be Morgan Sierra. Welcome to our cathedral.”
“Thank you, I wish I had more time to look around but Director Marietti said you had an urgent problem.”
The Dean’s smile faded and his lanky frame, relaxed just a moment before, became taut and stiff. “Yes, come. I’ll show you.”
He led Morgan behind the simple altar to the crossing, a raised area where the nave intersected with the transept. It lay in front of the pulpitum, a large stone screen that separated the choir area from the rest of the church, and Morgan couldn’t help but stop to look at the detail. A wide stone archway flanked by statues of kings with angels above, all surrounded by intricate carvings that mirrored the tall columns in the nave.
“It was built in 1450,” the Dean said, noting her interest. “Back in Catholic times, only members of the priory could cross into the space beyond. Of course, we believe there is no separation between us and our Father in heaven, no need for intercession by those ordained. Anyone can speak to God and read His Word.”
Morgan reflected on the similarities to the Holy of Holies in the ancient Jewish Temple, the place where God dwelt and only priests could enter. This cathedral was certainly an interesting mix of Catholic history and architecture with a modern faith that used a simple altar in the nave, and kept the high altar beyond for feast days and special occasions.
“It’s always good to meet another fan of Gothic architecture,” the Dean continued, the warm smile returning to his face as he noted her expression. “And sometimes eyes like yours mean you see the world differently, perhaps even into realms the rest of us cannot perceive. Do you find that to be true?”
Morgan’s cobalt blue eyes were indeed distinctive, with a slash of violet through the right. Her twin sister Faye had the same slash through the opposite eye, and they certainly saw things differently. In recent years, they had become closer because of Morgan’s clear devotion to her little niece Gemma. Faye had been raised by their Christian mother in England, while Morgan had been brought up in Israel by their Jewish father. A family torn apart by faith and geography was not so uncommon in this multicultural age, but perhaps she did see things differently because of her mixed upbringing. Her missions with ARKANE had certainly opened her eyes to more.
Morgan nodded. “I’m not sure whether it’s a gift or a curse.”
The Dean put a gentle hand on her arm. “Sometimes that does not become clear until we reach the end of things. Only time can provide wisdom. Until then, we have faith to guide us.”
He indicated a chapel to the side of the crossing. “This way.”
As they walked on, a meow came from the shadows, and a small grey cat darted out. It wound its way between the Dean’s legs and he bent to stroke it.
“You shouldn’t be in here, Willow.” As his face transformed from authoritative clergyman to cat lover, Morgan couldn’t help but smile at the obvious bond between the two.
She thought of her own cat, Shmi, back in her little house in Jericho, Oxford. He pretty much lived with her old neighbor down the street these days, returning occasionally when Morgan was briefly home between missions. She hunkered down to stroke Willow, enjoying the feel of her soft fur.
“You’re a cat person, too.” The Dean nodded with an approving smile. “Willow lives in the rectory, but she gets a lot of attention in here, so she’s often around the place. Come, we must hurry before the other clergy arrive.”
They descended a small flight of stairs into a side chapel with Gothic archways and carvings similar to the rest of the cathedral. In such a grand building, this small chapel should have been unremarkable — but it had a unique, historical resonance.
A metal cross flanked by two jagged swords hung above a plain grey marble altar. Light from the high windows above cast shadows behind the swords, so there appeared to be four blades pointing down to the sacred place where blood was spilled on holy ground over 850 years ago.
“This is the Martyrdom site of Archbishop Thomas Becket,” the Dean said. “And the scene of the crime I need you to investigate.”