The Lost Book of the Grail

by Charlie Lovett

  “Have you prayed at the shrine of Ewolda?” asked the dean. One reason for the reconstruction of the quire was to provide a grander entrance to the shrine of the cathedral’s founder. Many miracles of healing had been attributed to Ewolda’s shrine, and she seemed to smile especially on women.

  “Every day for three days,” said Adam. “But blessed Ewolda hears me not. The fever only worsens.”

  “It grieves me to see you in such distress,” said the dean. “There is perhaps something I can do to help. I shall return anon.”

  A few minutes later, the dean returned, carrying what looked like an ancient cup of wood. The cup was brimming with fresh, clear water. “Show me to your wife,” he said.

  Adam laid aside his tools, removed his apron, and led the way through the muddy streets of Barchester to a small cottage on the edge of town. He did not remove his boots or think to apologize to the dean for the meagerness of his hospitality, so great was his urgency to avail himself of whatever help his friend might provide. In an instant, the dean was kneeling at Clarice’s bedside. Her face seemed almost translucent and her shallow breaths came at irregular intervals. She raised her eyes to Adam in question but did not speak.

  “Drink of this,” said the dean, holding the cup to her lips. Adam watched as Clarice sipped from the cup. She swallowed and drank more. Soon the cup was empty and directly Clarice fell into a slumber. “Stay with her,” said the dean. “Your work will wait a day.”

  The following day Adam found the dean in the Lady Chapel. “I owe you all that I have, sir,” he said. “For my precious Clarice has been brought back from the very brink of death. Her fever has broken and color returns to her cheeks.”

  “I am pleased,” said the dean.

  Adam desired more than anything to ask the dean about the miraculous cup of healing. Whence had it come? Was it some relic of Ewolda known only to the dean? He dared not ask, but the dean must have seen the curiosity in Adam’s eyes.

  “There are secrets at Barchester,” said the dean, “that must remain secret.”

  “I understand, Father,” said Adam, though he did not.

  Two months later, Adam’s first son was born, joining two healthy daughters. He had brought the good news to the dean and had, on that day, asked permission to carve two misericords—one a portrait of his wife, and the other a simple cup. “I shall not carve it as it truly appears,” said Adam. “No one will know it is aught other than a Communion chalice.”

  The dean had given his consent, and Adam had already completed the carving of the cup. He wanted to give thanks for the miracle of his wife’s salvation—a thanks that someone might one day understand. So he did not place a cross on the cup, as would have been usual for a Communion chalice. That small omission, he thought, might at least hint to some future monk that a woodcarver was grateful for the miracle of the cup of Barchester.

  Now he turned his attention to his wife’s portrait and began to search within the wood for her beautiful eyes.

  —

  Dean Henry de Beaumont stood in the cloister waiting for the head stonemason to climb down from his scaffolding. He had been happy to grant Adam Lyngwode permission to carve an image of his wife on a misericord—after all, no one ever saw a misericord. The roof bosses in the cloister were another matter, however. Since the roof here was only twice the height of a man, the bosses would be among the most visible carved images in the monastic complex, seen by the brothers every day. The dean had an idea about what the four most prominent bosses should depict.

  Over the past two years, Henry had become close friends with Peter of Amesbury, prior of the nearby Priory of St. Ewolda. Henry and Peter understood the close links between Barchester Cathedral and St. Ewolda’s, and each year, on the feast day of that saint, they held a joint service at the cathedral, during which Peter recounted the story of Ewolda’s life. Henry’s idea about the cloister bosses had been inspired by a monk’s reaction to hearing the Ewolda story. Without permission, this monk had drawn a picture of Ewolda in the priory’s service book, next to the service used on her feast day. Peter had been displeased at the defacement, but it made Henry wonder if Ewolda’s story might be recorded in some way in the cathedral. He had gone to Peter with his idea, and the prior had approved.

  So Henry de Beaumont instructed his stonemason to create four roof bosses in the four corners of the cloister depicting the life of St. Ewolda. Henry did not live to see the bosses completed, but almost eight hundred years later, they would still be there, silently paying tribute to the life of the founder.

  May 4, 2016

  FEAST OF THE ENGLISH SAINTS AND MARTYRS OF THE REFORMATION ERA

  “Is it true,” said Miss Stanhope as they were settling down for Wednesday afternoon’s tutorial, “that one of Jesse Johnson’s minions is working at the cathedral?”

  “I’m sorry, Miss Stanhope,” said Arthur, “but as usual I have no idea what you are talking about.”

  “Jesse Johnson? The American industrialist? He’s been doing all the chat shows. How have you not seen him?”

  “Reading your papers, Miss Stanhope, takes up the time I have normally reserved for chat shows.”

  “I hear he has, like, a billion dollars from some sort of computer chip,” said Mr. Crawley.

  “And how exactly does this relate to today’s discussion of religion in early-nineteenth-century fiction?” asked Arthur.

  “The guy is a religious fanatic,” chimed in Miss Robarts. “I mean real crackpot stuff. He believes everything in the Bible and I mean everything—two aardvarks on Noah’s ark, plagues of locusts in Egypt, the snake feeding Eve an apple.”

  “It’s called fundamentalism, and that concept is actually not a bad place to begin our discussion. Now if—”

  “Yeah, but this guy doesn’t just believe it,” said Mr. Crawley. “He wants to take his billion dollars and prove it.”

  “He’s building this huge museum in America,” said Miss Stanhope. “And he has people all over the world looking for biblical artifacts he can put into it. Like if people don’t believe the Bible they’re going to be convinced by an old rock.”

  “He’s after more than rocks,” said Mr. Crawley. “He has oceanographers doing sonar mapping of the Red Sea looking for Pharaoh’s chariots that got washed away by Moses. He’s got archaeologists looking for pieces of Noah’s ark. The whole thing is very Indiana Jones.”

  “I saw him on Graham Norton,” said Miss Robarts, “and he’s a showman, that’s what he is. He’s like one of those American TV preachers. And don’t kid yourself—he’s not building this museum to convince people to believe. He’s building it so that people who already do believe can feel even more self-righteous. If he tells people they’re looking at the apple core from the Garden of Eden, they’ll buy it.”

  “Yeah,” said Miss Stanhope, “but if they’ll believe whatever he says, why spend all that money actually looking for real artifacts? Why not just plop an apple core in a glass case and start charging admission?”

  “He’s a showman, yes,” said Mr. Crawley, “but I think this guy genuinely believes he’s going to find authentic biblical artifacts. And not all of what he’s doing is crazy.”

  “What’s he doing that’s not crazy?” asked Miss Robarts, crossing her arms in front of her chest in the way she always did when she was ready to pick a fight with Mr. Crawley.

  “Well, the manuscripts, for one thing,” said Mr. Crawley.

  Arthur had been letting the conversation sail past him, and vaguely considering whether it was worth his trouble to try to steer his students back into the waters of English literature, but at the mention of manuscripts he suddenly began to listen.

  “That’s why he has representatives in Barchester and Winchester and Salisbury and everywhere else,” said Mr. Crawley. “He wants to digitize every pre-Reformation religious manuscript. And he’s not even that partic
ular, I hear. Apparently wherever he sends his . . .”

  “His minions,” said Miss Stanhope.

  “Wherever they go,” said Mr. Crawley, “they’re digitizing all the manuscripts, no matter what the subject. And he’s going to put it all on the Web for free. Can you imagine what a resource that will be for scholars?”

  “Yes,” said Miss Robarts, “it’s true that even the looniest lunatic might do something worthwhile once in a while. But do you know why he’s digitizing all those manuscripts? And do you know why he’s starting in England?” The others looked at her blankly. “Because he’s looking for the Holy Grail.”

  “I beg your pardon,” said Arthur, now fully attentive to the conversation.

  “I read it in the Daily Mail,” said Miss Robarts. “They said one of the artifacts he’s looking for is the Holy Grail. He doesn’t just believe the Bible. He believes the whole King Arthur story, too—Joseph of Arimathea bringing the Grail to England, Galahad gallivanting around looking for it. And Jesse Johnson thinks that even though no one has succeeded in finding it in two thousand years, he’s going to uncover it with his billion dollars.”

  “The Holy Grail?” said Miss Stanhope sarcastically. “I suppose next he’ll be looking for Cinderella’s glass slipper.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Arthur, shoving his chair back from the table. “Something has come up and I have to . . . I have to go.”

  “Are you all right, Arthur?” asked Miss Stanhope. “You look ill.”

  “Miss Robarts, perhaps you could lead the discussion,” said Arthur, shoving his papers into his bag. “The topic, as I’m sure you will recall, was religion in early-nineteenth-century fiction. You seem to be off to a good start. I’ll see you next week.”

  Arthur rushed from the room on not completely false pretenses. He did feel ill. The idea that Bethany had been lying to him all this time made his stomach churn. He could picture it: how she carefully staged their first meeting in the chapter house so she could find out everything he knew about Bishop Gladwyn’s portrait and its association with the Grail. She probably already believed the Grail was hidden in Barchester. Somehow Bethany and this sleazy-sounding billionaire coming into Arthur’s town, looking for his dream so that they could take it back to America, made the Grail that much more real to Arthur. And it made Bethany, with whom he had been trying so hard to be friends, exactly what he had feared all along: the devil prowling about like a roaring lion seeking someone to devour. It was up to Arthur to resist her.

  —

  Arthur made his way straight to the library, ready to confront Bethany, only to discover the room locked and empty. After letting himself in and locking the door behind him, he set his bag by his usual table and crept over to Bethany’s digitization station. The table was covered with cords and metal boxes. Her purse was gone, along with her laptop, but on the floor, leaning against one of the table legs, was a canvas carrier bag with the words “American Library Association” printed on the side. Without touching the bag, Arthur peeked in. A couple of books, a few magazines, a thick sheaf of papers bound with plastic rings, and a small notebook—hard to tell much without . . . was he really going to do this? Was Arthur going to rummage through Bethany’s things looking for evidence that she was . . . What? A liar? A spy? The devil prowling about? The door to the cloister was locked, he thought, and although he felt considerably worse about going through Bethany’s things without her permission than about the possibility of being caught, the security of the room pushed him over the edge. He picked up the canvas bag and dumped its contents onto an empty table.

  Arthur was not given to dramatic gasps, and the sound of air sucking into his mouth as he looked at what fell onto the table made him even more shocked than he already was. Lying in front of him was a rather tatty copy of the same book of Arthurian legends he had loved as a child—only the color of the binding was different. As Arthur well knew, the American edition had been published in green cloth, not blue. In it, he knew, was Arthur Rackham’s illustration of the Sangreal, an illustration Bethany must have seen. But did she see it before or after he had shown her the Collier portrait of Bishop Gladwyn—the portrait from which Rackham had copied his vision of the Grail? Arthur gently opened the olive-green cover. In the upper right corner of the endpaper, in a childish hand, were written the words, “Bethany’s Book,” and below that, in the center of the page, in a more practiced hand, “To Bethany, from Aunt Caroline, Merry Christmas 1999.” She had known about the Rackham connection all along, and yet she had stood there in front of the portrait with Arthur not saying a word.

  The presence of the Rackham book among Bethany’s things should not be, Arthur thought, enough to condemn her, but it did seem sufficient cause for further investigation. He picked up a small black notebook and began slowly flipping through its pages. He could feel his pulse quicken and beads of sweat break out on his forehead as he saw the words Arthur, Malory, Collier, and, over and over, Grail. Bethany had a Grail notebook, a notebook she had clearly been adding to for many years, to judge from the wear to the cover, the multiple colors of ink, and the curl of the pages. Arthur slowed his flipping, then stopped when he saw an even more familiar pair of words: Arthur Prescott.

  At the top of the page, Bethany had written, “Gifford’s Auction House, Lot #157—two manuscript notebooks of Robert Gladwyn, Bsp. Barchester, estimated £50–£75. Possible notes on Grail or Collier painting?” The next line read, “bid £175.” Arthur, of course, had been the successful bidder on Bishop Gladwyn’s notebooks, and somehow Bethany had found that out, for just below her own bid she had written, “Purchased £200 Arthur Prescott, #3 Hiram’s Cottages, Barchester. Take Jesse Johnson job and request Barchester?”

  Arthur’s stomach dropped. Bethany had been stalking him. She was a Grail hunter working for a Grail hunter and she had insinuated herself into his life at Barchester for one reason—to find out what he knew. She had no interest in being his friend; she was using him to get to the Grail.

  Arthur picked up the bound pile of papers from Bethany’s things, turned it over, and read the familiar words on the cover page, words he knew by heart, although he had not read them in many years: A Comparative Survey of Pre-Reformation Grail Manuscripts: A Thesis Submitted in Partial Fulfillment of the Requirements of a Master’s Degree by Arthur Prescott. Arthur’s thesis had never been published; it had never been posted online, and yet here it was with Bethany’s things. How long had she been researching him? Surely longer than she had been working for Jesse Johnson. Did that mean she wasn’t trying to find the Grail for Johnson or that he had hired her because of what she already knew about Arthur?

  He had never felt so angry. His eyes watered and he could hardly see the other items on the table as he sifted through them. Magazines with articles about the Grail, loose pages of notes, and . . . could that be the Stansby Morte d’Arthur? Surely Oscar wouldn’t let her check that out. He felt his fingers trembling and his ears rang so loudly he didn’t hear the footsteps on the stairs, or even the voice of Bethany when she first spoke to him. Only when she raised her voice and said, “Arthur! What are you doing?” did he realize she was standing in the doorway, looking as angry as he felt.

  “Why are you going through my things?” she demanded, marching across the room until she stood across the table from him.

  “How did you . . . the door was locked,” sputtered Arthur.

  “Some people trust me—but not you obviously. What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “You didn’t just happen to meet me,” said Arthur. “You came here looking for me. You were stalking me. You lay in wait for me like a . . . a . . . like a spider.”

  “Oh, grow up. I would have told you everything eventually.”

  “You stalked me,” said Arthur again, still not quite able to believe it.

  “Yeah, well, you went poking around in my private things,” said Bethany, raising her v
oice.

  “You lied to me,” said Arthur, matching her volume.

  “I never lied to you. I didn’t tell you everything about myself the first day we met, but I never lied to you. You, on the other hand, did lie to me. The very first thing you told me was a lie.”

  “I . . .”

  “You told me the cup in Gladwyn’s painting wasn’t the Grail when you knew it was. Don’t tell me you didn’t know about the Rackham connection.”

  “But why even ask me if you already knew?”

  “I didn’t ask you if it was the Grail, Arthur. I just asked you where the painting was. You took it on yourself to start lying to me then and there. I know you never liked me, but you really never gave me much of a chance.”

  “You came here . . . why? To find the Holy Grail and take it back to your . . . your . . . crazy boss.”

  “I have a job to do, OK? I am here to help scholars around the world have access to those manuscripts. You may think that’s evil, but I happen to think it’s noble. And yes, the guy who’s paying the bills is overreaching a bit, but it doesn’t mean good things can’t come out of it.”

  “But why all the Grail materials? And why . . . why me?”

  “Because yes, I happen to be a fan of Grail lore. And when I saw the painting of Gladwyn online and recognized the Holy Grail from my Rackham book—my favorite book in the world, by the way, not that you would ever bother to ask me that since you seem to think I hate books—well, when I saw that painting I got interested in Gladwyn, too. And I thought it would be cool to own his notebooks, because, you know, he was obviously into the Grail. So when you outbid me, I called the auction house and told them I wanted to be sure they had the shipping information right, and they gave me your name and address. And yes, I suppose that was kind of a sneaky, deceptive thing to do, but I thought, how cool would it be to meet someone else who was interested in Gladwyn and probably interested in the Grail, too. And then I found you on the Oxford University alumni site and I tracked down your thesis in your college library and ordered a copy. It was . . . it is amazing—all those details about medieval manuscripts that mentioned the Grail. I’d never seen anything quite like it before. So when I got to choose where I wanted to work, I chose Barchester because I wanted to meet you, Arthur. Not spy on you or steal your work, just to meet you and, you know, hang out with somebody who shared one of my passions, who had actually held all those medieval Grail manuscripts in his hands. Maybe we could be friends, I thought. And then I met you and you lied to me and you fought with me and now you’re violating my privacy and I’m wondering what the hell I’m doing here and why I even cared about Gladwyn or the Grail or stupid Arthur Prescott in the first place.”