The Lost Book of the Grail

by Charlie Lovett

  Arthur smiled as he observed David and Oscar experience the digressive powers of Bethany’s monologues.

  “Will you be reading from the beginning?” said David, apparently sensing an opening and a chance to get Bethany back on course.

  “Almost,” said Bethany. “It’s a scene in the prologue where Angela and her friend Constance have just finished their studies at Cambridge—women’s colleges were a novelty in 1882, but I guess you know that. That’s when the book was published, 1882. Oh, and it’s by Walter Besant and it’s called All Sorts and Conditions of Men—I thought Arthur and Oscar at least would appreciate that the title comes from your prayer book. And I love the subtitle: An Impossible Story.”

  “And will you . . .” ventured Oscar.

  “Yes, I’ll read,” said Bethany. “I just needed to ramble breathlessly on for a minute so Arthur would know it was really me.” With this comment, Bethany winked at Arthur, who could not suppress a smile, and then she read.

  The two women were talking about themselves and their own lives, and what they were to do each with that one life which happened, by the mere accident of birth, to belong to herself. It must be a curious subject for reflection in extreme old age, when everything has happened that is going to happen, including rheumatism, that, but for this accident, one’s life might have been so very different.

  ‘Because, Angela,’ said the one who wore spectacles, ‘we have but this one life before us, and if we make mistakes with it, or throw it away, or waste it, or lose our chances, it is such a dreadful pity. Oh, to think of those girls who drift and let every chance go by, and get nothing out of their lives at all—except babies’ (she spoke of babies with great contempt). ‘Oh! it seems as if every moment were precious: oh! It is a sin to waste an hour of it. Yes, my dear, all my life, short or long, shall be given to science. I will have no love in it, or marriage, or—or—anything of that kind at all.’

  ‘Nor will I,’ said the other stoutly, yet with apparent effort. ‘Marriage spoils a woman’s career; we must live our life to its utmost, Constance.’

  Arthur did not hear much after this—or at least he did not comprehend much after this. He heard Bethany’s voice—a different voice from what he had heard before. As she read she seemed less . . . well, less American, and less sure of being right. Her voice sounded more musical and less abrasive—like the difference between a perfectly rehearsed choir and an egotistical soloist. Arthur briefly considered the question posed by the beginning of the passage—did marriage ruin a woman’s career?—but decided it had been answered in the negative long ago. And so he allowed his mind to empty and his body to relax, lulled by Bethany’s reading.

  When Arthur excused himself to go to Compline, David, Oscar, and Bethany were still talking about Bethany’s digitization project. Arthur had remained largely silent through the evening—his distaste for what Bethany was doing in the library prevented his speaking politely on the topic, and as he seemed to be outnumbered, for Oscar and David showed nothing but enthusiasm for Bethany’s work, he decided it best to hold his peace. With a sense of resignation, he slid into his usual seat in the Epiphany Chapel. The precentor was leading Compline that evening, and he gave a perfunctory nod to Arthur as he entered the chapel. Always punctual, the precentor began the service as the last nine o’clock bell was still reverberating. Arthur was the only other soul present.

  “The Lord Almighty grant us a peaceful night and a perfect end,” chanted the precentor.

  Arthur replied, with more feeling than usual, “Amen.” As the short service progressed, he thought how much easier life would be if worship at the cathedral were more than just a comforting rhythm, more than lovely music and sonorous words. If only he believed in the underlying foundation of it all. And then the precentor reached that familiar and colorful phrase—your adversary the devil prowls about like a roaring lion—and Arthur thought, yes. There is something I can believe. The devil may not be prowling around this cathedral like a roaring lion, but Bethany Davis certainly is.

  V

  THE TOWER

  The central tower of the cathedral is of late Norman construction, but the graceful spire that sits atop that solid base is considerably later. Originally, a wooden spire topped the tower, but this was destroyed by fire sometime early in the fourteenth century. The tower sat without adornment for nearly fifty years, before a stone-clad spire was constructed. Most of the sculptures that once adorned the tower were pulled down at the Reformation or in the years that followed.

  A.D. 950, St. Ewolda’s Monastery

  Eadweard knelt before the altar of the monastic church, his face illuminated by a beam of moonlight that shone through one of the narrow windows overhead. He felt the task before him should be done in the most holy place possible—on the altar of the church. At this hour of night, he was safe from the prying eyes of the other monks. He prayed that he might perform his work with skill and accuracy.

  He had spent thirty years as Guardian. Soon after Leofwine had passed the responsibility to him, his fellow monk had died peacefully in his sleep. The early years of his guardianship had been quiet ones, with no threats coming from Glastonbury or anywhere else. Eadweard had eventually risen to the post of abbot, and his daily responsibilities had almost made him forget his job as Guardian. But then the enthusiastic new abbot of Glastonbury, Dunstan, began rebuilding the abbey church in that place and soon emissaries arrived at Barchester asking about a treasure from Glastonbury hidden at St. Ewolda’s in the years of the Viking invasions. Three times Eadweard had moved the treasure, and three times had he denied its existence. Most recently, Dunstan himself had come, ostensibly to talk with Eadweard about establishing the Benedictine rule at Barchester as Dunstan had done in Glastonbury. Even the great abbot had asked about the lost treasure, and when Eadweard had disavowed any knowledge of it, Dunstan had departed and promised that Glastonbury would pester Barchester no more. Eadweard felt confident that Dunstan believed the treasure was nothing but a myth and, for now at least, the secret would remain safe.

  Tonight, Eadweard turned his attention to another problem. He had worried for many years about the condition of the document with which Leofwine had entrusted him so long ago. Even then it had been difficult to read without the help of bright sunlight, and the corners of the folds had created holes in the parchment. Eadweard feared that the next Guardian might not be able to read every word. He had memorized the text within hours of first reading it, which made his task tonight easier.

  As abbot, he had control over the paltry resources of the monastery, and it had been a simple matter for him to obtain a fresh piece of parchment. He had insisted on a well-prepared sheet—thin, gleaming white, and well scraped of hairs. Eadweard had spent a lifetime handling the few books that belonged to the impoverished monastery—the founder’s book, the service book, a Psalter, and the Gospels. Just that morning he had read from the pages of a newly transcribed Gospel of John—a treasure created by one of his own monks, but financed by a local landowner who wished to make penance for some unnamed sin. As he had turned those fresh parchment pages, and as he ran his hand across the blank sheet before him now, Eadweard marveled that the sheep and cattle and goats in the fields surrounding the monastery could be transformed into such a beautiful and durable writing surface. St. Ewolda’s had small enough need for parchment that none of the brothers were trained in the technique of cleaning, curing, and scraping the animal hides, but when an animal was slaughtered, the monks often sold the skin to the merchant who had provided Eadweard with the piece of vellum now on the altar. Beside it lay the faded, worn document that Eadweard had kept hidden for so many years.

  Finishing his prayers, Eadweard rose and stood at the altar. His script was far from beautiful, but he could write legibly. The text he must copy tonight was not long and he had at least four hours before the disappearance of the moon would signal that brothers would soon arrive to prepare the altar f
or Prime. He lit a taper, placed it on the altar, and, in the mixture of the warm candlelight and the cold moonlight, began to write.

  Well before dawn, his work was done. Being sure that the ink was fully dry, he folded the new parchment and slipped it within his robes. The original document he placed in a chalice he had set on the altar for this purpose. He held the flame of the candle to its corner and watched as the glow slowly spread to the vellum. The flames leaped up and the fire flared and then died as the precious words were consumed. When he was sure nothing remained but ash, he carefully transferred the contents of the chalice to a small phial. This he set in a niche in the wall next to the altar. For the day that dawned was Ash Wednesday. In a few hours, Eadweard would strew these ashes on the heads of the monks in his charge, repeating the words that reminded them of their mortality: “Remember, man, that thou art dust, and unto dust thou shalt return.”

  Eadweard would remain at St. Ewolda’s for his Lenten fast, and on Easter Sunday, after proclaiming the glorious Resurrection of Christ the Savior, he would appoint a new Guardian. With the mantle of responsibility lifted, he would leave St. Ewolda’s. He thought he might walk to the sea. He had never seen the sea, and he would like to do so before he died.

  April 21, 2016

  FEAST OF ST. ANSELM, ARCHBISHOP OF CANTERBURY

  Mist rose from the water meadows in wisps and fog clung to the riverbank, glowing in the morning sun. Arthur’s dark thoughts of the night before seemed silly in this lovely morning light. Bethany was no minion of the devil; she was here to save books, not destroy them. And she saw things Arthur had never noticed.

  “Miss Davis and I made a rather interesting discovery yesterday,” said Arthur as he and Gwyn slogged through the mud toward the river.

  “Bethany, you mean?”

  “Yes, Bethany. We discovered there is a manuscript missing from the library.”

  “Do you think we have a thief in our midst?”

  “Not likely,” said Arthur. “I imagine it’s been missing at least since the war. Bishop Gladwyn’s inventory of the manuscripts lists eighty-three and Miss Davis . . . that is, Bethany, astutely pointed out to me that the library contains only eighty-two.”

  “Well, I certainly hope you’ll find it for us, Arthur, since you don’t have anything else to do, like finish a guidebook.”

  “We’ll check the inventory to see what it is—probably nothing interesting. But one does wonder.”

  “You think it’s the lost Book of Ewolda?”

  “I doubt it’s a jewel-encrusted treasure, if that’s what you mean. More likely some dull treatise on medieval medicine.”

  “If a medieval manuscript is dull to you, Arthur, that would be saying something.”

  “I just don’t want to get my hopes up.”

  “So you intend to go looking for it?”

  “I think it’s more that Bethany intends to go looking for it and she intends to drag me along.”

  “Arthur, you can pretend you’re not excited about searching for a lost manuscript, and you can pretend you’re not . . . perhaps aroused is not quite the right word, but pleased, certainly, by the prospect of Bethany Davis joining you on the quest—but unfortunately, my friend, you’re not that good an actor.”

  “I’ll admit, the prospect of returning a missing manuscript to the library is intriguing.”

  “And the prospect of Bethany Davis?”

  But before Arthur could express any opinion on Bethany, Mag (or perhaps Nunc) came bounding out of the weeds and leaped up onto Arthur’s chest, licking him in the face and leaving muddy paw prints all over his shirt.

  “Oh, Arthur, I am sorry,” said Gwyn, suppressing giggles.

  “Not sorry enough to keep from laughing,” said Arthur with a wry smile. The dogs never jumped on him in dry weather, only when they had been romping in the mud. “I wasn’t going to wear this to work anyway.”

  The dean was by now doubled over with laughter, for the other dog had attacked, and Arthur found himself drenched in mud and drool. “So pleased I can provide for your amusement,” he said. In truth, he found the situation fairly amusing himself. “You do have them well trained.”

  “Here, take my scarf,” said Gwyn, catching her breath. “You might want to wipe your face.”

  “I’ve no intention of wiping away anything that causes you such pleasure,” said Arthur.

  “Thank you, Arthur,” said Gwyn, smiling. “It’s a true friend who sacrifices his dignity for the amusement of his walking companion. I think I’ve gone the past forty-five seconds without sparing a thought for this morning’s chapter meeting.”

  “Planning to vote on my excommunication?”

  “I’m not sure how we could excommunicate someone who never communes,” said Gwyn, “but no, it’s worse than that, I’m afraid.”

  “Money,” said Arthur grimly.

  “Money,” repeated Gwyn. “It saddens me that my job, which I thought was supposed to be about religion, is so often about money. The coffers are getting close to empty, and there is a movement afoot in the chapter to begin cutting costs and increasing income.”

  “How?” asked Arthur.

  “On the cost-cutting side one of the canons has suggested fewer vergers, fewer altar flowers, even curtailing the music program.”

  “Curtailing . . . you mean no more choir?” Arthur felt a sudden knot in the pit of his stomach at the thought of no more music at cathedral services.

  “Not that drastic, perhaps, but fewer choral scholarships, fewer sung services, maybe even making the organist part-time.”

  Arthur shook his head at this sad prospect. “And on the increasing-income side?”

  “You won’t like it,” said Gwyn, quickening her pace and looking straight ahead to where the dogs waited, panting at the gate to the close.

  “Won’t like what?” asked Arthur, taking hold of Gwyn’s wrist and pulling her to a halt.

  “There are at least four canons ready to vote today to sell off the manuscripts in the library.”

  “Sell off . . .” Arthur could not even process this information. He found himself gasping for breath. “How could they . . .”

  “Trust me Arthur, I don’t want it, and I still think we have the votes to defeat any such proposal, but the canons see a cathedral that can’t pay its bills and a collection of perhaps millions of pounds’ worth of manuscripts. They say we are a church, not a museum.”

  “Is that why Bethany . . .” Arthur could not quite form the thought.

  “There were rumblings before she came, but I do think they added one vote to their side with the knowledge that the manuscripts would be digitized—that we would still have access to their contents.”

  Arthur tried to swallow his anger. This was the sort of disaster that happened when you let meddlesome digitizers into a medieval library. “Do they know what they’re throwing away?” he said between clenched teeth.

  “They’re not throwing anything away,” said Gwyn. “If anything they’re considering selling the manuscripts to people and institutions who are better suited to care for them than we are.”

  “We have a Gospel of John,” said Arthur. “A handwritten Gospel of John that has been used in services at Barchester for over a thousand years. A thousand years! Can you even conceive of how much history, how much faith is connected to that one book? And that’s just one. What about the Barchester Breviary—that has musical settings we’ve been using for eight hundred years. We have a manuscript of medical cures that was used during the plague. We have a book on agriculture that helped the monks six hundred years ago raise the sheep that gave them the hides on which they wrote the very books that stand next to that one on the shelf. And these manuscripts have survived wars and invasion and plundering and bombing and fire—all so we can sell them when we’re a little strapped for cash. This is our history, Gwyn. Every one o
f those manuscripts is a part of Barchester, just like every organ in your body is a part of you.”

  “Arthur, I’m on your side, I promise. But if the body can’t survive, then the organs aren’t much good.”

  “You can’t let this happen,” said Arthur, gripping Gwyn’s wrist tighter. “You can’t.”

  “I don’t want to,” said Gwyn. “But if the financial situation doesn’t change, it might not be my choice anymore.”

  —

  Arthur sat in his office hoping that no one would take advantage of his presence during posted “consultation hours” to actually consult with him. On his desk lay the first book his grandfather had ever given him—a thick blue volume called The Romance of King Arthur. He could still remember unwrapping that book on Christmas morning when he was ten, peeling back the gaudy paper to reveal the luxurious blue cloth stamped in gold with the image of a feather-capped herald astride a richly adorned steed. The book was published in 1917, and Arthur couldn’t believe he could actually own such an old volume. Unlike King Arthur’s Knights, this volume was not missing its illustrations, and what entrancing images they were—lush plates with swirls of color and chapter headings in the style of medieval woodcuts, all created by the remarkable Arthur Rackham.

  “I thought it was high time you had a copy of your own,” his grandfather had said. “And not only does this have all the stories about King Arthur, but it has pictures by a man named Arthur as well, so it’s doubly appropriate for you.”