The year was 1260. Iceland had been engulfed by violent chaos for decades, as the district chieftains battled endlessly with one another in a struggle for power. They had their enemies tortured, maimed, blinded, or castrated, and murdered the very old and very young as readily as those in the prime of life. Within a few years, the exhausted survivors would hand their country over to the crown of Norway, ending Icelandic independence for almost seven hundred years.
But in 1260 the resolution of the crisis could not yet be foreseen. In desperation, some Icelanders left their dangerous homeland and relocated to Norway, Denmark, France, or England in search of a more assured future.
Haraldur Thorvaldson was one of these. He was tall and lean, with straight, light blond hair and light blue eyes the color of glacial ice. His forefathers had settled in Iceland from Norway over three centuries previously, and his family owned land around Kjalarnes, with flocks of sheep and herds of cattle. He had grown up on the tales of ancestors who had crossed the seas in their longships, and as a lad he had traveled to Norway with his father once.
But now he was contemplating another trip. He was ambitious, and his future as a younger son did not lie in the violence-torn fields and uplands of Iceland. With a longship and a crew he could find new land somewhere away from this volcanic island outpost, somewhere where he could establish his own line.
Icelanders had been baptized en masse in 999, some in the icy river and others in the warmer waters of volcanic springs, but the old beliefs lingered nevertheless. In a box made of birch wood Haraldur kept the gift from the seer who walked with a cane; it was a carved stick made from the wood of the scrubby native birch. She had told him it held power, and now power was what Haraldur needed. He would go back to her and ask her to teach him to use it before he left.
He saddled his short-necked, shaggy little horse for the journey along the coast to the farm of Ulflyot Ragnvaldson to see Jorund Ulflyotsdottir. They had been handfasted as young teenagers, but now, at age eighteen, Haraldur was ready for their fathers to drink the bride-ale. It could be done in early summer.
Due to a lack of native timber there was no ship-building industry in Iceland. Old ships were patched and kept serviceable as long as possible, and none could be spared for him, so Haraldur and Jorund would take passage to Norway, where he could buy a ship of his own, and they could travel south to the Scandinavian-colonized areas of northern France or England.
At Ulflyot’s farm, Jorund came out to meet him. She resembled Haraldur in looks and coloring because all the Icelanders were more or less interrelated and there was no new immigration nowadays.
Her face lit up when she saw him, warming his heart as he dismounted and said, –We need to talk.â€
* * * * *
The sun was shining brightly on a late May morning at the Paridelle estate in Wiltshire, England, as the foreman crossed the broad veranda at the back of the manor house. Arriving at the door, he wiped his boots meticulously to avoid tracking any dirt inside, took off his hat, and rang the bell. The door was opened by a maidservant.
–I need to speak immediately with Mr. Paridelle,†the foreman said. He was a man of medium height, in his forties, dressed in woolen trousers and coat of brown and gray. Although he spent much of his life out of doors, he had the fair complexion of one who sees more cloudy skies than sunny ones.
The servant led him down the broad hallway, lit at either end by sunlight coming through tall leaded windows that reached two stories high. There was an antique carpet down the center of the hall, but he walked along the side of the hall on the paving stones, skirting the furniture items along the walls of the hall, to avoid any possibility of soiling the carpet. She stopped at a pair of tall doors made of carved wood and rapped, then opened the door slightly.
–Mr. Henson to see you, sir.â€
–Come in,†Denis Paridelle said. The maidservant and Mr. Henson entered the large room that was Denis’ study, where he was sitting at his wide oak desk that faced the door. He nodded to the servant, who left the room, shutting the door behind her. Mr. Henson approached the desk.
–What is it, Mr. Henson?â€
–Mr. Paridelle, we’ve found something at the excavation site that you should see.â€
Denis set down the papers he was holding and regarded the man quizzically. –Well, what have you found? Tell me.â€
–We found bones, sir. We think they may be human. At a depth of about five feet. We’ve stopped the digging for now.â€
Denis felt a sinking sensation in his stomach, as if his fate were catching up with him, as though he knew that this would inevitably have happened.
–Sit down, Mr. Henson,†he said, waving his hand at a chair. –When did you find them? How many bones? Are you sure they’re human? Not some animal?â€
The foreman sat down in the dark oak leather-upholstered chair near the front of the desk. –Less than an hour ago, in the northwest corner, where the building foundations are going to be poured. The men called me as soon as they found them. There’s at least one skull and a bunch of long bones. We didn’t disturb it much. I just brushed away enough dirt to be sure. I know what a skull looks like, and there’s no doubt that’s what it is.
–The whole crew, eventually.â€
Denis pushed back his chair and lifted his lanky frame upright. At age fifty-two he was as lean as ever, his hair still without a trace of gray, not that it would have shown among the blond anyway. He was suddenly feeling a hundred years old, and there was a chill over his body. The fear was rising within him that he was about to come face to face, or rather face to skull, with evidence of atrocities from the Second World War.
He gave a sigh and said, –Show me what you found.â€
The two men went down the hall to the door that led to the veranda, crossed the flagstones, and walked down the steps onto the lawn. The morning sunlight was warm and the air was clear. The sky was very blue with traces of white clouds, and the trees were filled out with the fragile light green leaves of late spring. Flower beds held spots of color where the gardeners had recently set out plants from the greenhouse. There was the fresh smell of damp earth warmed by the sun after the recent showers of rain. It was a scene worthy of the Garden of Eden, peaceful and tranquil, the stillness broken only by occasional sounds of birds.
Was it like this forty-five years ago, he thought, when he was barely a child, with no comprehension of the men who were coming and going in his grandfather’s house, who held long meetings from which he was kept strictly away? People in uniforms driving up to the house in big black cars late at night. Days spent outdoors with servants and tutors, when he had happily played in the garden. He had had no idea, at the time, of what was going on, but now he realized that they had been instructed to keep him away from the house. And after the war, while he was still young, he had heard vague references about spies and Nazi sympathizers, nothing of which he understood or applied to his own family. Of course, whatever your family does is right because they are your family. Of course. And as a young man he had learned more about the actions of some of Britain’s aristocratic families in the war: their vocal support of the Nazi party, eugenics, and racial elitism, their misgivings about Jews, and their frank admiration of Adolf Hitler. But he had always kept these thoughts in separate areas of his brain and never considered them together. Captives held in basements. Assassinations. Bodies buried by night.
Dear God, let it not be.
They left the garden and walked down a short dirt road with trees on either side, emerging into a field where the excavation for the building foundations was in progress. The brown-clad workmen were standing around the border of the digging, watching their approach. An earth-moving machine sat idle on one side.
Denis and Mr. Henson neared the edge of the excavation, step by step. Will I see shreds of rotting clothing, Denis wondered, or matted hair around fleshless skulls? How fast does this stuff degrade? What will be left after forty-five years? Dread crept through his mind. The workmen moved back to let him come up to the lip of the hole. Mr. Henson stood beside him, pointing downward.
–There it is, Mr. Paridelle.â€
Denis spied the bones partially revealed on the surface of the floor of the dig. He squatted down on the edge of the dig to peer at them, smelling the loamy scent of newly dug earth, and thankful for the bright sunlight that enabled him to see the bones clearly. He could see a dark brown, partially uncovered skull and sections of some longer bones, clavicles, sternum, and a few ribs. He was surprised and relieved by the color because he had been expecting to see white bones and remnants of clothing, the remains of partisans killed on his estate during the war. These bones, however, looked very old.
Straightening up, he walked around the edge of the excavation to a point where he could climb down into the digging and look at the bones closely. He stared at the skull for a long moment and then ran his fingers lightly over its brow, above the empty eye sockets, as if wiping the forehead of a feverish patient. Under the film of dirt the bone felt very smooth.
This was a person, he thought. A living soul. Who are you, friend?
He looked up at Mr. Henson and said, –The work will need to stop for today. Send the men home, but see that they are paid for the full day I will notify the police.â€
Two Detective Constables in black topcoats came out to the Paridelle estate later in the day to investigate the unexpected find. They introduced themselves, inquired about how the bones had been uncovered, and then made their way down into the excavation site and examined the exposed bones closely, brushing them off to reveal more of the skull and taking several photographs. Then they climbed out of the site again and addressed Denis, who had been watching them.
–We see finds like this pretty frequently when digging is going on, Mr. Paridelle,†the older of the two constables said, while the younger man made notations in a notebook. –The bones have been in the ground for at least a couple of hundred years. You can tell by the color. Any evidence that there was ever a burying ground around here? You may have stumbled upon the edge of a cemetery.â€
Denis shook his head. –This land has been in the family since the time of the Norman Conquest. We never buried anyone here.â€
–Well then, if it was a homicide,†the constable said, –it’s a bit late to be looking for the perpetrator, wouldn’t you say? You could just disinter the bones and have them transferred to the churchyard. Can’t exactly leave them here, can you? Some folks call in the blokes from English Heritage when they find stuff like this, let the archaeologists have a go at it. They might be able to give you some answers.â€
–Thank you for the suggestion,†Denis said, feeling greatly relieved. –I’ll give them a call. I need to know what went on, on my own land.â€
–Right. Let us know what you do,†the constable said, and the two men went back to their car, which was parked on the dirt road, waved briefly to Denis, and drove off.
An archaeologist from English Heritage and a small team of volunteers arrived a few days later to take charge of the site. The archaeologist, Tony Newcombe, was a broad-faced, sturdy man with curly dark hair frizzed out around his face, a receding hairline, and a short mustache and beard. He was dressed in blue jeans and a dark gray V-neck sweater over his shirt. His crew included two older women and two young men who appeared to be university-age. Denis and his son Silvestre, a boy of sixteen years, tall and blond like his father, accompanied the team and their lorry to the site of the find, where the crew began unloading equipment from the back of the lorry while Mr. Newcombe explained what they would be doing. Denis expressed his gratitude for their help in dealing with the skeletons, and he turned to go back to the house, but Silvestre stopped him.
–Can I stay here at the dig, Dad, and watch what they do? This is really interesting. I won’t get in the way.â€
Denis directed an inquiring look toward Mr. Newcombe.
–It’s fine for the lad to stay,†the archaeologist said. –We’ll find work for him to do.â€
–Yes, stick with me,†one of the young men said. –We’ll turn you into a bone-digger too.â€
Silvestre’s face lit up and he held out a hand to the young man.
–Hi. I’m Silvestre Paridelle.â€
–Nigel Bartlett,†the young man answered.
–Do you get paid to do this, Nigel?†Silvestre asked.
–Nah, only the professionals, like Tony, get paid,†Nigel answered. –English Heritage is a part of the government; your taxes are paying for this, but most of us are volunteers.â€
–Yes,†said one of the older women, laughing. –We do it for love.â€
–And for university credit,†Nigel added.
Denis went back to the house.
At noon Silvestre appeared in the dining room for lunch with his mother and father.
–It’s really interesting, Dad. They set up long tables by the edge of the dig, and as they lift the bones out they photograph them and write everything down and lay them on the table. They also sift the dirt through sieves to find any tiny objects, and they’re letting me do that.â€
He interrupted his monologue briefly to take a few bites of food and then continued.
–There’s more than one skeleton. They had to set up more tables. I don’t know how far they will have to go.â€
–It sounds as if you’ve found a new hobby,†his mother said, and an amused smile played across her face.
–I don’t know about digging up everyone’s skeletons,†Silvestre said, shaking his head, –but these are our skeletons. You know what? One of them was wearing a ring.â€
He hastily finished his lunch and stood up from the table, although his parents were still eating.
–May I be excused? I’d like to go back and get back to work.â€
–Of course,†his mother Aurelie said, and Silvestre bolted out the door.
–I haven’t seen him so enthused in a long time,†she remarked.
–It’s a mystery,†Denis answered, taking a sip of his tea. –Kids love a mystery. It fires their imagination.â€
Later in the afternoon, as the shadows were beginning to lengthen, Denis walked out to the excavation site again. The work seemed to be winding up for the day. No one was down in the pit, and there were five long tables lined up on the grass.
–We found five skeletons,†Mr. Newcombe told Denis as he approached, –and a few pieces of metal jewelry and clothes-fastening devices. These two are male,†he said, pointing to the individual skeletons. –You can tell by the shape of the pelvis and the mass of the jawbone and brow ridges on the skull. These two are female, and this one is a child.†He pointed to the other skeletons, and Denis stared at the bones, fascinated. All these dead people.
Back at Denis’ study in the manor house, Mr. Newcombe told Denis, –The metal objects appear to date the remains to the High Middle Ages, but radiocarbon dating can provide a more exact determination, if you wish to do it.â€
–I do,†Denis said, nodding his head. –It’s important to know if these people were our ancestors.â€
Mr. Newcombe regarded him with surprise, and Denis continued, –Our family entered England from France with the Norman Conquest and has lived in this locale in Wiltshire ever since. It is possible that bodies buried on this land are members of our family.â€
–But Dad,†Silvestre said, turning to his father, –our ancestors are all buried in the mausoleum, not in the dirt. Are some of them missing?â€
–You have a family mausoleum?†the archaeologist asked.
–Yes, we do,†Denis said. –It was built very early in our tenure of this land and has been added to over the centuries. All the Paridelles in the direct line of inheritance have been laid to rest there, and no, Silvestre, I’m not aware that any have gone missing. I believe that everyone in the family line is accounted for.â€
–If you wish to know whether these skeletal remains are perhaps members of your extended family, a DNA analysis could be done. That could shed some light on the question of consanguinity.†Mr. Newcombe opened his small field notebook to a blank page and picked up his pen.
–What’s that?†Silvestre asked.
–That means whether you and these people are blood relatives. We can probably extract DNA from the skeletal teeth and compare it with your DNA. If they are similar, it suggests that you are related.â€
–From my teeth?†Silvestre said, shrinking back a little.
–No,†said the archaeologist, chuckling. –From a cheek swab. And we don’t need a sample from you, son, just from your father. Unless, Mr. Paridelle,†he said, turning to Denis, –your own father is still living.â€
–No,†Denis answered, shaking his head. –He is not.†His father’s remains were in the family mausoleum, in the company of all his forebears back to the reign of King William I.
.
–Are you going to do the test, Dad?†Silvestre asked. He leaned in his chair toward his father, and his face was lit up with eagerness.
–Yes, I will,†Denis said. –If these people were just peasants, we’ll rebury their bones in the churchyard. But if they’re our relatives, we’ll have to decide what to do.â€
–Even if they were not your relatives, they may not have been peasants,†Mr. Newcombe said. –The jewelry suggests they were members of the upper class. There is another test that we can do on the bones that can reveal the kind of diet they ate, whether it was mainly plant-based or contained a fair amount of meat, which would suggest greater wealth.â€
–Let’s just start with the first test,†Denis said, –and see where we go from there.†Mr. Newcombe made some notes in his field notebook. Denis relaxed back into his chair. At least the skeletons were not victims of his grandfather’s Nazi sympathies. Now they were just curiosities.
Two months later, as the summer wore on and the apples were ripening in the Paridelles’ orchard, Mr. Newcombe returned to the Paridelle manor in his little Morris car and parked it on the gravel drive in front of the house and was shown into the the study by the maidservant.
Denis, his wife Aurelie, and son Silvestre were there to meet him. Denis arose as Mr. Newcombe entered and shook his hand He introduced the archaeologist to his wife and offered him a seat. They chatted for a few minutes about the lovely weather, and Mr. Newcombe inquired about the progress of the building project which had been interrupted by the discovery of the skeletons. Aurelie offered the guest some tea and rang for a servant.
Then, taking a large brown envelope from his briefcase, Mr. Newcombe said, –I am sure you are eager to hear the results of the tests. First, the dating. The date we came up with for the skeletons was 1290, give or take about a decade. As for the DNA tests, we were very fortunate to get good, usable DNA from the skeletal teeth. But the DNA showed no match with your DNA. These people were not your ancestors, but they do share genetic characteristics with the population of northern France. You, on the other hand, Mr. Paridelle, share genetic markers with the population of Iceland.â€
–Iceland?†Denis was stunned. –You must be mistaken.â€
–No, it is not a mistake,†Mr. Newcombe said. –The Icelandic population is highly inbred and its genome is well known. There is no question. You are the descendant of Icelanders.â€
Denis continued sitting bolt upright in his chair, staring at the visitor, then turning to stare at his son. Silvestre rose to his feet and said, –Look at us, Dad. Tall, blond, with long, thin faces. We don’t look French. Those skeletons we dug up — they were short.â€
–We were French,†Denis said slowly. –Then suddenly we were Icelandic.†He felt dazed. –How? There’s no break in the line; they’re all in the mausoleum.â€
–Dad, we’ve got Frenchmen buried in the dirt and Icelanders sitting in the hall. What does that tell you? Tall, blond Paridelles? We’ve got to look at those skeletons in the tombs, see when they suddenly got tall.†Silvestre spoke forcefully, almost desperately, and the look on his face was deadly serious.
Silvestre’s words hung in the air as Denis attempted to marshall his thoughts and Aurelie remained silent but wide-eyed. Mr. Newcombe waited, glancing back and forth at the Paridelle family members as if to let the startling news sink in, and then a maidservant appeared.
Aurelie turned to the servant briefly and said in a tight voice, –Please bring tea and biscuits for our guest,†and the servant disappeared.
–Dad,†Silvestre said, –how about it?â€
–Wait a minute, Silvestre,†his father said, gripping the arms of his chair. –I have no intention of disturbing our family tombs. There has been enough disturbance already. So just forget about it.â€
But Silvestre would not be deterred. –If you don’t open them, then when I’m an old man and you’re dead, I will do it. So we might as well look at them now. Don’t you want to know?â€
–What are you proposing? Why do you want to open the tombs?†Aurelie asked her son. She was making little fluttering motions with her fingers, then glanced down at them and they became still again.
Silvestre sat down next to his mother on the little brocade settee and looked into her eyes. –Mum,†he said gently, –this gentleman has told us that Dad and I aren’t French like we always thought. We’re Icelandic. And that’s probably not because the original Paridelles sold their land to Icelandic invaders. Even if the Paridelles did sell their land, they wouldn’t have sold their name too.â€
She stared at him –And so you want to open the tombs…â€
He finished her sentence. –To measure the skeletons. To see when the French Paridelles ended and the Icelandic Paridelles began. To see if it was maybe around 1290.â€
Mr. Newcombe joined the conversation again. –If you do decide to open the tombs, there are a couple of other tests that could be helpful to understand this situation. We could compare the DNA of the recently unearthed skeletons with that of the oldest individual of the Paridelle line — would that be someone in the eleventh century? — to try to establish a genetic link. And if, as you seem to suspect,†giving a nod to Silvestre, –that there will be an obvious disparity between the French Paridelles and the Icelandic Paridelles, as you call them, we can test the isotopes of certain elements in the bones of the first Icelandic-looking skeleton. This can tell us whether he grew up drinking the water of Iceland or the water here in Wiltshire.â€
This isn’t helping, Denis thought in anguish. Everything he suggests is just dragging us further down this path that I don’t want to go on. Let’s just bury the damned skeletons in the churchyard and be done with it.
–Those would be good tests,†Silvestre said, addressing the archaeologist.
–Why are you so bent on knowing?†Denis exclaimed to his son, starting to rise from his chair. –What are you going to do? Locate the last living descendants of the Paridelles in France and give it all back to them? And then what? Go back to Iceland and move in with your long-lost relatives?â€
–I don’t know, Dad,†Silvestre said in a strained voice. –But if our ancestors were thieves and murderers, then what does that make us? The descendants of thieves and murderers? We can’t just let this go.â€
There was a tap on the door of the study, and the maid entered with the tray which held a teapot, cups, milk, sugar, and biscuits.
–Just set it down here, Doris,†Aurelie said, patting the table beside her. The maid placed the tray on the table and silently left the room.
–Would you like some tea, Mr. Newcombe?†she asked. As she poured tea for all of them, Denis began to speak again, more calmly.
–Even if it were not true, if there had been no Icelandic invaders and we were really French, what does that mean? That we just push the thievery and murder back a few centuries, to the time when King William and his followers established themselves here and pushed out the former owners? Thievery and probably murder in the eleventh century? Our family’s hands are still stained, in any case. Usurpers who were themselves later usurped.†He sighed. –That was a long time ago. No one’s family is entirely free of sin. It’s too late to atone for the sins of our ancestors.â€
–But it’s not too late to know the truth,†Silvestre said.
–What is truth?†asked Pilate,†Denis thought. Do you really need to know about your family’s links to the Nazis? God, no. I will spare him that, at least for a while. But it’s known, and someday he will know it too.
The biscuits lay untouched on the plate. The only sound in the room was the steady tick-tick-tick of the antique French clock on the mantel of the large fireplace behind the oak desk.
Eventually Aurelie spoke softly. –If I were leaving my old life and my old identity behind forever, taking a new name, a new home, and a new identity, even a new line of ancestors, I would keep something as a remembrance of who I used to be, some little thing to remind me of who I really was, deep down inside. I would not be able to just let it all go and be forgotten.†She glanced around the room for a few seconds, taking in all the little items of decoration on the walls and shelves. –Maybe if what you suggest is true, Silvestre, then there must have been something they saved, a little statue, an artifact, something with significance that only they knew. I’m not saying it would have ‘We are the Karlson family from Iceland’ carved on it, but it wouldn’t look French. It would have the essence of Iceland in it.†She looked around at them. –Don’t you think?â€
Denis was suddenly struck with a feeling of empathy for these distant people, if they existed, who were looking back with longing for their homeland, even as they violently embraced an entirely new life as entirely new beings. I would have saved something too, he thought. They were losing the only ancestry they had ever known. I am doing the same, losing the only ancestry I knew.
–If there is such a thing,†he said, –they would have passed it down from generation to generation as their most prized heirloom, until the memory of what it actually was had faded away.â€
–What do you suppose it was?†Silvestre asked the archaeologist.
–It could have been something with religious significance, or a deep cultural link to Iceland. Something small, easy to carry or conceal. Not something mundane like boots or clothes; they might not have survived anyway. Leather and textiles are perishable. Maybe jewelry. Scandinavian design is distinctive. Something made of stone or bone or metal.â€
–Or wood?†Silvestre asked. –Would wood survive?â€
–Under favorable conditions, yes. And a wooden artifact could be identified as to the species of wood and where it grew. And it could be carbon dated.â€
Silvestre turned to his father and said, –Dad, is there something like that? Do we have some odd family artifact that doesn’t quite fit? Some weird thing that’s our most precious heirloom? Or do you suppose it was finally just thrown away?â€
–It wouldn’t have been thrown away,†his father said. –The Paridelles don’t throw anything away.†That was true. The manor was liberally decorated with silver plates and cups that were never used, ancient weapons that hung on the walls but were never wielded, a suit of armor unworn for centuries. And in cupboards and chests in rarely used rooms were more things that he could not even bring to mind. The Paridelles had never been reduced to selling their possessions. The manor house had never been ransacked or burned. Such a thing might still exist somewhere.
–Here is the report of what we determined concerning the five skeletons we retrieved and the tests we did. We did not see signs of violence on the bones themselves and were not able to determine a cause of death. Perhaps that will be of some satisfaction to you.â€
–Poison, suffocation, smoke inhalation, blood loss…†Silvestre began reciting until his father shut him up with a stern look.
The archaeologist stood up and the Paridelle family did too.
–Let me know if you decide to open the tombs someday. We can help you assess what you find in them, estimate the heights or other familial characteristics of the bones, add a new page to history,†Mr. Newcombe said.
–Yes, well, thank you very much,†Denis said, shaking Mr. Newcombe’s hand. –You’ve given us much to think about. We’ll let you know.†He saw their guest to the door, and when it was shut again, he turned back to his family.
–You’re going to do it, aren’t you, Dad?†Silvestre said.
–I said I’d think about it.â€
–Then I’ll start looking for some odd Icelandic artifact right away. School doesn’t start again for a month.â€
His mother laughed. –A month of searching would hardly make a dent in all the cubbyholes and cupboards and boxes there are in this place.â€
–Then help me look.â€
–Your father is much too busy to go on a wild goose chase, sweetheart,†Aurelie said. –I’ll help you look, since it was my idea, I’m afraid.â€
No, Denis thought, he should look too. She had only married into the Paridelle family, but he was the Paridelle by blood. If the Icelandic heirloom existed, he would know it when he saw it. Something would call to him from down through the centuries. It would say, This is who you are.
He left the study and began walking down the hall, looking at the portraits that lined the walls and continued up the side of the stairway at the end of the hall leading to the upper floors. The oldest of these portraits dated from the fifteenth century. Denis had always taken much comfort and satisfaction in seeing these pictures, his family line stretching so far back, as if all these long-deceased persons were clustered around him and protecting him, all members of the same team, all with their feet rooted in the soil of this corner of Wiltshire, without which he would be nothing, adrift like a tiny jellyfish in the vastness of the ocean, unknown, unnoticed, unconnected to anything.
Are we all frauds? he silently asked the faces in the long line of portraits. How many generations does it take to wipe out our sins, how many centuries until we can say that we have gained the right to be here? How long until we are forgiven? Can I ever be a Paridelle?
The next morning Silvestre appeared at the breakfast tabs with a sheaf of papers in his hand.
–I’ve got it all figured out,†he announced cheerfully. –It’s like they did when they were digging up the skeletons. They divided the area into grids and excavated each square, writing down exactly what they found in each area. So I have made a series of maps of all the rooms in the house, and we can go through them one by one, writing down what we find and where.â€
–That’s going to be a huge job, sweetheart,†his mother said. –Did you include the attic rooms and the cellars?â€
–Oh, Lord,†Silvestre groaned. –I forgot the cellars. I pray there’s nothing down there.â€
The manservant came into the dining room carrying a large tray of covered silver dishes and set it on the sideboard. After he had dished out eggs, mushrooms, fish, and toast and had placed the plates in front of the Paridelles, Silvestre waited for his mother to pick up her fork and then spoke again.
–I’ve thought about this seriously, and I’m just going to start at the top and work my way down, opening every box and chest and cupboard in every room, listing what I find and separating out anything that’s a possibility.â€
This is so like him, Denis thought. He gets an idea and doesn’t let go. Heaven help anyone who gets in his way.
–After breakfast, let’s go up and see what you need.â€
They needed stepladders and electric torches. They needed clipboards and pens. They needed infinite patience. The attic rooms held old cupboards and wardrobes, wooden boxes and chests, rolled-up carpets, miscellaneous unused furniture, the flotsam and jetsam of generations. One by one Silvestre opened them up, unrolling wrappings and emptying bags, inventorying the contents in lists of ever briefer description, then repacking the contents and taping a numbered label on the box, chest, or wardrobe. Everything was covered with dust, and most of it smelled musty. Sometimes his mother joined him and occasionally Denis did also, when he could spare the time, but this project was clearly Silvestre’s.
A week passed, and to Denis’ astonishment Silvestre did not slacken his efforts. They found plain candlesticks, pewter plates, napkin rings, a great quantity of old books and written records, decorative wall ornaments and mirrors, paper weights, old fabric items that shredded at a touch, vases, small weapons, unremarkable jewelry, old surveying instruments, a telescope, cups, tankards, platters, a box of surgical instruments, a few toys, moth-eaten stuffed birds, and on and on. Silvestre finally stopped writing inventories of what he found, though he still labeled the chests to indicate that they had been opened and searched.
–Maybe even the Paridelles should think of throwing some things away,†Aurelie said as she held up a stuffed bird that had lost almost all its feathers and was a uniform gray-brown in color. –I’m certain that in the future I will look back on this project as one of the dafter things I ever did in my life. And the dirtiest.â€
–Mum, you’re a saint,†Silvestre answered as he continued lifting small items, one by one, out of a chest. Nothing looked in the least Icelandic.
Denis appeared in the doorway.
–Are you two treasure-hunters going to come downstairs pretty soon?†he asked.
–Yeah, Dad,†Silvestre said, turning his face from the chest he was unloading. –We’re almost done with this room, and then we’ll have done all the attic rooms. You want to help us? There’s just that one box left, and then we can write finis to the whole top storey.†He pointed to a long wooden box against the wall near the door.
Denis sighed, stepped up to the box, and tugged on the lid.
–Give me a hand here, son,†he said, and together the two men wrenched the lid off and leaned it against the wall. Denis knelt down on the floor and began lifting the contents out, little bundles of fabric wrapping seemingly ordinary objects. Why did anyone save this? he wondered.
He reached down and picked up the next item, a yellowed canvas bag holding something hard. Out of the bag he pulled a narrow box of light-colored wood with little brass hinges on one side. He lifted the lid of the little box and saw a bundle of old, ivory-colored woolen fabric. There is something in here, he thought. He reached his hand into the little box and closed his fingers around the woolen bundle. It wasn’t heavy. Whatever was inside didn’t weigh much.
Denis carefully unrolled the fabric and beheld a piece of light-colored wood, like the wood of the box, but long, thin and tapered, not quite a foot long. The thicker end was finely carved in a pattern of narrow interwoven bands, within which he saw a T-shaped figure that he recognized as Thor’s hammer. The very end was a tiny dragon’s head with gaping jaws.
Denis froze. His breath was stifled. This is it. This is the thing they saved. He stared, unmoving, unblinking. It wasn’t a child’s toy. It wasn’t a curio picked up from a passing Norseman. It had no material value of gold leaf or embedded jewels.
He felt as if a giant hand was pressing down on him. This only had been lacking. Now he could not deny.
The dragon’s head stared back at him as the artifact lay on his woolen-covered palm. With the fingers of his other hand he carefully picked it up. Of all the lands and goods that surround me, he thought, this is the only thing I truly own.
–Aurelie! Silvestre!â€
There was a touch of autumn in the air, and outside, the leaves on the trees were beginning to turn yellow, and a few had already fallen to the ground. In the Paridelle family mausoleum, the group was assembled: Denis, Aurelie, and Silvestre Paridelle, and Tony Newcombe and Thomas Drumley from English Heritage. They had brought floodlights on tripod stands and a couple of small machines that acted as jacks for lifting heavy stone coffin lids.
Standing next to his parents, Silvestre asked, –How did they move these heavy stone coffins and lids in the old days, without modern machinery?â€
–With lots of ropes and lots of manpower,†replied Mr. Drumley, a thin, dark-haired man. –They were good engineers with wooden frames, pulleys, and so on. They could hoist things and lower them down easily. They just needed enough arms on the ropes.â€
–Yes, they were as smart as we are,†Mr. Newcombe added. –If we met them today and could speak the same language, they would be our good friends, even though they lived in a culture very different from ours.â€
Denis stood calmly, nodding his head in agreement with the archaeologists’ words. He was positioned so close to his wife that he could hold her hand without its being noticed. With the advice of Mr. Newcombe, they had decided to open, not the oldest coffin, but the coffin of Sir Arnulf Paridelle, who had died in 1210, because Sir Arnulf had been closer in time to the unknown persons who had died around 1290, and therefore possibly more closely related to them, but hopefully still old enough to be one of the French Paridelles.
The two archaeologists carefully positioned the jacks at each end of the stone coffin and used crowbars to lift each end of the lid a little and slip the teeth of the jacks under the lid. Then bit by bit the lid was raised a few inches so that broad yellow fabric straps could be threaded under it and the ends fastened to the crossbar of a metal frame that had been assembled around the coffin, suspending the lid above the coffin walls by the straps. The frame was on wheels, and with pushing effort they rolled it away from the sarcophagus, carrying the lid with it.
Mr. Newcombe had warned the Paridelles that the coffin might not contain a recognizable skeleton, but simply bone dust.
–There are micro-organisms that break down bone itself,†he had told them. –For instance, Christopher Columbus is now mostly dust. Forensic archaeologists had difficulty in extracting DNA from the few fragments that were left.â€
So Denis held his breath as the stone coffin lid was slowly rolled aside. He saw a skull, then arms, ribs, pelvis, legs, feet. It was all there. He exhaled in relief and then moved forward for a closer look.
The jaw of the skeleton was gaping open. I suppose that can’t be helped, Denis thought. Even if they tie the jaw closed, it all decays eventually. He glanced at the empty eye sockets and tried to imagine a face with flesh and hair and a beard, eyelids closed serenely. He could almost see it. The skeleton had a decorative chain around its neck and, on the hands folded across the chest, there were two rings on the fingers. The skeleton looked short, maybe five feet six inches tall, no taller than Aurelie.
Sir Arnulf, he thought, what have we done?
After they had all gazed at the skeleton for a few minutes, Mr. Newcombe said, –With your permission, we will photograph the remains, take measurements, and draw a tooth for DNA analysis, as we discussed.â€
–Wait a minute,†Silvestre said. –It’s not just a skeleton; it’s my family.â€
–Certainly,†Mr. Newcombe said.
Silvestre stepped up to the side of the coffin and placed his hands on the rim, addressing the bones that lay in the bright light of the floodlamps.
–Hello, sir. Up until now I would have called you my twenty-greats grandfather, and I would have said, ‘Here is your twenty-greats grandson to greet you.’ Before this summer I never doubted the link between you and me. I was proud of you, and I hoped that, wherever you were, you were proud of me. That you thought we brought honor to the name of Paridelle. Now I don’t know what to say. I just want you to know that, whatever the tests say, you will always be my twenty-greats grandfather anyway.â€
His voice was shaking a little on the final words, and he stepped back to the side of his mother, who put her arm around him, her boy who was taller than she was, and hugged him close.
Then Denis took a step forward to the edge of the coffin, inclined his blond head over it, and searched the skeletal face with his glacier-blue eyes.
–We have preserved your land and your name without stain, Sir Arnulf, and now we are trying to set history aright. There is nothing we can do to undo what was done. We can only try to go forward with honor. After all these years, can you forgive us?â€
He wanted to grasp the skeleton’s hand, but he had seen that the archaeologists wore latex gloves, and he assumed that he should not touch the skeleton with his bare hands and contaminate it with his own DNA. So he held his hand a fraction of an inch above the skeletal hand, at about the level where the flesh would have been before it all decayed. Mr. Newcombe and Mr. Drumley said nothing. Finally Denis pulled his hand back and rejoined his wife and son.
–Dad,†Silvestre asked, –are we going to bury the skeletons we found here in the mausoleum too?â€
–If they are descendants of Sir Arnulf, we’ll have to do it, even if we don’t know all their names.â€
–We can paint their portraits and hang them in the hall,†Silvestre continued.
–How?†asked Denis, surprised and puzzled by his son’s suggestion.
–I’ve seen it on the telly. They can reconstruct people’s faces by molding clay around the skulls and adding hair and glass eyes and so on, to see what they looked like when they were alive.†Silvestre motioned with his hands to imitate a clay sculpture being made. –They do it for ancient skeletons. We could do it for the skeletons we dug up, and then have a portrait painted.†He fixed his gaze on his father’s face, eyebrows raised in a pleading expression.
Denis turned to the archaeologists. –Is this true?â€
–If you wish to pay for it,†Mr. Drumley answered.
–You mean it’s not free?†Silvestre asked.
–No, dear,†his mother said. –Your father is paying for all these tests.â€
–Oh,†said Silvestre in a subdued voice.
–We’ll see, son,†Denis said, clapping Silvestre on the shoulder. –It’s an interesting idea. But one thing at a time.â€
He turned back to the archaeologists and nodded at them, indicating that they could begin to do their work.
After they had finished with this skeleton and had replaced the coffin lid, they would carry their equipment to the coffin of the first Paridelle to die after 1290, Sir Roland Paridelle, who had died in 1315. Denis no longer doubted what they would find—a taller skeleton with a long, thin face, an Icelandic genome in its teeth, and Icelandic water in its bones.
What would he say to this blood ancestor? Sir Arnulf has forgiven us, and I forgive you. I don’t know what your original name was, or why you came here. But we have found the thing you saved, the thing that was precious to you. We will keep it safe, because you are family too. This name, this estate, it belongs to all of us now.
He murmured to Aurelie, –I’m going to step out for a moment and get some fresh air.â€
–I’ll come with you,†she said.
They left Silvestre still fascinated with the scientific work being done and went out throughout the heavy metal doors of the mausoleum into the sunlight. After the gloomy stone walls of the mausoleum, the rows of stone coffins, and the harsh light of the floodlamps, it was good to see the bright blue sky and the warm glow of the sun on the green-leafed trees and the grasslands stretching out into the distance. The air was clear, with a slight breeze, and smelled of oak trees and damp earth.
–Our family has suddenly become a lot bigger,†Aurelie observed.
Denis nodded and put his arm around his wife’s waist, pulling her close.
–That’s okay,†he said. –There’s room for all of us here.â€