“That gives us just enough time to reach Caen,” he replied, a drive of just over three hours, as they felt the faint bump of the ferry as it docked.
The landing bridge was secured as the ferry eased against the pier. Massive doors opened. Overhead lights at each lane changed from red to yellow as automobiles slowly eased forward.
They followed the stream of cars, buses, and motorcycles that filled the double lanes that wound up the hillside, then sped onto the main roadway toward Caen.
Traffic was a nightmare, one that she'd never gotten use to on that earlier trip. Instead she and her friends had relied on public transportation. James Morgan wasn't intimidated by the late afternoon swarm of cars that clogged the motorway. He cut across traffic with the efficiency of someone who had done it before, with horns blaring and hand gestures from other drivers.
Most of the old part of Caen had been destroyed during the war. The abbey was all that survived, with most of the city, including the university, re-built after the war.
The university was a sprawling campus that was actually three campuses divided into eleven colleges, all linked by a tramway. The art school was part of the fine arts college. Diana Jodion had sent directions to her office, once they arrived on campus.
They passed through a gated entry and parked near the building with a fountain and elaborate modern sculpture—a phoenix rising from the ashes, symbolic of the rebuilding of the university after the war.
“She spoke with Cate the day before the accident.” She told him what Diana Jodion had mentioned, as they walked up the steps to the entrance of the building.
“They were supposed to meet the following day.” The same day Cate had sent the photograph, and that last text message.
Diana Jodion was the foremost expert on the Bayeaux Tapestry, and she had been instrumental in the restoration that had begun several years earlier.
“It was a painstaking process,” Kris explained. “But she was able to coordinate the work with the historical societies for the funding that was needed. She was the main consultant for the book.”
It was well after six in the evening when they entered the building, walking through the main foyer where different mediums of art were displayed—metal and clay sculptures, blown glass, paintings, papier-mâché figures that were amazingly lifelike, along with fiber art pieces, against a backdrop along the wall with life-size photographs of that iconic piece of fiber art—the Bayeaux Tapestry.
The original was displayed at the museum in Bayeaux, and while no photograph could possibly do justice to the beautiful intricate figures portrayed in the original panels, the photographs that covered the entire length of the wall along the hallway provided an astonishing glimpse of the size and complexity of a priceless piece of art that had been years in the making, depicting thousand-year-old events that had changed the course of history in Britain and France.
“There’s no documentation to authenticate the Bayeaux Tapestry.” Kris went on to explain what she had learned during the publishing process of the book. “But there are references to it that suggest it was originally commissioned by Bishop Odo, William the Conqueror’s brother.”
They walked the length of the hallway to the reception counter at the far end, where a young man sat behind a counter at the work station.
“That was later in the eleventh century. It was a way of documenting important events since most people at the time couldn’t read or write.”
“Or, put out political propaganda to the masses?” James suggested, studying one of the panels that depicted William’s invasion of England.
She couldn’t argue with that. Whether it was 1066, the year of the Norman Conquest, or present day, events had a way of being shown according to a political agenda, whether it was in wool yarn on a massive scale, or the media of the twenty-first century. Some things never changed.
“Medieval news at six,” she replied.
“Et fuga verterunt Angli—the English left fleeing,” James translated the Latin text above the images at the next panel.
She looked at him in surprise. “You know Latin?”
“Some.” He angled her a look as if sharing a secret, and a look of genuine pain. “Catholic school. It was required study. There are some things you don’t forget with a nun standing over you with a ruler in her hand.”
“You were a bit of a handful.” She mentioned what he had confessed earlier.
“It was more that I couldn’t see the point of all of it. Who spoke Latin in the real world? And there was that other thing.”
“That other thing?” she asked, curious, as they reached the reception counter.
“I think Sister Margaret Alice paid more attention to me.”
Kris couldn’t help it. It was just too good to pass up. “Some latent, virginal lust on her part?”
It didn't take too much imagination for that one. When he wasn't angry, or in one of those dark places where he had a habit of retreating, she could see the attraction—those dark eyes, that brooding expression and that old expression about still waters running deep. A young girl, or a full-grown woman, would probably want to dive in.
He shook his head. “I suppose that it had more to do with my own lustful ways.” He smiled faintly at the memory.
“Julie Hennessey,” he confessed. “She changed quite a bit over those last couple of years in secondary school. Some of us used to hang out in the car park, smoke a few, and commit a few other sins. Sister Margaret caught us. A couple of the lads got a good thump across the knuckles with the ruler for that one.”
