“It’s not a great enough story to cause the general public, or the Heritage Lottery, to come running to the rescue of the cathedral library,” said Arthur.
“Maybe at least they won’t sell this one,” said David. “History of the founder and all that.”
“They wouldn’t have sold it anyway,” said Arthur. “It’s not in the library, remember. It’s safe in the precentor’s house.”
“Yes, and why is that?” said David. “Did you ever stop to think why the precentor is hiding this particular manuscript?”
“Does it matter?” said Arthur. “I mean yes, I’m thrilled to have uncovered Ewolda’s story and to be able to put her in her rightful place among Saxon saints, but as far as the library is concerned, I’m afraid we haven’t changed anything.”
“The chapter is due to vote on the Jesse Johnson offer tomorrow morning,” said Oscar. “There would have to be something pretty earthshaking in the two or three sentences we’ve yet to decipher to change anything before then.”
“We are the Barchester Bibliophiles,” said Arthur. “If we can’t keep the city’s most valuable books here in Barchester, we’re not really living up to our names.”
“Got it!” cried Bethany from the end of the room. “I’ve found the last one and I should have the key words in a few hours.” Arthur nodded at Bethany and the other two remained silent.
“Don’t all thank me at once.”
“It’s brilliant,” said Oscar unenthusiastically. “Really impressive work, Bethany.”
“OK, what’s going on?” said Bethany. “You guys look like a bunch of junior high boys who just got put in detention. Do you not realize that I just got the last of the key words?”
“We were just commiserating over the fact that, fascinating as this story is, it’s not really going to do much to help the cathedral,” said Oscar.
“Or save the library,” said Arthur.
“Seriously? You really don’t get it, do you?”
“Get what?” said Arthur. “You don’t think Heritage Lottery is suddenly going to start pouring money into Barchester because we discovered the story of a saint nobody cares about.”
“Oh, Arthur, I always knew I’d be visiting you at an old folks’ home, I just never knew it would be next week. It’s sad when the mind goes.”
“Then mine’s gone, too,” said David, “because I have no idea what you’re getting at.”
“Come on,” said Bethany. “A sacred healing spring over a thousand years old, the unmolested tomb of a Saxon saint—that’s a Heritage Lottery wet dream.”
“Yes, but we don’t actually have those things,” said Arthur. “We have a story about those things.”
“You need to learn how to believe, Arthur,” said Bethany gently. “And you need to learn how to pay attention. What was the first clue in this whole crazy adventure?”
“Bishop Gladwyn’s portrait?”
“No, the first clue we found together.”
“The . . . the . . . newspaper article?” He could not imagine what a news story about the Nazi bombing could have to do with a sacred spring and an ancient tomb.
“Exactly,” said Bethany. “A newspaper article from the Barsetshire Chronicle, February 8, 1941.”
“You have a good memory,” said Arthur.
“And you clearly don’t. I should have seen the clue in that article the moment I read it, but it took me until now to figure it out.”
“Figure what out?” said Oscar.
Bethany stood over the three men silently for a moment, then burst out laughing. “You guys are like those three little monkeys with their eyes and ears and mouths covered. Arthur, do you have a copy of the article?”
“Uhm, at home, I think.”
“Never mind,” said Bethany, sitting down at the table and tapping away on David’s laptop. After a few seconds, she began to read. “The Dean this morning said he feared that efforts to extinguish the fire in the Lady Chapel would lead to the flooding of the main cathedral, but this did not come to pass.”
“Oh, my God,” said Arthur, reaching out and grabbing Bethany’s hand. “What would we do without you?”
“You should listen very closely to what you just said,” said Bethany, giving his hand a squeeze and looking him right in the eyes.
“What?” roared David. “What the goddamned hell are you two talking about?”
“This is a cathedral,” said Arthur. “Kindly refrain from using the Lord’s name in vain.”
“All right,” said David, smiling. “What in the name of fuck-all shit are you talking about?”
“Much better,” said Bethany.
“When the south transept of York Minster caught fire in 1980,” said Arthur, “large sections of the cathedral avoided serious water damage, because the water used to put out the fire flowed out of the crypt through a Roman drainage system that had been there almost two thousand years.”
“And when they put out the fire in Barchester in 1941, the water disappeared, too,” said Bethany. “So where did it go?”
“And why would there be a drainage system under the Lady Chapel?” said Arthur.
“The only reason I can think of,” said Bethany, still holding Arthur’s hand, “is that the Lady Chapel, which, by the way, if you read Arthur’s guidebook you will know housed the shrine of Ewolda, was built over her sacred spring.”
“And the manuscript says that Ewolda was entombed beside the spring,” said Arthur.
“In Winchester there was a hole in the shrine of St. Swithun,” said Bethany.
“The holy hole,” said Arthur.
“Where pilgrims could crawl in and be closer to the actual bones of the saint,” said Bethany.
“And the account we have of Ewolda’s medieval shrine describes the same sort of passage,” said Arthur. “But what if that holy hole took pilgrims above the tomb of Ewolda. What if, when the shrine breakers came, they didn’t destroy the actual tomb because they didn’t realize it was right below them?”
“And right next to the sacred spring,” said Bethany.
“The same spring whose drainage system took away all the water from the fire hoses in 1941.”
After this torrent of explanation, Arthur and Bethany fell silent, still staring into each other’s eyes.
“You’re kidding me,” said David. “You think a . . . what, a twelve- or thirteen-hundred-year-old spring with healing powers is sitting under the ruins of the Lady Chapel and nobody has known about it since the Reformation? And you think the tomb of Ewolda is sitting there beside it?”
“The tomb is conjecture,” said Arthur. “The spring has to be there.”
“Otherwise where did that water go?” said Bethany.
“Who the hell knows where it went?” said David. “Down the bloody toilet. Don’t you think if there was a spring under the cathedral someone would have found it in the past millennium?”
“Actually,” said Oscar, “I’ve wondered for a long time about the crypt. A crypt should be cruciform, like the church above it, but the crypt at Barchester is shaped like a T. There’s no arm at the top.”
“Or maybe there is,” said Arthur. “Maybe there is an arm that’s been sealed up. If they walled it off during the Reformation, to keep the king’s commissioners from finding the spring and the tomb, that would explain why they encoded the manuscript at the same time.”
“So we’re going to do what?” said David. “Spend the rest of the afternoon sneaking into the crypt of a cathedral with a dodgy north transept and knocking down walls hoping to find some mystical birdbath before the whole damn building comes down on our heads?”
“No,” said Arthur. “That would be a foolish way to spend the rest of the afternoon.”
“Absolutely,” said Oscar. “Extremely foolish.”
“Are you serious?” said B
ethany.
“We’re very serious,” said Arthur. “We’ll wait until after Compline.”
David folded his arms across his chest as the other three glared at him.
“Come on, old friend,” said Oscar. “It’s no worse than robbing the precentor.”
“In for a penny, in for a pound,” said Arthur.
“Oh, fine,” said David. “But when they arrest us you can count on me to testify for the prosecution.”
“It’s hours until Compline,” said Bethany. “What do we do in the meantime?”
“In the meantime,” said Oscar, “we go to the Corpus Christi Mass. We listen to the lovely music and we act like nothing out of the ordinary is going on.”
“Why are we keeping everything secret?” asked Bethany, finally dropping Arthur’s hand.
“Because,” said Arthur, “if there is one thing the precentor made clear at his party it’s that he wants to sell those manuscripts.”
“And if he finds out what we’re up to,” said David, “you can be sure he’ll find a way to stop it. I don’t trust that salmon-headed twit any further than I can throw him.”
“I’m not leaving anything sitting out here,” said Arthur, pulling together the piles of ciphered and deciphered text. “As long as we’re being paranoid we may as well do it properly.” He stowed the papers in Oscar’s desk drawer, locked it, and pocketed the key.
“There’s just one more thing that I don’t understand,” said David, smiling archly.
“What’s that?” said Arthur.
“What the hell is going on between you and Bethany?”
“Oh, he’s just in love with me, that’s all,” said Bethany.
XIV
THE CRYPT
There is little of interest in the crypt of Barchester Cathedral. The construction, though early Norman, is undistinguished, and there are no tombs or monuments. There is no evidence that the crypt was ever used for worship—it seems to exist solely for engineering purposes. The east end of the cathedral, built closer to the river, sits on somewhat softer ground than the west end, and the substructure of the crypt transfers the weight of the building to a firm gravel bed.
A.D. 560, St. Ewolda’s Monastery
Wigbert seemed even weaker than before, thought Martin, as he entered the abbot’s room. It was as if, now that he had dictated the story of his sister’s life to Martin, his work on earth was done and he was beginning his transition to his heavenly reward.
“Read me the manuscript,” said Wigbert. “The portion that tells of my sister’s life. I should like to hear it one final time.”
“As you wish, Reverend Abbot,” said Martin. And he began.
In the twelfth year of the rule of King Acwald of Barsyt, Ewolda was given by God to His people. She was born of King Acwald and his Queen Ceolwen in the same hour as her brother, Wigbert. In that moment the darkness of the room was illuminated and those who witnessed this miracle, not yet being followers of the one true God, believed this light to come from her beauty, though we know now that an angel of the Lord sat vigil over her birth and ascended into heaven in shafts of light to bring word to our most holy Father. This was the first true miracle of St. Ewolda.
As Ewolda grew so her beauty did also, and in her twelfth year, there began a procession of suitors to the court of Barsyt, for stories of the princess had spread throughout the land. To all such suitors both King Acwald and the princess herself gave rebuff, until there came, in the sixteenth year of her life, Prince Hungstan of the Kingdom of Waldburgh. Waldburgh was a kingdom of some wealth, and King Acwald saw the wisdom of the match, and so Ewolda was betrothed to Hungstan and King Acwald agreed that the marriage would take place in one year’s time.
After the departure of Hungstan, there came another leader who had heard of the beauty and purity of Ewolda, and this man came not to pursue her hand for himself, but rather to bring to her the most holy Gospel of Christ in the hope that Ewolda would dedicate her life to our Lord, and maintain her chastity in his honor. This visitor was a great leader in battle, but he was also a Christian and had learned of Christ in the hidden places of Britain, where the light of the Gospel still burned after the fall of Rome. Many hours did this king, for so he was called, spend each day with Ewolda, teaching her the good news of Christ, and after seven days, Ewolda declared her wish to be baptized. The king who had taught her traveled with a priest, and in the waters of the River Esk was Ewolda baptized and made one with Christ. After the baptism of Ewolda, the visitor remained for seven more days, teaching her the ways of Christ, and then he did depart, leaving Ewolda with the promise of his return and the blessing of Almighty God.
All this passed without the knowledge of King Acwald, who had been away at the court of Cearl of Mercia when the visitor came. On the king’s return, Ewolda told her father of her new faith and tried all such ways as she knew to convince the king of the truth of the Gospel. But when she claimed her chastity for Christ and said that she would not marry Hungstan, her father flew into a rage and locked Ewolda away in a cell. There she prayed from dawn to dusk each day, and committed herself further to Christ, vowing to found a monastery on the site of her imprisonment.
Now it came to pass that Hungstan returned, and Ewolda was released from her cell and forced to marry him, but she said unto him that she would not allow him his marriage rights, for her body belonged to Christ alone and she would remain chaste. Hungstan grew wild with anger and vowed that he would claim his rights on the third night hence. Ewolda was locked again in her cell, but was surprised to find there her brother, Wigbert, who had entered the world so soon after her. Now, Wigbert had been abroad and had returned on the day of the wedding, and so he asked his sister why she was condemned to this cell. And when Ewolda confessed her faith to Wigbert, he was greatly moved and vowed to be baptized himself and to stand by his sister and aid her in the great work of Christ and in founding a monastery.
When the third night arrived, Hungstan came to claim his rights, but Ewolda cried from within the cell that she would die before giving up her virtue to him. Then there emerged from the cell a figure in the robe of a woman and a voice cried, “To Christ alone I give my life.” Hungstan threw the figure upon the ground and demanded his rights, but the cry came back “No.” And again Hungstan made this demand, and again the figure responded “No.” And a third and final time, Hungstan demanded his rights, and the figure cried, “My life before my virtue.” Then Hungstan raised his sword and was just about to rain his blow upon the figure when Ewolda ran from the darkness of the cell. For it was her brother, Wigbert, who lay beneath the sword, ready to sacrifice his life in the name of Christ and for the honor of his sister. But Ewolda could not accept so generous a gift, and as the blow fell she threw her body between the sword and Wigbert, and Hungstan hewed off her head. Ewolda’s body fell to the ground, and where her blood spilled there instantly sprang forth a font of clear, fresh water. When Hungstan beheld this miracle he fell on his knees and begged forgiveness of Wigbert, who wept by his sister’s body.
On the site of that holy and sacred spring did Wigbert found the monastery of St. Ewolda and there he did baptize Hungstan and King Acwald and Queen Ceolwen. Ewolda was entombed beside the spring and from that day forth the waters of Ewolda’s spring had miraculous powers, and many were the sick and lame who traveled to that spot and were healed by the miracle of Ewolda’s sacrifice.
“But who was the man who taught your sister?” said Martin. “Surely you must name the blessed man who brought the light of Christ to this place.”
“I shall name him,” said Wigbert. “But only I shall name him.” And Wigbert, though by no means a scribe of Martin’s skill, added a few words of his own to the manuscript that Martin had prepared.
“May I read what you have written?” said Martin.
“I believe,” said Wigbert, “it is time you returned to France.”
; May 26, 2016
FEAST OF AUGUSTINE, FIRST ARCHBISHOP OF CANTERBURY
“During the reign of Cearl of Mercia,” said Arthur in amazement. “That’s early sixth century. A hundred and fifty years before we thought St. Ewolda’s was founded. This makes Barchester possibly the earliest continuously operating Christian foundation in England.” They had finished decoding all but the last few lines of Ewolda’s biography and Arthur had just read the translation aloud.
“I wish we knew who the man was,” said David, “the one who converted her to Christianity.”
“I suppose he’s one of those characters lost in the mists of time,” said Arthur.
“The service is about to begin,” said Oscar.
They made their way toward the cathedral, and as Bethany was about to enter the south transept from the cloister, Arthur pulled gently on her arm and she turned back while David and Oscar disappeared into the cathedral.
“I don’t usually go to Communion services,” he said.
“You came to Evelyn’s Funeral Mass,” said Bethany.
“That was different.”
“You know, Arthur, you can decide to believe. That’s all it takes sometimes is a decision. You decided to believe in the Grail; you can decide to believe in God.”
“You’re so confident, aren’t you?” said Arthur. “It amazes me how you just don’t have any doubt.”
“Oh, God, Arthur, is that what you think? That believing means not having any doubt? Of course I have doubt. Every time I turn on the news and see man’s inhumanity to man I have doubts about God; every time I read some scholarly article about the ‘legendary’ King Arthur I have doubts about the Grail; and God knows every time I stop to think about who you are and who I am and how different we are, I have serious doubts about love. But doubt is what makes belief and love gritty and dirty and complicated and worthwhile and life-changing.”
The Lost Book of the Grail Page 31