Page 60 of Whispers at Dusk
“So indignant,” Mason teased.
“Well, I am indignant for him!” Della said. “There were two earls of Orkney at the time, and they ruled peaceably enough for a while, but their men started having a problem. To me, it sounds as if Haakon was ready to solve the issue. They were to meet on another island with only two ships each. Instead, Haakon brought a fleet! Magnus spent a night in a church but was treacherously taken the next day. And one of Haakon’s men refused to execute Magnus, so Haakon’s cook was ordered to kill him with an axe. So, of course, Haakon became earl, but Magnus was first buried where he was murdered. Then his mother asked that he be laid in a church, but that church had been built on awful stony ground and water seeped in, and the place was filled with mold and the foundations turned green—not a great place for honoring anyone with prayer. Then, finally, when the cathedral here was erected in his honor, his remains were brought here and work crews in the last century found them in a pillar and returned them. Oh! The bishop at the time had refused to have the body moved at first. Then he went blind, according to legend, and only when he prayed through Magnus did he get his vision back. So, this poor guy is murdered and his remains went back and forth, so it seems.”
“I know the story,” Mason assured her, “and heck. Can’t hurt. You’re right. Maybe we’ll find someone.”
They walked down Broad Street. The cathedral truly dominated the skyline of Kirkwall, and there was certainly no difficulty finding it.
“Actually, or technically, it’s not a cathedral anymore,” Mason said as they neared the edifice. “It’s a parish church of the Presbyterian Church of Scotland and belongs to the people of Kirkwall—due to an act by James III when the Orkneys officially became part of Scotland.”
Della glanced at him, bemused. “How do you know all this history?” she asked him. “It was always a passion for me. I have a cousin who was truly fascinated with my grandparents when we were little, and he made me read everything in the world to him that had anything to do with Vikings and Norway, but...eh?”
He grinned. “I’m just a great historian.”
“Really?”
“No. Google,” he told her.
She laughed softly.
“I always liked history, too. And my family traces back to the British Isles at some point—though I think someone married someone from everywhere in the years since, but—every time there is a great historic series on cable, I get it in my head to look up what really happened.”
“You watch television?” she teased.
“Well, sadly, I don’t golf.”
It was Della’s turn to laugh but she fell silent as she looked ahead.
They were coming to the cathedral, which was open daily. Throughout its history, it had been both Catholic and Protestant, and there were signs assuring the public that anyone of any faith was welcome.
Just like the beauty of the nature around her when she had stood in the stone circle, the majesty of the cathedral touched Della. She knew it was built of red and yellow sandstone, and it’d taken three hundred years to build with major additions even after. Throughout the years of building, there had been rumors of miracles associated with Saint Magnus. To stand at the entry beneath the massive arches and the Romanesque and Gothic features was amazing.
“I’m going to light a candle,” she told Mason.
“I’ll light one, too, for our victims,” he said softly.
She nodded and for a minute felt somber.
They then headed outside to the churchyard.
Like the cathedral itself, it was old, with the graves spanning the centuries.
“There are some amazing souls resting here,” Mason said. He was looking at his phone. He looked at her and said, “I downloaded the app.”
“Oh, cool!” she told him. “Good idea.”
“You know many people are actually interred in the church—or kirk,” Mason said.
“Right. But out here...”
She looked around. There were many stones, most seeming to have been erected in the fourteenth to the seventeenth centuries. There were several freestanding sarcophagi as well, and numerous angels and memorials.
“Anyone?” she asked Mason softly. “I know the famous explorer, John Rae, is buried here. The man discovered the northwest passage in Canada. And, of course, every old churchyard has its famous denizens. I was just hoping for...” She let her voice trail.
“Orkney has to be haunted, right?”
She grimaced. “Well, Edinburgh is, and Stirling, and...”
“The little cemetery in no-name America,” he said softly. “It just depends on if a man or woman feels he or she needs to stay!”
