I stand in the gloom of the cloister, a covered walkway around the grassy quadrangle where a trio of fat snowy geese promenades in the bright day under a white sky. A tall archway leads to the south cloister, and just beyond in the passage, a crude hand-lettered sign on a little stand bears two words, with an arrow pointing onward.
“Kevin!” I shout. He ambles towards me from a knight’s effigy in crusader dress atop a stone coffin—the tomb of William, bastard son of Henry II, and half-brother to King John. I point.
“Magna Carta? THE Magna Carta?!” He is as surprised and thrilled as I am, and we hurry in the direction of the sign, sore feet forgotten.
A polished wooden cabinet twice my height stands in the center of the bare floor In a high, high gothic chamber with walls of stained glass. We walk around to the other side, and there, the woodwork clasps a large square of parchment, tilted to the light, with nearly four thousand words written on it.
“Wow,” Kevin breathes.
I place my hand on the glass.
An inch away rests something signed and sealed, touched, by John himself.
I ate smoked salmon from a street stall when we got off the shuttle bus from Stonehenge, and still taste it.
Under the the straps of my backpack, and the blue windbreaker, my shoulders are damp and prickly with Wiltshire drizzle.
I expect the elderly docent or his schoolgirl apprentice to insist that I step back, but my fingers tingle, nearly brushing the magic of iron gall ink on vellum. Still unfaded, after 800 years.
It is so sweet to have found this with Kevin. Perfect for us. He’d made his own chain mail, carried a replica of William Wallace’s sword when I took him to the Renaissance Festival. We are similar roses on the same cane—our love for Tolkien fuels a fascination with deep British history.
I know the text is Latin, but the dense calligraphy is hard to read, and might as well be Anglo Saxon or Norman French. It looks like Elvish.
Doreen had helped Kevin design his knight’s costume, though he’d done all the sewing and leatherwork himself. I feel her presence, the blessing of her love still laid on both of us, husband and son, though she’s been dead and buried these two months.
Kevin’s face turns to stone when he thinks of it. And I feel dead inside, so maybe we are having that same experience, too
She would love that we found this, are sharing this, and wish us much joy of it. She would be made of joy. As she had so many times, she would stroke my cheek with soft fingers, tell me without words that there is no shame in loving life. At any time. And that she loves me.
It is unbearable that she is already beginning to fade from the world. If there is a God, she’s a prick.
“Sir, please don’t touch, ” says the young woman.
I lift my fingers from the glass.
“Kevin!” I shout. He ambles towards me from a knight’s effigy in crusader dress atop a stone coffin—the tomb of William, bastard son of Henry II, and half-brother to King John. I point.
“Magna Carta? THE Magna Carta?!” He is as surprised and thrilled as I am, and we hurry in the direction of the sign, sore feet forgotten.
A polished wooden cabinet twice my height stands in the center of the bare floor In a high, high gothic chamber with walls of stained glass. We walk around to the other side, and there, the woodwork clasps a large square of parchment, tilted to the light, with nearly four thousand words written on it.
“Wow,” Kevin breathes.
I place my hand on the glass.
An inch away rests something signed and sealed, touched, by John himself.
I ate smoked salmon from a street stall when we got off the shuttle bus from Stonehenge, and still taste it.
Under the the straps of my backpack, and the blue windbreaker, my shoulders are damp and prickly with Wiltshire drizzle.
I expect the elderly docent or his schoolgirl apprentice to insist that I step back, but my fingers tingle, nearly brushing the magic of iron gall ink on vellum. Still unfaded, after 800 years.
It is so sweet to have found this with Kevin. Perfect for us. He’d made his own chain mail, carried a replica of William Wallace’s sword when I took him to the Renaissance Festival. We are similar roses on the same cane—our love for Tolkien fuels a fascination with deep British history.
I know the text is Latin, but the dense calligraphy is hard to read, and might as well be Anglo Saxon or Norman French. It looks like Elvish.
Doreen had helped Kevin design his knight’s costume, though he’d done all the sewing and leatherwork himself. I feel her presence, the blessing of her love still laid on both of us, husband and son, though she’s been dead and buried these two months.
Kevin’s face turns to stone when he thinks of it. And I feel dead inside, so maybe we are having that same experience, too
She would love that we found this, are sharing this, and wish us much joy of it. She would be made of joy. As she had so many times, she would stroke my cheek with soft fingers, tell me without words that there is no shame in loving life. At any time. And that she loves me.
It is unbearable that she is already beginning to fade from the world. If there is a God, she’s a prick.
“Sir, please don’t touch, ” says the young woman.
I lift my fingers from the glass.
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