Stones of Wrath: The Tapestry

By S J Ratcliffe

A royal tapestry, a kidnapped child, a 3000-year-old Biblical relic. These were not what archaeology professor Mikkel Jacobsen was expecting when he surveyed the ruins of Sheffield Manor, in the spring of 1916. As head of the new humanities f

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ratcliffe Books
• Release date: Apr 23, 2024
• ISBN: 9781962465298

Book preview

Prologue

Lindisfarne Monastery

Holy Island Northumberland England

AD 793 June 7th:

Almost midnight.

B

rother Audlac smelled the storm before the fiery dragons split the air. He counted, waiting for the thunder as fat raindrops sounded on the roof. When it arrived and rolled across the monastery, it reverberated with a foreboding growl.

Quick, close the shutters. He shouted behind him.

The monks jumped into action, their faces shimmering as more lightning cracked across the horizon. As one brother ducked at the next roll of thunder, Audlac laid his hand on his shoulder. Fear not brother, ’tis but a storm. I am going to the church to pray.

As he left the communal refectory, an unease swept across him. Something was niggling at his usual calm. With the candles now lit in the building behind him, a soft glow cut patterns across the grass. The rainfall increased, pelting down on their vegetable garden, which grew alongside the church. Another loud crack caused the sheep to bleat, stamping their feet in their small enclosure. Adding to the cacophony, the door on the storehouse rattled, threatening to burst open. Audlac stopped to lean a sturdy post against the door, then hurried along the path.

Even with his lantern rocking in his hand, he could only just see where he was going. He felt rather than saw the waves pounding the beach just a few yards away. His hair stirred underneath his cloak, and he shivered. Raising his eyes, he whispered, Dear Lord, this is no ordinary storm. With effort, he pulled the sturdy church door open as wind howled around it, tugging at it, and resisting his strength.

Forcing his way around the door, he threw himself inside the church. The wind shrieked, blowing the door back and forth until Audlac caught hold of it and forced it shut.

He squinted in the gloom—I must light the candles.

Light created a warm atmosphere as he went from candlestick to candlestick and lit them. The wind buffeted the flames even with the door closed. As he walked to the altar, Audlac looked up at the simple wooden cross and an inner warmth enveloped him. He made the sign of the cross and knelt, his eyes raised. A hush came over his spirit as he prayed. Audlac felt he was in the squall's eye as it battered the little Celtic church. He was thus preoccupied and unaware of the three Viking long ships that had just arrived from Denmark, their black raven flags flapping in the wind. These three ships, with their crimson and white striped sails, had been off the coast for the last few hours. If it hadn’t been for the tempest, he and his fellow monks may have wondered who had come to their island. If they’d known anything about these seafaring Norsemen, they would have run for their lives.

The door to the church flew open, and Audlac drew in a sharp breath. Standing before him was a giant of a man with flaming red hair. He was dressed like a warrior, with weapons in his belt and a broadsword by his side. On his shoulder he carried a large chest, which appeared to be indescribably ancient. The giant spoke in halting English and Audlac tilted his head as he tried to grasp his accent. I come in good will. Do not be afraid.

The stranger moved toward him, but Audlac raised his hand, still unsure. Halt, don’t come any closer. The giant pointed at the Bible on the lectern and moved to open it with reverence to the book of Exodus. He pointed at the cross and at himself. Relief dawned on Audlac’s features, You’re a follower of our Lord?

A deep, yet humble voice answered him, I am ... my name is Elaf. I have been to Britain many times as a child with my father. News of the monk Aidan and his teachings of Jesus had reached us. I felt a calling in my heart. Then, I experienced a dream of two things. First, I must return to Britain and second, I must bring this ancient Ark to Saint Aidan’s monastery.

Audlac sensed goosebumps sliding down the back of his neck as the story unfolded. Elaf took a breath and continued.

A year ago, in my homeland, there had been great excitement in my village. Elaborate boats were being built to travel the sea to Britain. I spent many months in training, so they might select me to join the crews. My size and strength were the overriding reasons they chose me, and because I can speak English. I had not realised their journey here was not for trade. It was for something far more sinister.

Elaf hefted the strange chest onto the stone steps leading to the altar. He gestured for Audlac to inspect it.

Please look. Tell me what you see.

Audlac looked into the man’s eyes. He met an intensity there that was unnerving. Moving closer to the chest, he placed his hand on it. Strange figures made of ivory, wood, and gold appeared in relief on the surface.

Audlac’s voice was a whisper. "So beautiful, a work of art." 

He lifted the lid. Inside were three chambers. In each were large broken pieces of blue stone. On them were words in a language that Audlac could not read. He looked up at Elaf with a questioning gaze. Elaf drew a breath as he spoke. This Ark has been passed down and protected for generations, back to the great mountain of God.

Audlac covered his mouth. Are you telling me this is the Ark of the Covenant?

No, and yes.

Elaf sat down on the front pew as he continued his tale.

Remember the story of the golden calf in the book of Exodus? What did Moses do when he came down from the mountain? Audlac looked once more at the carved figures on the chest. He peered closer and realised it was depicting Moses on the mountain of God with the newly minted ten commandments. Moses was heaving them down the mountainside in an absolute fury.

Audlac’s brow furrowed as he spoke. Moses became enraged at their idolatry and … His voice trailed off. You mean … these are the broken pieces of the first covenant?

Indeed, brother, the very same. These stones embody the wrath of God and his abhorrence of sin. God's wrath, his real justice, will not be meted out until after the battle of Armageddon. This is when the rule of men will end. These stones will remain hidden until that time, when they will return to the land of Israel. Israel will become one nation again, as it was prophesied. Not in your lifetime, brother, but it will happen.

Audlac cast his hand around the church. Why then have you brought them here?

God told me to bring them to Saint Aidan’s monastery to be concealed until his appointed time. The stones have moved many times in history. For now, we must hide them here in Lindisfarne. This place is where the Gospel will spread its power.

Audlac raised his eyebrows. From here? From little Lindisfarne?

Yes. My dreams have shown me there are many parts of our world that have not yet been discovered. In the future, Britain will become a great Empire and her ships will discover unknown lands and establish new countries which will become Christian and be blessed by God. But … in the end of days there will be three world wars. Close to the end of the first of these world wars, a veil will be lifted. This will be the first of many veils to fall from the eyes of the righteous. Each war will bring them more revelation and more understanding until the end, the last world war before our Lord returns. Until then, these stones must remain hidden.

Why? This makes no sense, Audlac shook his head. The church must be told of these prophesies.

Elaf’s face flickered in the candlelight. "God, in his wisdom, says it is not the right time, not yet, and not now. Remember what Paul says in Corinthians: For now, we see through a glass darkly. Brother, time is of the essence. You need to go now! There are three Viking long ships off the coast. They are coming here this very day to raid the monastery."

What! Audlac’s face drained of colour, I have to warn the others. He rose to his feet and ran toward the door. Elaf stood in his way.

Brother, you cannot! There is no time. Your mission is to hide the Ark. God has ordained you for this task. Please close your eyes and seek his guidance, and you will understand. You have lived on this island—you know its secret places. Find an obscure place that can’t be found. A place the Ark can rest for hundreds of years into the future. Only God needs to know its hiding place and he will reveal it in his time.

Audlac heaved a sigh, stilled himself, knelt at the altar and prayed for guidance and strength. He stood and reached out for his newfound brother and hugged him. A powerful lightning strike lit up the church.

The light was so blinding that Audlac whispered, God has spoken. He stepped back from Elaf and nodded.

Elaf handed over the Ark. I must go. I will stall them as long as I can. My heart grieves for the great loss that you and your holy brothers will suffer. I did not realize my people were intent on raiding this monastery until it was too late. God will prevail, brother Audlac, be strong in Him.

God speed, brother Elaf. Audlac replied as his body shook and blood pulsed at his temples.

***

Audlac understood that if he hastened, he could make it around the beach that led to a large rocky outcrop before sunrise. The great rock was full of hiding places for the Ark. There was very little time, with a long walk ahead of him in the mother of all storms. He grabbed some leather straps and tied the Ark to his back.

The church door almost blew off its hinges when he opened it, knocking Audlac off his feet. He struggled to rise as the ancient chest bore down upon him. Audlac strained and grunted and righted himself. Head down, leaning forward, he walked spreadeagled under the immense weight. Knowing Moses carried these stones down Mount Sinai gives me courage, Lord.

Careful to keep out of sight, he crossed the field to the beach. Not using his lamp, he followed the sand as it curved around to the great rock on the other side of the beach. The thunder roared and Audlac called out, O Lord God on high, guide my steps.

More than once, the lightning forced him to crouch down and be still. He did not want to be seen from the monastery or the long boats. However, the lightning also showed the path to the western side of the rock. By the time he reached the bottom of the rocky cliff, his cloak was soaked, and his sandaled feet were frozen lumps.

I know we monks have climbed here on numerous occasions, but that was in the daytime, and not in a ferocious storm. There are plenty of promising crevices up there, but which one? God, show me the way.

And so, he climbed. It took an age to ascend even a short distance. His hands and feet lost purchase several times. He was aware it would not be long before dawn broke. Never had he experienced such painful spasms in his back, his feet, and his hands.

Great mercy is upon me, Lord. I could never have achieved this without you.

There were many crevices but none of them were big enough to hold the Ark. Despairing, Audlac shivered as more thunder erupted and everything around him shook. A rockslide cascaded upon him. He ducked and clung to the rocky cliff. Wiping rain and sweat from his eyes, he saw that a tiny cave had opened behind the rocks.

It is perfect, he whispered.

Audlac slid the Ark from his back and pushed it as far as it would go into the opening. Sealing it with a large rock, he crouched in front of the cave and bowed his head, relieved and exhausted.

I must mark this cave.

He pulled out his little paring knife and carved the Bible verse—Exodus 32:19. Looking up to the darkened heavens with relief, he felt the sting of the rain on his face.

As the dawn rose on the three Viking long ships, Audlac descended the escarpment. He made his way across the beach and ran to help his brothers. I am too late! He wept when he saw the grim sight. His defenceless brother monks were strewn across the grass, mortally wounded by the swords of the Norse warriors. Over near the Monastery wall, he saw a giant of a man defending a small group of monks.

Elaf is enabling them to escape!

Then, as quickly as he’d come into Audlac’s life, Elaf was gone. Audlac grasped at the wood cross around his neck. Into the arms of God, killed by his own kin. The devil always contests the things of God. Rest in peace, dear brother, he whispered.

Audlac breathed in short, faltering breaths as a large shadow loomed over him. The Viking warrior raised his sword as Audlac raised his voice.

Jesus, forgive him and lead him to you. Into your hands, dear Father, I commit my eternity.

Audlac’s spirit left his earthly body knowing he had accomplished what had been required of him. The Vikings took Lindisfarne and the Holy Island of Northumberland, the beginning of their reign of terror across Britain.

One

Sheffield England

WWI

1916

Ivy Jenkins

I

vy glanced out the window at the daffodils poking through the thawed earth. The view of spring emerging did nothing for her mood.

Dear Lord, has there ever been a more difficult winter than this? She stopped reading the newspaper and threw it on the floor. War is spreading across the map like a plague. I can’t think about it anymore. And dear sweet Ted, I miss him. Thank you for saving him, Lord … but could you tell him to put pen to paper so we can stop worrying?

With conscription in full swing, her brother Ted, who emigrated to Australia, had gone to fight. He had taken a bullet in Gallipoli and was now languishing in the military hospital in Sydney.

Her image stared back at her in the mirror, and she began a soliloquy out loud.

Don’t be so morose Ivy, you’re 18 and it’s the weekend!

The words broadened her smile. Yes, you heard right. It’s Saturday! She did a little jig of happiness.

Her mother, Hannah, called out from downstairs, Who on earth are you talking to, Ivy?

Just myself Mam, just myself.

On weekdays, she worked with her mother, Hannah Jenkins, as a tailoress, making uniforms for the Ministry of War. Ivy wanted to be a full-time violinist and lamented the humdrum of the life she was living. One day you will be a professional violinist. She whispered to her reflection. Thankfully, the weekends were her time of freedom. Today she was off to the University of Sheffield to practise with their new orchestra. It was more of a chamber orchestra than a symphony orchestra and its members were like her, gifted locals with aspirations.

Mam, I’m off to orchestra practice. I’ll be back at teatime.

Don’t you go on your own, Ivy, her mam called out.

It’s alright, I’m travelling with Archie.

And don’t forget your tram fare, she called out again.

No, Mam.

She looked to the heavens. Well, it’s not exactly a lie. I have my tram fare, but I have allocated the money to a new bow. And ... Ted has left his bicycle behind. So, you see, I’ll be putting it to good use, for a good cause.

As she waved goodbye, her older sister Beatrice scowled.

Ivy felt her thoughts veering to the unkind. Oh, here we go, Mademoiselle Grumpy. Just because her beau is fighting in France. Does she have to be so bossy, Lord?

You make sure you’re back to help with tea, Ivy. Dad is doing an extra shift at the works today. He’ll be tired. Beatrice had a way of stealing Ivy’s joy and making her tense and on edge. The only thing they had in common was they both worked with their mother as fledgling seamstresses. But neither one wanted to do it. Beatrice was also inclined for a change in career. She just wasn’t sure what yet.

The Jenkins family lived a comfortable life compared to many other Sheffield families. Ivy’s dad, Thomas Jenkins, worked at ‘Beck and Company’, which was a steel factory, making aeroplane parts. The owner, Sir Jasper Beck, was a self-made millionaire. Ivy’s cousin Archie also worked there. With the war on, the company was expanding.

On Sundays, Thomas preached at the Wesleyan Methodist Chapel on Princess Street. Their family life centred around the Chapel.

***

Ivy’s thoughts turned to her cousin Archie. He lost an eye as a child, preventing him from being conscripted. She pondered on his life’s struggles and strengths. To Archie, wearing a leather eyepatch had never seemed like a disability. He even played viola in the orchestra. Even though they were cousins, they were also best friends, to the point of finishing each other’s sentences. They often spoke in unison.

Ivy walked the few yards along Melrose Road into Burngreave Cemetery. She had hidden Ted’s bicycle behind the hedgerow next to the wall. And covered it with an old, waxed sheet which kept the bike dry and helped to hide it.

Archie arrived with his viola strapped to his back. "Alright, I’m … here … now. With heavy breathing, his words came out in staccato bursts.

Ivy marvelled at how much they looked alike. In fact, people took them for twins. They had the same curly black hair, although his curls were untamed. And like her, a smattering of freckles covered his nose, and the same startling green eyes. Sadly, for Archie, his left eye no longer functioned.

You’re late, Archie. We need to hurry, she chided, with her hands on her hips.

"Hurrying is not my style. Why can’t we catch the tram?"

I’m saving up for a new bow.

Ivy pushed her laced-up boots hard on the pedals and took off down Burngreave Street.

Wait! Archie shouted and pointed to the right. You’re going the wrong way!

Ivy stopped and turned her head. I can’t go past my house—Mam will see me. We will have to take a detour and go up Burngreave Road to Rock Street. Then cycle into the city from there.

Archie groaned, Oh no, please, it’s such a distance and the hills.

It’s alright, Archie, we will take it easy. We can stop on Borough Bridge and have a breather.

Ivy strapped her violin to her back. She had embroidered a little detachable flag which flew merrily from the handle of her violin case. The flag read in large black stitching, ‘Votes for Women.’

Archie groaned again when he noticed it. I’m not going anywhere near you with that thing flying.

She tucked her raven curls under her short-brimmed hat, which she’d decorated with ribbons, and laughed in defiance. Half standing, she pumped the pedals and charged forward.

Right then, I’ll meet you on Borough Bridge.

Ivy straightened her back. Her long-sleeved, high-necked white blouse with her brown horse-riding culottes allowed her to cycle in comfort. She felt her cheeks glow with health as she picked up speed. With confidence and determination, she surveyed her world through shining green eyes. A pang of guilt consumed her as she turned her head back to Archie. He had vowed to protect her with his life if she’d let him. But she knew she was headstrong and preferred to fight her own battles. He shook his head at the looks she was attracting as she flew down Rock Street. No doubt thinking what would happen to her if her dad found out about their escapade? It didn’t bear thinking about. Let alone that Archie had allowed her to cycle to Firth Court. ‘Very unladylike,’ Thomas would say. Archie would get a telling off for something he had no control over.

He caught up with her on Borough Bridge. Leaning over the stone arches spanning the river Don, they breathed in the damp, cold air. Archie mopped his bow.

I have a flask of water if you’d like some. He drew the tatty flask from his coat. Grimacing at the thought of sharing a flask with her cousin, she took a tentative sip. Her eyes wandered over the sea of red bricks and the hustle and bustle of her hard-working city.

Ivy let out a contented sigh. No-one considers Sheffield the most beautiful city in England. But I don’t care, its home, and I love it.

Archie took out his little map printed in 1909. I suggest we go up Corporation Street to Benter Street, along Broad Lane, then Brookhill. We should be there in 30 minutes. His finger traced the roads along the route.

Sounds good to me. Ivy was eager to go. I’ll race you.

No! Absolutely not. I’m telling you—I won’t hurry! Wait for me at Saint George's and we will go from there. Please take down that flag. I’m not walking into Firth Court with it hanging from your violin case. Archie continued to mumble. Good grief, votes for women, whatever next.

Alright, I’ll take it down when I get to Saint George’s, she said in an exasperated tone.

While cycling through the busy streets, they passed drays loaded with produce, a few of the strange new automobiles, and the occasional horse-drawn hansom carriage. Noise surrounded them, including the sound of horses’ hooves and the thrumming of the trams.

Archie shouted from behind her, Watch out for the horse dung, as two darting boys shovelled it up. Ivy wobbled, just missing the slippery tram lines and the people crossing the busy streets.

You scared me, Archie.

He yelled his answer from the rear, Sorry, I didn’t want to sit near someone who smelled like a barn. She gave him her dark brown look, then peeled with laughter.

Ivy arrived at Saint George's church and leaned against the stone wall to catch her breath. Towards the Green, she noticed ladies carrying bunches of flowers into the church getting ready for tomorrow's service. The vicar was running back and forth, gathering the young boys for choir practice. Saint George’s was a great deal more formal than her dad’s Wesleyan Methodist Chapel on Princess Street.

Archie caught up, puffing, with sweat rolling down his face. I don’t know how you do it, Ivy. You look cool as a cucumber, and I look like a tomato.

She chuckled, Well, we make the perfect salad then, don’t we.

Archie stood firm. I’m not going any further until you take down that heinous flag.

Ivy drove her eyebrows together, undid her little flag, and folded it away.

One day, women will vote. You’ll see, mark my words. He laughed, which deepened Ivy’s frown. She was about to give him a good telling off when she heard a clock tower chime and realised, they needed to go. She looked towards Broomhall and Brighton Place. The new university, red brick, and fortress like, crowned the skyline.

Ivy noticed the local women in aprons standing in small groups. Their children gathered by their sides. Boys dressed in short pants and cloth hats crushed together with girls in pinafores and bonnets. They clung to their mothers’ skirts, looking at them, absorbing their mood. The mood was sombre. Hushed voices accompanied worry lines etching their pinched faces. She heard one lady remark, Well, at least we know the Boche will never make it this far.

After arriving at the university, they parked their bikes and walked through the elegant stone entrance. They crossed the foyer and hurried up the grand staircase to an equally grand room allocated for their practice.

Look at this timber panelling lining the walls and these doors, inlaid with leadlight and glass. Isn’t it magnificent, Archie? The sunlight spilled across her excited face. I love the scent of leather-bound books and the oak beams overhead give me a heady feeling of greatness. I love it all.

Archie smiled at her exaggerated emotion and nodded his ascent.

Other members of the orchestra had already arrived and were chatting as they adjusted their music stands. They formed a semi-circle and gossiped, mostly about the conductor. Originally from the University of Cologne, Professor Gustav Richter, was the Head of the Music Faculty. He enjoyed a friendship with the orchestra’s patron, who was her dad’s boss, Sir Jasper Beck.

Professor Richter strode into the room in his usual officious manner. He was short, fat and wore round tortoise-shell spectacles. He had a balding ring of unruly salt and pepper hair. To Ivy, Richter looked like the quintessential mad musician. She did not like the man, although she knew he was brilliant and was grateful to have him as their conductor. She often wondered how such a man ended up in Sheffield. His manner was lacking in all humour, and he showed little or no empathy. She assumed his poor people skills were why he had left the esteemed halls of Cologne University.

Perhaps he’d ruffled a few feathers, she thought.

A new member of the orchestra leaned over to Ivy and whispered, Why do they call him Bark? She stifled a laugh.

He has earned the nickname Bark for two reasons. First, he is a German music professor, and it is a play on the name of the German composer Bach. Second, because he barks his commands at us like an Alsatian dog.

Professor Richter tapped his baton on his stand and levelled a cold, silent stare at the musicians. It was his signal that he was about to speak and wanted their silence.

We have been invited to perform at the upcoming military ball on the 25th of September, at the Grand Hotel. It is Sheffield’s most prestigious hotel, and the ball will be a splendid affair. Many of Sheffield’s eminent families will attend as guests of the military. Our female members are to wear all black and the men, pristine white shirts, winged collar, bowtie, black tailcoats, matching vest, and trousers. If you do not own this attire, our patron, Sir Jasper Beck, will provide it for you. Please see me later and I will send your details to our tailor. The program for the evening will be Johann Strauss, of course. I have also scored some more modern music, for example ‘It’s a Long Way to Tipperary,’ and ‘Mademoiselle from Armentières.’ We will add to that several foxtrot and tango compositions.

The members of the orchestra sat up straight and some grumbled.

A clarinettist raised his hand, But sir, surely Strauss would be inappropriate?

Nonsense! Richter leaned forward. "The music