The Lost Book of the Grail

by Charlie Lovett

  “There’s some talk of putting up a fence and charging admission,” said Arthur, “but we don’t really have enough visitors here to make it worth the trouble.”

  “It’s beautiful,” said Bethany. “Glastonbury was so swarmed with tourists that it was hard to feel any connection to its legends. But this, in the morning light, so peaceful and abandoned—this feels like the ruins of Camelot.”

  Before them stood a collection of gray stone walls, some crumbled to no more than a foot above the ground, others tall enough to cast long shadows in the morning sun. In the center of the complex, they could clearly discern the remains of the monastic church. The south side and the chancel had completely collapsed, but parts of the nave walls remained high enough that their Norman barrel-arched window openings were still intact. The remains of the west wall stood perhaps twenty feet high, and at one end a circular stone staircase disappeared into the thick masonry.

  “Shall we go up?” said Arthur.

  “Is it safe?”

  “The wall has been here for almost a thousand years. It will collapse someday, but probably not today.”

  “That’s reassuring,” said Bethany. “You go first.”

  For the most part, the stairs were illuminated by sunlight from either above or below, though for a few steps halfway up they felt their way in darkness. After a short climb, they emerged into bright sunlight on the top of what was left of the west wall. A small iron railing kept them safe from tumbling over the edge and confined them to a small space at the north side of the wall. From this vantage point they could see the entire complex mapped out on the ground below them—the cruciform shape of the church, the adjacent square of the cloister, and the outlines of dormitories and kitchens.

  “Somewhere down there, five hundred years ago, a monk wrote our coded manuscript,” said Arthur.

  “Is that really what you want to talk about?”

  Arthur felt his pulse quicken. “Isn’t that why you wanted to come here? To see where it all started?”

  “I know the British are good at avoiding unpleasant subjects,” said Bethany. “What I don’t understand is why you think this subject is unpleasant.”

  “What subject is that?”

  “Oh God, Arthur—the subject of us. I don’t see why you should be breaking out in a sweat and . . . and trembling. It’s just me. You should know by now you can tell me anything.”

  “And what is it you want me to tell you?” said Arthur. He knew that escape was hopeless, that he would have to face the crux of this conversation within a sentence or two, but his instincts still told him to play dumb and maybe it would all just go away. And then he thought, Why should he want it to go away? Why should he want her to go away? He was trembling with fear, yes, but he was trembling with excitement, too. He was alone on a parapet with the woman he loved, her face aglow, the flecks of gold in her blue eyes like . . . like . . . God, for an English lecturer he was rubbish at metaphors. But why not? Why not tell her that he loved her? This, of course, was the voice of impulsive Arthur, the Arthur driven by emotion and . . . and foolishness. This was Bertie Wooster talking. It didn’t take more than a few seconds for Jeeves to chime in. Why not? Because she is far too young for you to consider; she has seen far too little of the world to be grounded with Arthur Prescott; she stands in opposition to the very principles to which you have dedicated your life (this was exaggerating the point a bit, Bertie thought); she is argumentative and rude; she is a firm believer in things (God, for instance) in which you are a firm unbeliever. And then there is that ever so annoying wisp of hair, which even now is dancing around in front of her face in the breeze. There are, in short, irreconcilable differences. The match is hopeless, sir, said Jeeves, and thus to make a confession of love would only inflict further unnecessary injury upon your own heart and, in all probability, embarrassment upon Miss Davis.

  “Earth to Arthur,” said Bethany, laying a hand on his arm and shaking him out of his reverie. “Charmed as I am by your tendency to zone out, I don’t really want to stand up here all morning. So why don’t you just go ahead and say it.”

  “Say what?” said Arthur. Said Jeeves.

  “Say how you really feel about me.”

  “What do you mean . . . I mean, why would I—”

  “Arthur, you may think that your British stiff upper lip keeps you from showing any emotions, but you’re actually pretty easy to read.”

  “I’m not sure that I—”

  “Besides, a guy doesn’t take a girl for a walk in the countryside and then to a romantic old ruin, and then to the top of a crumbling wall, unless he has something pretty important to say.” She laid a hand gently on his cheek, her fingertips barely grazing his skin, and he just couldn’t do it. He couldn’t hide it any longer. He didn’t care about Jeeves. Screw Jeeves.

  “I realize this is grossly inappropriate,” said Arthur, “and I beg you not to give it a second thought and to fly back to America and forget this entire conversation, but as you seem especially eager to know, the fact is I am . . . I am rather . . . I’m afraid I’m in love with you.” Arthur had expected a surge of panic as he uttered these words, but he felt instead relief. He had held this terrifying, wonderful secret so tightly that releasing it seemed to release him. She could reject him now. Everything would be fine. He would have an ache in his heart for the rest of his life, but that put him in very good company, literarily speaking. For the first time in weeks, maybe years, Arthur felt giddy.

  “I thought so,” said Bethany, patting his cheek and giving him a little smile of triumph.

  “So,” said Arthur, taking her hand and giving it a little squeeze before letting go, “as you seemed to want to know, I mentioned it, but now you must finish up your work and go back to America and forget all about it. No need to discuss it further.”

  “No need to discuss it further?” said Bethany, grabbing Arthur’s hand back. “For God’s sake, Arthur, stop being such a milquetoast. You bring a girl up here, you tell her you love her, the next thing is not, ‘no need to discuss it further’; the next thing is this.” She put her free hand around his neck, pulled him to her, and a second later Arthur was as confused, and as elated, as he had ever been. Bethany Davis was kissing him. Not a soft peck on the cheek or even a quick dry kiss on the lips but wet lips and tilted heads and bodies pulled close together and tongues darting and eyes closed and so dizzy he thought they might both tumble off the wall and he didn’t care.

  After the longest, loveliest minute of Arthur’s life, Bethany let him go and they fell apart and stood for a few seconds, breathing heavily and staring at each other, and he could tell that she desperately wanted to do exactly what he wanted to do and so they both burst out laughing. Arthur had no idea why. There was absolutely nothing funny about this situation, but somehow the release of laughter made them comrades even more than that amazing kiss had done.

  “That was very kind of you,” said Arthur when the laughter had run its course.

  “Very kind of me? Goddammit, Arthur, you still don’t get it, do you?” She stood on tiptoe and gave him another kiss—this one so quick it was over before he even realized it had started. “I love you, too.”

  “You what?” said Arthur, stumbling back against the railing, all of his fear surging back.

  “I love you, Arthur Prescott.” There was not a hint of irony or fear in her voice. If anything, she sounded happy. How could that be?

  “You love me?”

  “Yep.”

  “Bollocks,” said Arthur.

  “Oh, Arthur, you’re so romantic. You should write greeting cards.”

  “It’s just,” said Arthur, reaching out and taking her hand again, feeling calmed by the mere touch of her skin, “what . . . what the hell are we going to do?”

  “It’s not that complicated,” said Bethany. “We’re going to climb back down the steps, and we’re goi
ng to walk back to Barchester holding hands, not caring if anyone sees us, and at that one bend in the river, where the path goes under the branches of the willow tree, we’re going to stop and kiss some more and then we’re going to go about our day. And maybe we’ll meet for dinner.”

  “But what about . . .”

  “That’s all we’re going to worry about right now, Arthur,” she said, squeezing his hand hard. “Promise me.”

  Arthur stood in silence looking at her, still trying to comprehend what had happened but unable to think of anything except what would happen under the willow tree.

  “Promise me, Arthur,” she said. “For today, we think only of today.”

  “I promise,” said Arthur.

  The dew was almost gone from the grass when they reached solid ground once again. They walked in silence for a few minutes, holding hands comfortably, Arthur doing his best not to let his mind wander past today, or even past the next few minutes. And they did stop under the willow tree and kiss, and it was wonderful, and Arthur employed every ounce of his mental strength to banish all thought of the future and simply live in that glorious moment.

  When they rounded the last bend in the path and saw the cathedral towering in front of them, Arthur instinctively dropped Bethany’s hand.

  “Fair enough,” said Bethany, stepping slightly to the side so that they walked a full three feet apart. “We’ll keep it a secret for now.”

  Even if we keep it a secret for always, thought Arthur, I will be happy. Even if we only have a few lovely days of being in love and you go home and find some nice American man your own age and forget all about me, I will remember you always and take this walk every year on the morning of the Feast of Corpus Christi.

  He had not spoken any of these thoughts, yet Bethany seemed somehow to hear him. She turned to him as they walked and asked, “What’s the Feast of Corpus Christi? I saw it on the calendar for today.”

  “Well,” said Arthur, happy to have something to talk about other than love, “Corpus Christi is Latin for Body of Christ. It’s a feast that celebrates the Eucharist, and in the Anglican Church the doctrine of the Real Presence of Christ’s body and blood in the bread and wine.”

  “Yeah, we don’t celebrate that in the Jubilee Christian Fellowship Church,” said Bethany. “Sounds far too Catholic for my dad. He hardly even uses the word Christ. To him it’s always Jesus, like they’re on a first-name basis or something. But I don’t suppose he would want to celebrate the Feast of Corpus Jesus either. Not that they would ever call it that. I mean they couldn’t have, because there was no J in classical Latin, right? Anyhow, it’s Communion tonight instead of Evensong. Does that mean I won’t see you there?”

  “Wait a minute,” said Arthur, pulling her to a stop. “What did you just say?”

  “I said it’s Communion tonight.”

  “No, before that?”

  “I said my dad would never celebrate . . .”

  “You said there is no letter J in the classical Latin alphabet. Bethany, you’re brilliant.” Arthur threw his arms around her and held her tightly for just a second longer than would have been appropriate for friends.

  “Uhm . . . thank you?” said Bethany.

  “The classical Latin alphabet has twenty-three letters; we’ve been trying to crack the code with the modern alphabet of twenty-six. That’s why it’s not working.”

  “And that’s why you did get some words once in a while,” said Bethany. “Because the alphabets are the same up to the letter H.”

  “So any word that’s spelled with just the first eight letters of the alphabet would decode, but words that use letters that come after H would just translate as gibberish.”

  “Arthur, you look sick,” said Bethany.

  “I do?” said Arthur. “I feel . . .” Arthur didn’t even have the words to describe how he felt—he was in love, she loved him back, and he may have just solved a five-hundred-year-old mystery, decoded the lost Book of Ewolda, and found the resting place of the Holy Grail. “I feel fantastic,” he said, grinning.

  “No,” said Bethany, “I mean, I think you need to cancel your classes. You can’t go to work today; you’re too sick.”

  “Oh, I see,” said Arthur. “Perhaps you’re right.”

  Bethany pressed her palm against his forehead. “Yes, you’re definitely running a fever.”

  They stood looking at each other for a moment, then turned and ran for the library.

  XIII

  THE GREAT EAST WINDOW

  Like most of the stained glass in the cathedral, the large window over the high altar, a Tree of Jesse, was installed in the nineteenth century. A traveler’s diary from 1612 describes the medieval window as depicting scenes from the cathedral’s history, but when the window was smashed by Parliamentary troops during the Civil War, that history was lost.

  May 17, 1644, Barchester Cathedral

  Laurence Rainolds knew the siege of Barchester would not last long. The bishop had already been arrested on the road to London, charged at Oliver Cromwell’s instructions with “unedifying and offensive ceremony and chanting.” The Parliamentary troops had arrived at the bridge over the River Esk a short time ago, and despite valiant efforts by a small garrison of Royalists, it was clear that the Roundheads would soon overrun the city. Laurence had heard what had happened at other cathedrals when the Roundheads arrived—memorials destroyed, altars overturned, furnishings smashed. In Winchester, Cromwell’s troops had pulled down the mortuary chests that contained the remains of early Saxon kings and used the bones to smash the stained glass windows. Their acts of sacrilege seemed to know no bounds. And within the hour they might well be marauding through the aisles and chapels of Barchester Cathedral.

  Barchester’s greatest treasures were unassuming, but Laurence was their Guardian and he was not prepared to take chances. With the cries of battle ringing in his ears, he rushed from the streets into the cathedral close and up the stairs to the library. Bishop Atwater’s library was a masterpiece, thought Laurence as he arrived breathless at the top of the stairs. Gleaming spines of leather and vellum covered the sixty-foot length of the east wall, while individual cases stood perpendicular to the west wall. High windows let in enough light on bright days to read easily. Today was not bright. Not just storm clouds but the smoke of battle hung over the city. But Laurence did not need light. He did not need to read; he only needed to remove a single volume from the library. He wished he could take everything, that he could protect the accumulated knowledge that sat on these shelves from the . . . the damned Roundheads who threatened his beloved cathedral. But he had a job and he must accomplish it quickly.

  He was halfway across the room when he stopped short. How could he have been so foolish? He could not remove the manuscript he was charged with protecting without the key. Bishop Atwater’s chained bookcase protected the ancient manuscripts well—but Laurence did not have the key, and the conditions of his guardianship forbade him from telling Canon Wickart, who did have the key, why he needed to remove a single manuscript from the library.

  Laurence stood in the center of the library for a moment, considering his options. He might be able to tear the cover off the manuscript, but surely that should be a last resort. Damaging a treasure with which he had been entrusted was hardly performing the role of Guardian. He could try to steal the key from Canon Wickart without the canons knowing, but Wickart kept the key on his person at all times. He saw no choice but to bring Wickart into his confidence, and that meant that a great load was about to be lifted from Laurence. When he was made Guardian, his predecessor had told him, “You will know when the time comes to pass the mantle on.” Canon Wickart was twenty years younger than Laurence; it was time for a new Guardian.

  Laurence found the canon in the treasury, helping the dean to fill a sack with plate.

  “They are nearly upon us,” said the dean. “I will
flee the city. If you are able, meet at the ruins of St. Ewolda’s and we will travel together, perhaps to France.”

  Laurence could not believe they were abandoning the cathedral. Even when the king’s commissioners had come during the Reformation and thrown down the shrine of Ewolda, many church officials remained at Barchester. But there was no question of remaining now, and there was a very real question about whether the Church of England had any hope of survival. Presbyterianism was the preference of Cromwell, and lately Cromwell seemed to be getting everything he wanted.

  “Might I have a word before you go, Canon Wickart,” said Laurence.

  “Quickly,” said the canon, as the dean left the room with the plate that might pay for safe passage out of England.

  “There is a manuscript in the chained library that I must take with me.”

  “I am as fond of books as you are,” said Canon Wickart, “but there is no time to empty the library, and books will only slow us down in our flight.”

  “I do not wish to empty the library,” said Laurence, who hated to think of the invaders touching a single volume in the collection. “I need only a single book from the chained library. Come with haste. I will explain to you as we go.”

  Laurence had no time for details, but he told Wickart that the book he needed held great secrets and was closely associated with a treasure that Wickart must now guard. As they removed the volume from the chained library they heard shouts in the cloister. The Roundheads had arrived. As they ran down the stairs, Laurence described to Canon Wickart the place outside the city where he had hidden the treasure.

  “The manuscript and the treasure,” said Laurence, passing the book to his fellow canon, “are of greater value than all our cathedral. You must guard them and you must appoint their next Guardian when the time is right. The rest I will explain when we meet again.”

  The two men stumbled into the cloister. A Roundhead stood just a few feet away, and Laurence pushed Wickart into the shadows and toward the archway at the southeast corner.