“Saint Malachy,” Rachel said, clearly recognizing the name.
“Who was he?” Gray asked.
“He was born about the same year as the Doomsday Book was written.” Wallace let the significance of that sink in before he continued. “He started out as the abbot of Bangor but grew to become archbishop. He spent much of his time on pilgrimages.”
“So he most likely came here?”
Wallace nodded. “Malachy was an interesting man, kind of a reluctant archbishop. He preferred to travel, mingling with both the pagans and the pious of the region, spreading the word of the gospels. He moved easily between both worlds and eventually brokered a lasting peace between the Church and those who adhered to the old ways.”
Gray recalled Wallace’s earlier belief that the last of the pagans waged a final war against Christendom, possibly using the bioweapon acquired from the ancients. “Do you think a part of that brokered peace might have been knowledge of the plague and its cure, the proverbial key to the Doomsday Book?”
“His fingerprints are definitely here.” Wallace gestured toward the book. “Then there’s also the reason Malachy was canonized, why he was considered worthy of being made a saint.”
“Why’s that?”
“Ah, now there’s the rub,” Wallace said. “Malachy was known throughout his life for the miracle of healing. A long litany of miraculous cures is attributed to this saint.”
“Just like the history of Bardsey Island,” Gray said.
“But I also recall another story told about Malachy. From my own bonny Scotland. Malachy came traipsing through Annandale and asked the lord of the land there to spare the life of a pickpocket. The lord agreed, but ended up hanging the thief. Outraged, Malachy cursed him—and not only did the lord die, but so did everyone in his household.”
Wallace glanced significantly at Gray.
“Healing and curses,” Gray mumbled.
“It sounds like Malachy learned something from his new Druid friends, something the Church decided to keep secret out here.”
Rachel interrupted. “But you skipped over what Malachy was best known for.”
“Ah, you mean the prophecies,” Wallace said with a roll of his eyes.
“What prophesies?”
Rachel answered, “The prophecies of the popes. It’s said that on a pilgrimage to Rome, Malachy fell into a trance and had a vision of all the popes from his time to the end of the world. He dutifully wrote them all down.”
“Bloody nonsense,” Wallace countered. “The story goes that the Church supposedly found Malachy’s book in their archives some four hundred years after the man died. Likely the book was a forgery.”
“And some claim it was just a copy of Malachy’s original text. Either way, the descriptions of each pope have over the centuries proved to be oddly accurate. Take the last two popes. Malachy describes John Paul II as De Labore Solis. Or translated, ‘From the toil of the sun.’ He was born during a solar eclipse. And then there’s the current pope, Benedict XVI. Described as De Gloria Olivae. ‘The Glory of the Olive.’ And the symbol for the Benedictine order is the olive branch.”
Wallace lifted a hand dismissively. “Just people reading too much into cryptic snippets of Latin.”
Rachel turned to Gray for understanding. “But what’s most disturbing of all is that the current pope is number one hundred and eleven on Malachy’s list. The very next pope—Petrus Romanus—is the last pope, according to the prophecy. That pope will serve when the world comes to an end.”
“Then we’re all doomed,” Seichan said, voicing as much skepticism as Wallace.
“Well, I certainly am,” Rachel spat back, silencing her. “Unless we find that damned key.”
Gray kept silent. He avoided weighing in on the matter. But Rachel was right about one thing. They needed to find that key. As he stood, he contemplated the significance of finding this dead saint’s Bible sitting in a pagan sarcophagus. And more important—
“Do you think it was Saint Malachy’s finger inside that Bible?” Gray asked.
“No,” Wallace said firmly. “This sarcophagus is too old. Much too old. My guess is that it dates to the time of Stonehenge. Someone was buried here, but not Malachy.”
“Then who?” Gray asked.
Wallace shrugged. “Like I said, possibly some Neolithic royalty. Perhaps that dark pagan queen. Nonetheless, I suspect that finger bone is all that’s left of whoever was first buried here.”
“Why do you think that?”
“And where’s the rest of the body?” Rachel added.
“Moved. Probably by the Church. Maybe by Malachy himself. But they left the bone here as was traditional back then. It was a sin to move a body from its resting place unless you left a small piece behind.”
“A relic of that person,” Rachel said with a nod. “So they can continue to rest in peace. Uncle Vigor talked about that once. It was considered sacrilegious to do otherwise.”
Gray stared into the sarcophagus. “Malachy used his own Bible to preserve the relic. He must have believed that whoever was buried here was worthy of that honor.”
Gray also remembered Father Rye’s description of Marco on the day he returned from the island all upset. The young priest had spent the night praying for forgiveness. Was it because he stole the relic, thereby desecrating a grave that had been sanctified by a saint of his own Church? And if so, what possessed him to do that? Why did he think it was so important?
Rachel raised another question of significance. “Why was the body even moved?”
Wallace offered one explanation. “Perhaps to keep safe whatever was hidden here. During Malachy’s time, England and Ireland were under constant attack by wave after wave of Viking raiders. The island, with no fortifications, would have been especially vulnerable.”
Gray nodded. “And if this crypt was where the key was kept, it must be somehow tied to the body interred here. So to preserve the knowledge, both the body and the key had to be moved to a safer location.”
“But what the hell is this key?” Seichan asked. “What are we even looking for?”
Gray looked toward the only other clue left to them by Father Giovanni. He moved over to the wall and studied the charcoal notations next to the cross. He laid a hand on the wall. What had Marco been trying to figure out?
The others gathered behind him.