Chapter 1
Prologue
Galfridus Iohanni salutem plurimam dicit,
It has been so long since I have last written to you, even longer since I have last spoken to you face to face. How is life in Benevento these days? I know Adrian IV likely values your assistance with your mission work, though my last letter from the Archbishop insists that he cannot continue on without your presence. Apparently your replacement does not live up to the level that you set in your tenure as Theobald’s secretary.
I feel as if I must ask you of the weather, but with the cold wind of England winters biting around us here in Oxford, I am unable to ask such a question. I am afraid it might cause feelings of jealousy to rise within me, an emotion which I do not need. As it is, I find myself already fighting off a state of melencolia. This time of year always brings to mind my good friend, your former teacher, Peter Abelard. Gone from us these last 13 years. I remember fondly his prattling on about his theories, though we often disagreed about the power of language. He was often too much of a theologian for me, most of what he theorized about God and the existence of the human soul went over my head, but it was still enjoyable to read his words and hear him speak. The cold often does that you know, reminds us of our age, and brings memories of those who we have lost.
Ah, ignore the musings of an old man. This old historian has found he has become quite a philosopher these days.
Do you recall in my last letter to you, I spoke of the book I was writing, Historia Regum Britanniae? Well I am delighted to say that I have finally completed it, probably my greatest work. I was not sure I would be able to finish it until Walter dug through the church archives and located a very old tomb for my use.
I have inscribed in my book that it is a faithful translation of the old tome, though that is untrue. Does this untruth condemn me to purgatory? I wonder what my old friend Abelard would say to this?
Although I did not produce a faithful translation of the tome, I did find much of it to be interesting, and invaluable to my work of compiling the Arturian legends. In fact, when I finally managed to piece together what the tome said, I found information that could have great ramifications on the world. I dare not speak of it in this letter, just look to the book and piece together the clues I have left.
You might be wondering why I have not sought out such a discovery myself? I am all too aware of my age I am afraid, and such a find is for the young to explore, not for the old to argue over. Now that the book is complete, I can set out making copies with the aid of the monks here, and I will send one to you as soon as it is completed.
Cura ut valeas
Geoffrey set his quil to the side, and stretched his fingers. The cold always caused the joints in his fingers to ache, and the draft rooms in his living quarters or the library where he spent most of his time did not help. He carefully cleaned the tip of his quil and stoppered his ink, it would not do him any good to have dry ink or a worn out pen when he had to start copying his manuscript.
He gave his letter another once to make sure the ink was dry before folding it and carefully placing a wax seal over the fold. He wrote John’s name and location on the outside of the letter before setting it to the side. He shivered as another draft blew through the room, and he stood to stir the coals in the fire, adding another log as he did so. The embers glowed a brilliant orange before a small flame burst from the fresh fuel. “Drafty old building,” he muttered to himself. “Maybe one day in the future, they will discover an efficient way to insulate this old stone to keep out the wind.”
The man amused himself periodically by imagining the future. Though he was a historian and primarily concerned with recording the past, he was meticulous with his records and his writings for those in the future in hopes they would learn from the past. He returned to his desk and the small flicker from the lone candle illuminated the pages on his desk. His life’s work, his masterpiece, the complete works of the kings of Britain. It had taken him years to put together all of the information, long days of studying in the library, a library that was slowly being built by the painstaking work of writing oral traditions and ancient stories. There was still much missing, and he would have given up if it wasn't for the ancient tome loaned to him by his friend, the Archdeacon of Oxford. He had found it hidden deep in the vaults of the church, and it was exactly what he needed to conclude his work.
It was difficult work, translating the tome, a mixture of old Gaelic and Latin. He managed enough for his book, but there was still much to be learned. "Oh the secrets you hold," Geoffrey murmured, flipping through the bound pages. “I could probably spend the rest of my life translating, and still not scratch the surface of the information you offer.”
A noise sounded outside of his door and Geoffrey turned to look, his eyes adjusting to the shadows. “Hello,” he called. “Is someone there?”
Another slight sound came from the other side of the door, nothing more than a scraping against the floor before the door slowly swung open and a hooded figure stepped into the room. “Salveas Galfridus,” the figure intoned, his voice low.
Geoffrey studied the figure warily, “You know my name, but I cannot say that I know yours.”
“I would be surprised if you did,” the figure, a man, replied. “We know more than just your name though. We know your history, your birth in Wales, your studies into history, even the project you have been working on.” He stepped further into the room and Geoffrey couldn’t help but back away from him. There was something about the hooded-figure, something dangerous that set him on edge. The figure picked up the stack of pages on his desk and leafed through them, “Your finished masterpiece?”
“I would ask that you take care of that,” he replied. “It took me a long time to research and record everything, and I would appreciate it if you don’t destroy my life’s work.”
“We wouldn’t dream of it, preserving history is one of our main goals,” the man replied, setting the papers down. “Of course, preserving it for the appropriate people at the appropriate time.”
“I do not know what you are talking about.”
“You have something of ours. I have been tasked to retrieve it."
"I believe I would know if I had something of yours, I would at least remember meeting you."
"This something was lent to you through no fault of your own, but is still not yours to account for." The man stretched out his hand, "The book please."
Geoffrey blinked and he realized he was still holding onto the tome that Walter had given to him to help with his research. "Excuse you, this was given to me by the Archdeacon of Oxford for my research, what right do you have to claim it is yours?"
"It is a book that was left in the care of his predecessor, one that he had no right to give to you." The man's voice was firm as he spoke, "The knowledge it holds could be dangerous if not treated properly.”
“Who are you to judge what knowledge is dangerous?” Geoffrey blustered. “You do not appear to work for the Church, and since this was provided to me by an Archdeacon, it must not be blasphemous knowledge.”
The man waved his hand, “Blasphemy is not our concern, but we are the keepers of knowledge, protectors for generations yet to come. We determine what knowledge is available and what the world is not ready for.” He stepped forward, “I will not ask for it again, hand me the book.”
He stepped forward to take the book but the older man clutched it to his chest. As a historian, Geoffrey believed that people had a right to accurate information, and from what he could crudely translate from the pages he read, the knowledge in the book could greatly influence generations to come. It was selfish of him, he knew that, he wanted the information that the book contained, the secrets and mysteries. He wanted the recognition that came with discovering and translating such a work, it would rival even the renown from his own writings.
The two struggled for the book, both unwilling to give up their belief in the fact that they were in the right. It was obvious that Geoffrey was older than the hooded man, by how much he did not know, but he would not give up the book, not when it still had so much to tell him.
The book gave up first, the loosely bound quires and parchment tearing under the strain. The resulting release of momentum caused the two figures to stumble away from each other, the hooded man bumping against the doorframe and Geoffrey falling back to the wall. His head cracked against the stone and he slumped to the ground, a throbbing pain hammering at the back of his skull. His blurry vision took in the sight of the man collecting the torn remnants of the book before darkness descended across his eyes.
“I truly did not mean for this to happen,” the figure said as he watched the older man still on the floor. “Truly a tragedy brought on by hubris.”
“Master Scelestus,” a timid voice came from outside the door and the hooded figure turned to see a smaller, younger man standing just on the other side.
“Marcus,” the man, Scelestus, beckoned him into the room. “Come, help me bundle him into bed.”
“Is he…” Marcus looked down at the man on the floor, hesitation etched in his movements. “Did Brutus or Catiline agree to this?”
“They deem me to do what is necessary to protect our secrets,” Scelestus sniffed. “It was his own fault, he would not give up that which was not his.” The two men placed the fallen historian on his bed, and cleaned up any evidence of the struggle. Scelestus picked up the tattered remnants of the book they were fighting over, and pieced it back together as best as he could. “See that this is repaired and returned to the Archive,” he said, handing it to Marcus. “The information it contains must remain a secret until the world is ready for it.” He glanced at the stack of papers on the desk that he leafed through earlier, “Better take those as well, we cannot chance that he might have translated some of the book.”
“Would he know how to translate old Gaelic, Master?”
“His parents might have come over with the Normans and King William, but Geoffrey was born in Wales, he might have picked some up from his time there.” He stepped towards the door before turning to look at the younger man one more time, “Sapientia in secretis.”
“Silentium in umbris.” The man nodded and left the room, and Marcus let out a loud exhale. Scelestus always frightened him, the man was unwavering in his pursuit of a goal and his dedication to his assigned task. He was given the title of Enforcer, but many of the others called him by the new appellation, the death knight. Death followed in his wake whenever he was sent on a mission, and for too many times Marcus has been tasked to assist him.
Marcus turned back to the bed and studied the man lying there. “Deus te tueatur, domine,” he whispered. He picked up the stack of papers on his desk, along with the sealed letter that was waiting there. “I can’t do much for you now, but I can ensure that your book is published, perhaps this will ease the sins staining my soul.” He gave a shallow bow to the man and left a room, leaving one last whisper behind him as he left. “Miserere me.”