In the Time of Kings Read Online Free PDF Page B

church.
    “This is it? St. Magnus Cathedral? I’m ...” — her nose twitches — “underwhelmed.”
    I pluck the map from her hands and flip it over to the brochure side. “Says here that construction was begun in 1137 A.D. How can you be underwhelmed? Nearly nine hundred years old and it’s still standing.”
    “I just meant that it’s so plain for a cathedral. I guess I was expecting something more like Notre-Dame.”
    “Believe it or not, they were begun at roughly the same time, but Notre-Dame was designed with higher, thinner walls, which completely changes the look. The flaw in that was that its architectural limits were stretched and cracks developed, so they added the flying buttresses later out of necessity. When you consider that, St. Magnus here was actually the more practical structure and —”
    Her extended sigh tells me I’m overloading her with information. Yet how can she not find details like that fascinating? When we were kids, I was the one rushing home to my encyclopedia set to identify the water beetles we’d seen skimming across the pond; she was the one who’d lie back in the grass, stare at the clouds as they whisked overhead and tell me to stop worrying about whether they were stratus or cumulus, to just enjoy the fact that it wasn’t raining. Even as different as we are, we complement each other perfectly.
    Still, I can’t help but marvel at the sight before me. It’s a wonder they had the means to build structures like this in a time before there were power tools and heavy equipment.
    Rough sandstone blocks reflect sunlight in bands of pink and amber. Although a fairly large structure, it’s true what she said — there isn’t much fancy about it. No spindly buttresses, intricate spires or armies of perched gargoyles adorning its exterior.
    I grab her hand and pull her up the stone steps. “Let’s see what’s inside.”
    One of the massive doors is propped open, letting the faint sea breeze waft in. We stand at the threshold, dazzled by the sunshine streaming through high windows. Light spills across the tiled floor in alternating stripes of gold and shadow. Two long rows of tall, thick columns flank a central aisle where row upon row of wooden chairs face the far away altar. There, a stained glass window soars, its uppermost panes forming a rosette. The lower section of the great window is a quartet of pointed arches, each containing various stone-carved religious figures in their robes and short tunics.
    From a hidden recess comes the brogue of the Scandinavian group’s tour guide, followed by gentle murmurs and the ringing of many feet padding across the tiles. I try to listen to the guide, but her words are too muffled to make them out.
    “You see, this is when I wish we’d gone on the tour, Claire. I could’ve asked who those statues —” Suddenly, I realize I’m talking to myself. I’ve spent so long gazing at the towering arches and bulging columns and marveling at the rainbow of colors emanating from the stained glass that I didn’t notice Claire drifting down the aisle. Halfway to the altar I catch up with her. Her steps quicken.
    Abruptly, she stops in front of the altar to gaze at the trio of carved wooden statues behind it and then up at the angels and saints etched on the glass. After several minutes of her standing there in a dazed stupor, I tap her on the arm.
    Flinching, she whips her head sideways and looks at me for a second as if she doesn’t recognize me.
    “What is it?” I say.
    She shakes her head. “Nothing. Just a weird feeling. Like I’ve been here before.”
    “Yeah, well, we’re going to be here for a long time if we don’t scoot. We have less than ten minutes to get back to the ferry.”
    Her gaze drifts upward again to take in the vaulted ceiling and pointed arches between the columns. I hook a hand around her elbow and tug her toward the door, as I remind her that if we don’t make it back in time for the ferry’s departure, our