He shuffled slowly ahead, until his toe caught the edge of something solid. Stooping to investigate, he saw, in the flickering light of the candle, a circular stone wall about two feet high and four feet across. When he leaned over the edge, he felt a refreshing coolness, nothing like the stale dank of the rest of the crypt. He lowered his candle farther, and looked into a pool of water so clear and still he could see every smudge of dirt on his face where it reflected on the surface. From the sound of running water, he knew that this was a spring and not a well, that water was draining away somewhere, but the surface remained like glass. Arthur suddenly realized he was both filthy and thirsty, yet he felt this water was not for satisfying ordinary needs. This, he knew as he sat on the wall surrounding it, was the sacred spring of Ewolda. Even if the story of its bursting forth on the site of her martyrdom was no more than a myth, it was the most ancient part of Barchester’s history. And whether or not Arthur believed in its healing powers, according to the manuscript many over the centuries had, and their faith was not to be taken lightly.
Arthur sat staring into the water’s depths for several minutes. He thought of the faith of Ewolda, of those who had come to her spring, and those who had used such ingenuity to protect it. He thought about what Bethany had said to him earlier that evening, what seemed like days ago. Was it really that simple? Could he just decide to believe in God?
He might have remained there all night, pondering faith, watching as the candlelight flickered in the glassy water. He didn’t know how long he had sat mesmerized by that sight when he felt a hand on his shoulder.
“We were calling you,” said Bethany gently. “We got worried.”
“It’s real,” he said, not raising his eyes to her, but relaxing at the soft touch of her hand. The sound of Oscar and David emerging into the chamber barely registered on Arthur’s consciousness. It was incredible, this sense of peace he was drawing from seemingly ordinary water. Perhaps he was tired, perhaps he was relieved, but he wasn’t sitting here thinking of saving manuscripts or rewriting history books, or even of finding the Grail; he was thinking only of faith and love, of God and Ewolda, of his grandfather and the joy he would have felt in this spot, and of Bethany—until he felt another hand on his other shoulder, this one shaking him hard enough to bring the world of four trespassers in an ancient chamber back into focus.
“Uhm, Arthur,” said David, “can I rouse you from your meditation long enough to point out that a fifteen-hundred-year-old sacred spring is not the only thing down here that is going to loosen those Heritage Lottery purse strings. Travel a little farther east, my good man.”
Bethany took his hand and helped him stand, for Arthur’s legs felt not quite of this world. They took a few steps past the spring to where Oscar and David now stood at either end of a stone sarcophagus. It bore no decoration, no fine jewels that would identify it as a saintly shrine. The tomb was not crafted from alabaster or Purbeck marble but from slabs of plain Barsetshire limestone. Arthur passed David and stood at the west side of the tomb as if at an altar. He noticed, as he ran his hand across the rough surface of the stone, that the spring chamber, as he now thought of it, did not have the dank and filth of the outer crypt. Perhaps because the water in here moved, it seemed to keep the air fresh and the stones, but for a layer of dust, clean. Arthur, still holding his candle, leaned over the tomb and gently blew the dust from its surface. There, incised into the stone in large, simple letters, was a single word—EVOLDA.
XV
THE CLOSE
In the fifteenth century, Barchester Cathedral close was said to be one of the most beautiful neighborhoods in the kingdom. The Civil War, however, wrought havoc. Trees were cut down for firewood, houses destroyed, windows used for target practice. Many of the homes and other buildings in the close were razed after the Restoration, and over the next two centuries a hodgepodge of domestic buildings grew up in the close. In the nineteenth century, Bishop Gladwyn undertook a major rebuilding effort, restoring the medieval layout of St. Martin’s Close with a set of buildings designed by George Gilbert Scott.
July 14, 1660, Barchester
Gregory Wickart once again found himself as Canon Wickart. After sixteen years of Cromwell’s protectorate, during which Anglican clergy had been hounded from their cathedrals, the Stuarts had returned to power, the monarchy had returned to England, the Church of England had returned to the land, and Canon Wickart had returned to Barchester. The memories of those dark days when the Parliamentarians had invaded the cathedral still haunted him. The clergy had been turned out of all the cathedrals in the realm, but Cromwell had been especially harsh in places like Barchester, which had gladly adopted Archbishop Laud’s High Church ways of worship. Though the archbishop was already in prison awaiting execution when Barchester fell, Cromwell was ruthless in tearing the cathedral clergy from their homes, destroying their belongings, including books and vestments, and stripping the cathedral of anything that hinted at ritualism.
Gregory had waited a few weeks after the Restoration, not wanting to take a chance that the new status quo would be temporary, but with a month and a half passed since King Charles’s coronation in May, it now felt safe to return. What he saw in the close as he passed through the gates grieved him greatly. The two rows of medieval houses that had faced each other across St. Martin’s Close, houses reserved for the use of the vicars choral and the canons, lay mostly in ruins. Inside the cathedral, windows had been smashed, the altar overturned, and much of the woodwork from the quire stalls and altar rail had been carted off as firewood. There had been, Gregory heard, a plan to pull down the cathedral altogether, and only the objections of the mayor and burgesses had convinced Cromwell that this was an unwise course of action.
The library, Gregory discovered on mounting the steps to that magnificent room, was in disarray. It had been used to house troops—men who had thought nothing of burning books for warmth or putting their pages to even more unsavory purposes. When the troops had left, the room had been abandoned. Broken windows had let in wind and rain and many of the remaining books were damaged beyond repair. The collection of nearly four thousand printed books, largely built by Bishop Atwater, had been reduced to a few hundred. Thankfully, the manuscripts that had been chained in place by Bishop Atwater, being far from any broken windows, remained more or less unscathed. The archival records of the cathedral had been sent to a central registry in London, but Gregory understood they would soon be returned to Barchester. He hoped they would return intact.
Slowly, over the next few years, the cathedral came back to life. The new bishop was a man of independent wealth, and he personally paid for many of the repairs. Gregory oversaw the restoration of the library. He carefully removed all the books, disposing of those that were damaged beyond use and storing the rest in the Lady Chapel while the library was cleaned and the windows replaced. The treasure with which he had been entrusted so many years ago remained hidden for now outside the cathedral precincts, and the coded manuscript he had taken into his care he placed in the Lady Chapel with the other books. It seemed as safe a place as any.
When the time came to return the books to the library, Gregory mourned the wide empty spaces on the shelves. But this library had been built before and it could be built again. As it had before, it would depend on the donations of bishops, clergy, and benefactors, but Gregory knew that eventually the shelves would be filled.
—
On the morning of Pentecost 1665, the archbishop of Canterbury, Gilbert Sheldon, was to rededicate the restored cathedral. Gregory had looked forward to giving the archbishop a personal tour of the library, hoping His Grace might be moved to donate a few volumes. The cathedral dean had already given much of his own collection, as had a prominent merchant in the city, and the library looked a bit less barren than it had even a few months ago.
Earlier in the week, Gregory had been part of an entourage that had traveled to London to accompany
the archbishop from his home at Lambeth Palace to Barchester. As he lay in bed while the early morning light filtered through the window, he realized what a mistake that journey had been. He shivered with chills, and his forehead sweated with fever, but that was not the least of his worries. Under his left arm, and on the side of his neck, were two painful, swollen lumps. Gregory knew he had been infected with the plague that was even then running rampant through London. He knew that no member of the cathedral clergy would come to his bedside. The risk of infection was too great. Gregory did not fear death. He had, he believed, served God on earth and looked forward to doing the same in heaven when the Lord saw fit to call him. However, he did fear a lapse in the guardianship. Though he had never understood exactly what he was guarding or why he was guarding it, he knew from the desperate tone of Laurence’s voice all those years ago that the coded manuscript and its associated treasure must be protected. Gregory had made many sacrifices in his years of exile to serve as Guardian, but now he faced the reality of a speedy death and the necessity of appointing a successor. If no clergy came to his room—and he already felt too weak to stand and walk—could a layman serve as Guardian? Laurence’s instructions had been hasty to say the least.
“Still abed, Father Wickart?” came a voice on the stair. “I thought you was to breakfast at the bishop’s palace this morning.”
“I am ill,” said Gregory in a weak voice. “You had best stay away, Margret.”
Margret was the housemaid, the cook, and the laundress all in one. Most mornings she made breakfast for Gregory, which he ate on his return from Morning Prayer.
“Indeed I won’t,” said Margret, appearing at the door of the bedroom. “Oh, me, you look like death himself. Shall I fetch the doctor?”
“The doctor, like everyone else of status in Barchester,” said Gregory, “is breakfasting with the archbishop. Besides, there is nothing a doctor can do for me now.”
“Some broth, then,” said Margret. “Or some water, at least.”
“You are kind, Margret, but there is nothing you can do either.” Or was there, thought Gregory. Was it possible to pass the mantle of guardianship not to a clergyman, not even to a layman, but to a laywoman?
“There must be something, sir. I cannot stand here and do nothing to help . . .” Gregory looked up and saw that Margret was now weeping. “To help a man who’s been so kind to me,” she said.
She was a good woman, an honest woman, thought Gregory. And there could be no doubt that she cared for and respected him deeply. She had always done anything he asked without question and she had accomplished every task with integrity and efficiency. She feared God, said her prayers every night, and attended services every Sunday. And Laurence had stipulated no rules about who should be Guardian. Gregory thought that Margret would perform the task nobly.
“Actually, my dear Margret,” he said, “there is something you can do.”
A few hours later, Margret Barlow, a spinster who could neither read nor write, and who had no means of accessing the places where the objects of her guardianship resided, nonetheless became the first layperson to serve as Guardian. As Gregory predicted, she discharged her duties efficiently and effectively. Her guardianship lasted less than a day. She remained with Gregory through his last hours, carefully keeping her distance, save for changing the cold compress on his forehead that offered some slight relief. When the end came, night had fallen on Barchester, the archbishop had departed, and all the clergy of the cathedral, no doubt surfeited on the feasts of the day, had retired to their lodgings.
The next morning, Margret attended Morning Prayer in the Lady Chapel. Following the service, as instructed by Canon Wickart, she approached Canon Hammond and asked if she might have a word in private. The canon expressed his opinion that this was an unusual request and that he had a meeting with the dean in a quarter of an hour to discuss a matter of importance, but Margret assured the canon that this, too, was a matter of great importance and that she would impose on the good canon for only a few minutes. And so, in a quiet corner of the retrochoir, Margret Barlow’s twelve hours of guardianship came to an end.
Two weeks later, Margret became Canon Hammond’s housekeeper, and though she saw him every day for the rest of his life—a span of more than twenty years—she never again spoke to him of the manuscript or of the treasure. Even in his final days, when Margret knew he must have passed the guardianship to another, she did not speak of it, nor did he. After the canon’s death, Margret left Barchester and went to live with her nephew in Somerset. There she often entertained the family with stories of life at Barchester Cathedral, but the secret of her hours as Guardian she took to her grave.
May 27, 2016
FIRST FRIDAY AFTER TRINITY
“Arthur?” said Bethany gently. “Arthur, what does it say?”
Arthur couldn’t form the word. They had found Ewolda. Because of her, Barchester existed, the cathedral existed, the library existed. She was the reason for all the best parts of his life. Without her, he would never have met Bethany. And he still believed, though he would share that belief only with Bethany, that Ewolda might one day lead him to the Holy Grail. He stood transfixed, feeling that he should mutter some words of thanks to this woman who, fifteen hundred years ago, had sacrificed her life for a religion she hadn’t even known about a few months earlier. But he couldn’t speak. He couldn’t move, not even to wipe the tears from his eyes.
“Are you all right?” asked David, laying a hand on Arthur’s shoulder. Bethany stepped next to him on the other side and took hold of his arm.
“Amazing,” said Oscar, joining the others in front of the tomb. They stood there for several minutes, the four of them. Arthur slowly emerged from his trance and began to wonder what the others were thinking. Bethany, he imagined, was saying a prayer. David perhaps was gauging how much longer he needed to stand there before he could go take a hot shower and start telling women he had uncovered an ancient secret. Oscar would understand better than any of them that this tomb and this spring certainly meant a huge grant from Heritage Lottery and an influx of tourist dollars into Barchester. Not only would the library be saved, there would be money to repair the manuscripts and the north transept and anything else that needed repairing. Gwyn might even get her glass-and-steel Lady Chapel. It was the thought of Gwyn that finally brought words to Arthur’s lips.
“We should tell the dean.”
“It’s one o’clock in the morning,” said David.
“No, Arthur’s right,” said Oscar. “She needs to know now. The whole chapter will need to see this before they meet tomorrow morning.”
“We’d better get going,” said David, dropping his hand from Arthur’s shoulder and turning toward the pile of rubble they had created.
“Oscar,” said Arthur, “will you tell her?”
“Certainly,” said Oscar, “if that’s what you want. I mean, it really should be you; you’re the one who’s been looking for Ewolda all these years, and you’re Gwyn’s . . . her friend. But if you want me to . . .”
“I’ll see her in the morning,” said Arthur. “You and David should tell her.”
Arthur stepped back from the tomb without taking his eyes from the word on the stone. He turned and saw, in the dim light of the candle and the fading torch, the three people in the world whom he cared for most. A part of him wanted to draw all of them to him in an embrace, but even hidden away from society in an ancient burial chamber, this seem distinctly undignified. Instead he smiled at each of them in turn, trying to express with his eyes what he could not express in words.
“Do you mind if I take a minute?” said Arthur. “I mean, a minute alone?”
“Of course not,” said Bethany. “Take as long as you need. David and Oscar will go to talk to Gwyn, and I’ll wait for you in the main crypt.”
“Wait for me in the Epiphany Chapel,” said Arthur.
“A
re you sure?” said Bethany. “Your candle is burning pretty low.”
“I won’t be long.”
Bethany leaned forward and kissed Arthur lightly on the cheek. This had none of the passion of this morning’s kisses, but Arthur felt such warmth and tenderness that he had a sudden vision of what a life with Bethany might be like—a life with passion, to be sure, but more important, a life where the lightest kiss, the gentlest touch, the merest glance could communicate concern and affection and, above all, connection at the deepest level of their beings. When the vision had passed, he was alone in the burial chamber.
Almost without thinking, Arthur lowered himself to his knees in front of Ewolda’s tomb. He was not used to praying. The prayers he read as part of the daily cathedral services were printed in the Book of Common Prayer and, to Arthur, served as markers of the rhythm of his days and aids to reflection, but he never really saw them as communications with the divine, and he certainly never entertained the notion of praying to a specific saint. Now he knelt at the tomb of Ewolda and simply responded to the impulse he felt. He spoke aloud and the chamber swallowed up his words.
“I don’t understand how you did it,” said Arthur, “or why you did it. I’ve been going to this cathedral all my adult life, and I still can’t muster the courage to take that leap of faith and simply believe. And I have so much pushing me in that direction—people I know and respect and love, the very stones that surround me. And you . . . you had a wandering . . . what, a wandering military leader who just said, excuse me, but here’s a nice new religion. And you believed. You believed so deeply that you gave up your life. I can’t imagine caring about something so much that I would give up . . .” And then of course, he thought of Bethany. Maybe Arthur didn’t believe in God—not yet anyway, but he did at least believe in love. So he said the words he had really wanted to say all along. “Thank you.”
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