The Lost Book of the Grail

by Charlie Lovett

  “Fleeing with treasures, are you?” shouted a soldier, waving a pike toward the two canons and moving in their direction.

  “Fly,” said Laurence into Wickart’s ear. And the canon did. “I can show you the treasures of the cathedral,” said Laurence, stepping between the Roundhead and the exit.

  “We can find treasures on our own,” said the Roundhead. “Now step aside, old man.”

  “I shall not step aside,” said Laurence. He hoped once Wickart was clear of the cathedral precincts he would have no more trouble from the Roundheads, and there was no quicker way out of the precincts than through the cloister. In another minute, Wickart would be in the water meadows, making his way upstream toward the old monastic ruins in the deepening dusk. The Guardian would be safe.

  “Do you see who I am, old man?” said the Roundhead. “I am master of this cathedral now, not you. You and your obscene chanting and your gaudy vestments and your popish ceremonies—you are past now. So step aside before I introduce you to my pike.”

  He needed to stand his ground a little longer to keep Wickart safe, so Laurence did something he knew would draw both the attention and the ire of this invader. He began to chant the Nunc Dimittis:

  Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace: according to thy word.

  For mine eyes have seen thy salvation,

  Which thou hast prepared before the face of all thy people;

  To be a light for to lighten the Gentiles: and to be the glory of thy people Israel.

  Laurence got no further; he did not chant the Gloria Patri. The pike threw him against the wall of the cloister and tore into his flesh. He collapsed onto the paving stones and felt his blood pouring out. The Roundhead stepped into the center of the cloister and wiped his pike on the grass, then turned and walked back toward the cathedral. But Wickart and his precious cargo had escaped.

  As he lay in the quiet of the cloister, Laurence thought he had picked the perfect canticle to chant—the Song of Simeon, an old man ready for death. Though he could not speak as the life ebbed out of him, in his mind he repeated the words. Just as the darkness was about to cover him, his peace was rent by a horrible thought: Canon Wickart might be safe, but he had no idea what he was protecting. The secret of Barchester’s greatest treasure was about to die in a corner of the cloister. And it did.

  May 26, 2016

  FEAST OF CORPUS CHRISTI

  “Even if this works,” said Arthur as he placed the first page of the coded manuscript in the center of the table and pulled out several sheets of blank paper, “we still have the problem of the missing manuscripts. We only have about half the possible key words.”

  “Don’t worry about that right now,” said Bethany. “Just use the key words we do have and see if it works. And by the way, how does it work?”

  Arthur pulled out the list of numbered possible key words Bethany and David had made. Next to each combination of numbers they had written two words—the first word on the leaf referenced by the number combination and the last word on that same leaf.

  “OK, let’s see,” said Arthur, running his finger across the coded manuscript. “Here—this is the first numerical combination for which we have the key. He pointed to a string of letters reading ADUUFHDDR. DUU means XII and DD means XX. The rest of the letters are just trash, I think. So we look for manuscript number twelve and on leaf twenty we see our two possible key words. Corpus is the first word on the leaf, and Domine is the last word.”

  “Try Corpus,” said Bethany. “We were just talking about it.”

  “Right, so if Corpus is the key word, we create the cipher alphabet by writing the key word, then beginning the alphabet and leaving out any letters we have already used. Like this.” Arthur wrote out a series of letters on the blank paper.

  C O R P U S A B D E F G H I J K L M N Q T V W X Y Z

  “But I thought you said we were using the twenty-three-letter Latin alphabet,” said Bethany.

  “That’s the alphabet we’re translating into,” said Arthur. “But if you look at the cipher text, you’ll see that those missing letters do turn up. See, there’s a J, and there’s a W down here. So now we write the shorter Latin alphabet under the cipher alphabet like this.” Arthur wrote another string of letters under the first, so that the two alphabets aligned with each other.

  C O R P U S A B D E F G H I J K L M N Q T V W X Y Z

  A B C D E F G H I K L M N O P Q R S T V X Y Z

  “Now,” said Arthur, “the very first string of cipher text contains embedded Roman numerals, so I think the key unlocks the section of text that follows, not the one that precedes it. So here, where we found the combination twelve and twenty, we see three strings of cipher text before the next string with embedded numerals.” Arthur copied three strings onto the paper:

  JLUMCURQF CMQJLCHIQ UGBCULUFD

  “Now we find the cipher letter in the top alphabet, and change it to the corresponding letter in the lower alphabet.” Arthur quickly wrote a second series of letters under the first. “Hours of failure has made me pretty good at this part,” he said. The next strings of letters read:

  PERSAECUL ASUPRANOV EMHAERELI

  “And does that mean anything?” asked Bethany.

  Arthur stared at the letters for a moment and then gave a loud “Ha!”

  “It does mean something,” he nearly shouted. “See, in the middle there is the word supra and it starts out with per, so . . .” Arthur drew five vertical lines between pairs of letters and then read aloud: per saecula supra novem hae reli. That last word is a fragment—the rest must be in the next bit of cipher—but if we guess that it’s reliquiae it reads something like: ‘This holy relic for more than nine centuries.’”

  “It works,” said Bethany, breathless.

  “It works,” Arthur repeated, turning toward her. The two sat there for a moment, grinning like schoolchildren. Arthur desperately wanted to kiss her again. Apparently this desire was evident in his expression.

  “No more snogging,” said Bethany. “We have work to do.”

  “Do they call it snogging in America?” said Arthur.

  “No,” said Bethany, “but I’m learning all the important parts of English culture.”

  “If only we weren’t missing half the manuscripts,” said Arthur.

  “Not exactly half,” said Bethany.

  “What do you mean, not exactly?”

  “Yesterday, after David and I finished with the manuscripts in the library and you were being so stubborn about decoding the wrong way, I went online and accessed the database that I’ve been uploading all my images to.”

  “But why do we need the images when we have the manuscripts right here?”

  “We don’t have all the manuscripts, Arthur. You just pointed that out. But I’m not the only one who’s been uploading images to this database. You see, this part is going to make you a little more enthusiastic about digitization and bookless libraries. I managed to find eleven of the missing manuscripts.”

  “You . . . you found them?” said Arthur.

  “Digital images of them,” said Bethany. “You may not find yourself emotionally connected to the past through a digital image, but you can sure as hell use it to find a key word.”

  “Yes, but without libraries to protect and care for those manuscripts for hundreds of years, your digital search wouldn’t have done much good.”

  “And without the ability to locate those manuscripts, no one could have ever broken the whole code. So it took both ancient and modern technology,” said Bethany. “Pretty cool, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” said Arthur, “it actually is. Where did you find them?”

  “Some in libraries at Oxford and Cambridge, like you thought,” said Bethany. “One in the British Library, a couple in other cathedral libraries. Some of the digital versions I found in our database, others I found el
sewhere. And I can tell they’re the right ones because of that column of numbers and words on the inventory. That list was pretty clever. It gives me exactly what I need to identify the manuscripts.”

  “Whoever enciphered the manuscript must have had some idea that the books needed to decode it were in danger of being scattered.”

  “I’m still working on tracking down the last five manuscripts,” said Bethany, “but I can go ahead and copy out the key words from the ones I have. Since we know now that it’s the first word on the page it won’t take long.”

  “Bethany, you’re fantastic.”

  “Thanks for noticing. Now get to work.”

  And he did.

  —

  “I might have found another one,” said Bethany an hour later. “It’s in America, at a university rare-book library. It hasn’t been digitized, but I bet I can get the librarian to check that it matches the description and send me the key words. It’s just the time difference. I’ll have to wait hours before they open.”

  “That’s great,” said Arthur, “but I thought you were going to copy out the key words from the ones you did find for me. I’m deciphering like mad over here, but all I have are fragments.”

  “OK, OK, Mr. Grumpypants. An hour ago you thought I was fantastic.”

  “You are, you are. You are amazing, and wonderful, and easily distracted by the search for missing manuscripts.”

  “Here is your list of key words,” said Bethany. She handed him the list and peered over his shoulder. “So, nothing with meaning yet?”

  “I have a lot of the sort of language you’d expect to find in a religious manuscript. Phrases like most sacred, divine power of miracles, great flock of Jesus Christ, but nothing specific to either Ewolda or the Grail. Not yet, anyway.”

  “Maybe these will help,” said Bethany. “Do you want me to work on some of them? I think I understand the principle.”

  “Don’t you need to look for the last four manuscripts?”

  “I’ve got some feelers out. You’ll hear a ping when I get an e-mail.” She pulled a sheet of cipher across the table, sat down opposite Arthur, and set to work. “My Latin’s not too good, so you’ll need to do the actual translation, but I can at least do some deciphering.”

  The early afternoon shadow of the spire was just edging into the cloister when Bethany gave a gasp.

  “What is it?” said Arthur.

  “I can’t read the Latin, but I think this says Evolda.”

  “That’s it,” said Arthur, jumping up from his seat and racing around the table. “I knew it had to be. It’s the lost Book of Ewolda.”

  “Hey, not so fast,” said Bethany as Arthur tried to pull her sheet of deciphered text away from her. “Let’s just calmly put together your text and my text from this first page and see what we have.”

  “Calmly?” said Arthur.

  “Calmly.”

  “Bethany, I have been looking for Ewolda’s story for years and this manuscript not only contains that, it might contain something about the Holy Grail, which I have been searching for since childhood. And I am here in my favorite place on earth surrounded by the wisdom of centuries, working opposite the most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen, on the verge of finally solving these mysteries, and you want me to proceed calmly?”

  “You really think I’m beautiful?”

  “That’s your takeaway?”

  “Yes,” she said, taking his hand and kissing it softly. “That’s my takeaway. Now, let’s put all this Latin together and see what we have.”

  With all but a few strings of cipher text decoded, Arthur was able, for the most part, to fill in the blanks on the first page with reasonable guesses. He dictated his translation of the Latin to Bethany one phrase at a time and then, his heart pounding in his chest, he asked her to read it back to him.

  There follows a true and accurate transcription of the life of Saint Ewolda, from the most holy manuscript dictated by her beloved brother and held sacred by the foundation which, following her departure to the Lord, was dedicated to her honor. For more than nine centuries this holy relic has told of our blessed Saint and how the waters of her sacred spring have been a source of divine power. Many are the miracles that have proceeded from the saint and her spring, and as our blessed Ewolda showed in her life God’s love for women, so have her relics, through the divine power of miracles, healed those women who have drunk of her water and blessed with children those who have come before her barren.

  “What does it mean, ‘her sacred spring’?” asked Bethany.

  “I’ve no idea,” said Arthur.

  “Does all that talk of healing waters remind you of something? The Nanteos Cup perhaps? The Holy Grail?”

  “It’s tantalizingly close,” said Arthur. “But for now it should be enough that this is, without a doubt, the Book of Ewolda.”

  “Do you really think there could be something in here that will . . . I don’t know, save the cathedral somehow?”

  “The resting site of the Holy Grail would probably attract some Heritage Lottery money,” said Arthur. “Maybe an ancient sacred spring would too, who knows. But whatever happens, you helped me find this book. And you and I are going to be the first people in five hundred years to read this story.”

  Arthur pulled out the next sheet of cipher and picked up his pen, but Bethany crossed over to him and took his hand. “Stop for a minute,” she said. “You need to breathe in this moment. Come here.” She pulled him up and led him to the window looking out into the cloister. “She walked there. Ewolda stood right there on that spot, and now she’s going to speak to us.”

  They stood for several minutes holding hands, staring out the window at the vibrant green grass of the cloister and the spreading branches of the yew tree. Arthur felt no less excited than he had a few minutes earlier, but he did feel more peaceful. And this time Arthur pulled Bethany to him and kissed her deeply, and for a moment Ewolda and the library and the cathedral and the cloister and the incredible odds against saving the manuscripts or spending his life with Bethany all disappeared and there was only the girl in his arms. They almost didn’t hear David’s footsteps on the stairs. He nearly caught them.

  “We’ve cracked it,” said Arthur as David entered the room.

  “Then what the hell are you doing standing by the window,” said David. “Let’s decipher this damn thing.”

  By midafternoon, Bethany had reduced the number of missing manuscripts to two, and David and Arthur had filled in most of the gaps in what was becoming an increasingly comprehensible translation of the lost Book of Ewolda.

  “Listen to this,” said Arthur. “Ewolda’s body fell to the ground, and where her blood had spilled there instantly sprang forth a font of clear, fresh water. That must be why she’s always depicted with water—the boss in the cloister ceiling, the drawing on the cover of the manuscript, even the marginal illustration in the Barchester Breviary. She’s not spending a penny; she’s standing in a stream of water.”

  “That must be the sacred spring,” said Bethany.

  “There are pages and pages about miracles at the spring and tomb,” said David, “but I think the actual story of Ewolda’s life is pretty short. It starts after the little prologue and it seems to end here.” He pointed to a spot about halfway down the ninth page of cipher text.

  “It makes sense,” said Arthur. “First you tell the story of the saint’s life, then you enumerate all the miracles that happened at the tomb, or shrine, or sacred spring. And at this point we’re only missing a few bits.”

  “Including the end of her life story,” said David, indicating a string of undeciphered text on that same ninth page. “We haven’t got the key words for that yet.”

  “We’re about three sentences away from having Ewolda’s whole life story,” said Arthur excitedly, “and it syncs perfectly with all the known dep
ictions of her.”

  “Listen,” said Bethany, her hand covering her cell phone. “I can’t stop for the Corpus Christi service. I’m on hold with the Newberry Library in Chicago. I might have found the last manuscript.”

  “I thought we were still missing two,” said David.

  “I found the other one in Edinburgh,” said Bethany. “I’ve got a graduate student copying out the key words. Should have them in an hour or so.”

  “She’s a wonder,” said David to Arthur, who blushed deeply but did not otherwise respond.

  “You go on to the service without me,” said Bethany. “I can’t sit still when we’re this close.”

  “This close to what?” said Oscar, appearing at the library door.

  “To deciphering the lost Book of Ewolda,” said Arthur.

  “You did it?” said Oscar, dropping his bag and rushing across the room.

  “Arthur did it,” said David. “He cracked the bloody code.”

  “With a lot of help from Bethany,” said Arthur, leaning back in his chair for the first time in hours and stretching his stiff back.

  “And what does this lost book describe?” said Oscar. “Some great secret that will convince our leaders to leave the library unmolested?”

  “It tells a great story,” said Arthur. “A story no one has read since at least the Reformation and we are almost finished bringing it back to life.”

  “And not only that,” said Bethany, “but there is . . . Oh, sorry. Yes, hello, is this Mr. Thomasen? My name is Bethany Davis.” She strode off to the far end of the library to conduct her phone call, leaving the three men huddled around the mostly completed story of Ewolda.

  “To be honest,” said Arthur quietly, “I’m a little disappointed. After Bethany found the cover, I was hoping Ewolda’s story would contain some new piece of lore about the Holy Grail.” He had thought for sure, given his grandfather’s belief, that the Book of Ewolda would finally lead back to the Grail.

  “You don’t need the Holy Grail,” said David. “This is a great story. You’ve got love and rebellion and sacrifice and a juicy decapitation thrown in for good measure. You’ve got the last piece of your puzzle, Arthur. You’ll have to rewrite your guidebook a bit, but what a story. And you can use the drawing as well.”