The Lost Book of the Grail Page 7

  —

  The interior of the bishop’s palace had been completely renovated in the eighteenth century, and the main staircase was an elegant affair. Wide steps rose to a spacious landing from which two shorter staircases led to the two wings of the building. On the paneled wall of the landing hung a life-size portrait with a small gold plaque at the bottom of the frame reading “Robert Gladwyn, Bishop of Barchester, 1872–1905.”

  Arthur led Bethany into the front hallway and then told her to look up. She gasped as she saw the bishop gazing down on them.

  “Let’s take a closer look, shall we?” said Arthur. “There is a lot to see.” He and Bethany mounted the stairs and stopped in front of the portrait. Arthur stood silent for several minutes, letting Bethany take in the richness of the painting’s color and its fine details, so that her first impression might not be clouded by his comments.

  In front of an altar, a gray-haired clergyman with piercing blue eyes stood holding a golden cup in the air with both hands. Rays of light seemed to emanate from the cup and intersect with other rays streaming in from the stained glass window above. The draping of his vestments was painted in great detail, as were the decorative tiles of the floor. On the altar stood an elaborate gold cross and two flickering candles in gold candlesticks. To the right of the altar, on a small silver table, lay a jewel-encrusted book.

  “What do you think?” Arthur asked at last.

  “It’s beautiful,” said Bethany. “The details in the vestments remind me of the tapestry in Waterhouse’s painting The Lady of Shalott. I’ve always loved the Pre-Raphaelites—partly because they were so fascinated by the Grail but also for the richness of detail. But I’ve mostly just seen reproductions in books, not the originals. This is so alive. I guess you like that I appreciate the difference.”

  “Waterhouse wasn’t a Pre-Raphaelite,” said Arthur, “and of course The Lady of Shalott, though certainly Arthurian in nature, was a nineteenth-century invention of Tennyson.”

  “Yes, I know that, Arthur,” said Bethany. “But in the same way Tennyson was influenced by Malory and that whole crowd, Waterhouse was influenced by the Pre-Raphaelites—that’s all I’m trying to say.”

  “So was Collier,” said Arthur.

  “You can see every stitch in his vestments,” said Bethany, leaning toward the painting until her nose almost touched the canvas.

  “Indeed,” said Arthur, falling quiet again while Bethany undertook a closer examination.

  “OK,” she said at last, stepping back. “Now, tell me about all the iconography. I can see you’re dying to.”

  “First of all, we see the bishop is wearing his red Eucharistic vestments—his chasuble but also his stole and his maniple, that’s the cloth draped over his arm. The red at that time was for the feasts of martyrs, which is one way we know the painting shows the bishop on the feast day of St. Ewolda. Then there are the four golden images stitched into the vestments.”

  “They’re so small,” said Bethany, squinting at the painting. “I can hardly make them out. Is that a woman holding a cup?”

  “They each show Ewolda. Nearly all we know about her is contained in those four images.”

  “No wonder you don’t know much.”

  “The originals are much easier to see,” said Arthur.

  “The originals?”

  “The images on the bishop’s vestments are based on four carved ceiling bosses in the cloister of the cathedral. I’ll show you sometime, if I can tear you away from your . . . what do you call it—your digitizing.”

  “Hey, you’ll appreciate my digitizing one day. Now tell me about the cup.”

  Arthur hesitated. She seemed a nice enough young woman, but all that talk of digitizing worried him. Telling her that he had strong reason to believe the cup in the painting was meant to be the Holy Grail would not exactly be breaking his promise of secrecy to his grandfather. In Barchester at least, Gladwyn’s obsession with medievalism was no great secret. But if this young woman was interested in the Grail, he had no desire to encourage her to pursue that interest on his turf. “Not the Holy Grail, I think,” he said. “Simply a Communion cup. I believe the painting is meant to show the moment in the service before the elements are distributed just after the Prayer of Consecration.”

  “You don’t think that’s the Grail table?” said Bethany, pointing to the small table in the painting.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Malory writes about the Grail sitting on a silver table, and that’s a silver table.”

  “I never thought about that,” said Arthur, who, to his great consternation, never had. It bothered him that this American knew her Morte d’Arthur so well. “A coincidence, I’m sure.” But he knew it wasn’t. Bethany had pointed out a clue he had completely missed, and that strengthened his own suspicions about the painting.

  “Right,” she said, “a coincidence. What about that book on the Grail table? What’s that?”

  “That book is the reason I’m having so much trouble with my cathedral guide.”

  “How so?”

  “That is the lost Book of Ewolda. According to legend, it was a jewel-encrusted manuscript, though that bit is rather unlikely, given Barchester’s perennial poverty. It’s supposed to contain not just her life story, but also long-lost secrets of the cathedral.”

  “What happened to it?”

  “We’ve no idea. Probably it was either destroyed by Vikings or destroyed by Normans or destroyed by reformers.”

  “In other words, there are lots of ways a manuscript could have gone missing in the past thousand years or so.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Then why is it in the painting?”

  “Gladwyn was a great medievalist. He was fascinated by anything to do with the early history of the cathedral. He wrote that 1890 guidebook you were reading.”

  “Why didn’t he even mention Ewolda?”

  “Like me, he knew almost nothing about her,” said Arthur, “but I think he believed in the lost manuscript. And he believed one day it would be found.”

  —

  Arthur felt no guilt about denying to Miss Davis that the cup in the painting of Gladwyn was the Holy Grail. She had been in Barchester a few hours; Arthur had been secretly researching connections between Barchester and the Grail since he was a teenager—and Gladwyn’s Grail portrait was one of his discoveries. Because the painting was not reproduced in any book, it attracted few visitors, and as far as Arthur knew, no one else had made the specific connection to the Holy Grail that he had made. Even his grandfather had never mentioned Gladwyn’s portrait to him. He didn’t like the idea of the portrait being on this Instagram, whatever that was, for anyone to see. Barchester and its Grail connections were Arthur’s private territory, unknown even to his closest friends. He had no reason to believe that Miss Davis was more than casually interested in the Grail, but if he wasn’t going to tell David and Oscar what he knew about Gladwyn’s portrait, he certainly wasn’t going to tell her. If his grandfather was right and there were ancient secrets lurking in Barchester—secrets about Ewolda or secrets about the Grail—Arthur fully intended to be the one to uncover them.

  —

  By the time Arthur and Bethany were back outside, it was nearly time for Evensong. He had meant to get some work done this afternoon, but instead had spent his time . . . doing what? Explaining to a child why books are important? No, that wasn’t fair. True, Miss Davis was probably not much older than his students, but she seemed considerably better at mounting a defense against his arguments. Her vision of the future depressed him, but he admired her ability to make her case. If he hadn’t gotten to the library today, at least he had engaged in a bit of a battle. As Bethany wrapped a scarf around her neck against the late afternoon chill, he turned to her and, on a whim, asked, “Why don’t you come along with me to Evensong?”

 
“Oh, I don’t think so,” said Bethany. “I’m not really a churchgoer. Ironically.”

  “Why ironically?” asked Arthur, as they walked back toward the cathedral.

  “Well, my father is pastor of this megachurch in Florida and ever since I was a kid I was forced to go and I know I’m supposed to be moved to tears by the loud music and the flashing lights and all the preaching and witnessing, but it just never did anything for me, you know. I mean, I don’t have a problem with it—whatever works for you, right? It’s just not my kind of thing.”

  “Forgive me for asking, but what exactly is a megachurch?”

  “It’s a . . . well, the building is more like an auditorium than any church you’d find here in Barchester.”

  “And the liturgy?”

  “There isn’t exactly a liturgy. It’s mostly a rock band playing and my dad preaching. The original preacher who founded the place—he was amazingly charismatic. Unfortunately, he was so charismatic that he ended up resigning because of what he called ‘moral mistakes,’ which means he slept with about six church employees. So my dad, who had been an assistant, took over as head pastor. Anyhow, the whole thing left a sour taste in my mouth about churchgoing. I mean, I believe in God, I just don’t like to go to church.”

  “That’s funny,” said Arthur. “I go to church, but I don’t believe in God.”

  “You don’t believe in God?” said Bethany.

  “Not in the way that you, or your father, or the Church of England would define him. Anyway, it sounds like we could both use Evensong, and it starts in a few minutes. I’m usually in my seat by now.”

  “Maybe another time,” said Bethany, but Arthur could tell this was her American way of saying no.

  “Besides,” she said, “I have to stop by my room and pick up an extra USB cable to connect the Wi-Fi hotspot in the library.”

  “Of course you do,” said Arthur, having no idea what she meant.

  “I guess we’ll be seeing a lot of each other if we’re both going to be working up there.”

  “No doubt,” said Arthur coldly. The reintroduction of her purpose in Barchester reminded him of the bibliographical future she claimed to represent.

  “Well,” said Bethany as they reached the other side of the bridge, “I’m at a little bed-and-breakfast up the road here, so I guess this is where I say good-bye. Thanks for showing me the Holy Grail.” Without waiting for a reply, she turned the corner into a narrow lane, and for an instant all Arthur saw of her was her blond hair caught in the wind, flying out behind the head that had already disappeared into the shadows. It was lovely hair, he thought, but why couldn’t it be attached to a head that paid attention to what he said. The last thing he wanted in Barchester was some American hunting for the Holy Grail.

  IV

  THE CLOISTER

  The cloister, once used by medieval scribes to pen manuscripts, contains roof bosses dating from the thirteenth century, including four carvings, at the four corners, of St. Ewolda. These bosses still retain flecks of their original paint. The first shows Ewolda in flowing robes, wearing a circlet of gold, indicating royal descent. Next we see her in a nun’s habit holding a church, showing that she was in holy orders and was the founder of Barchester’s original monastery. In the third carving, she holds two roses, one white and one red, symbols of purity and martyrdom. In the final boss, Ewolda holds a cup overflowing with water.

  A.D. 880, St. Ewolda’s Monastery

  Cenhelm did not like visitors. In the twelve years he had served as abbot of St. Ewolda’s, only one visitor had ever come with good news. That had been almost a decade ago, when King Alfred had turned the tide against the Danes at the Battle of Ashdown. For the first time in living memory, the threat of a sacking of the monastery by Vikings had faded. So this morning’s visitor was not likely to bring catastrophic news, but still Cenhelm’s stomach hardened as he ushered the man into his chamber.

  Cenhelm was the first abbot of St. Ewolda’s Monastery who oversaw only monks. He had not decided that St. Ewolda’s should cease being a dual foundation—it had simply happened. One day, the last of the nuns had died, and no novices had come to the gates since. It had been a peaceful transition, and Cenhelm was happiest when the monastery was peaceful. Sometimes for days, rarely for weeks, once in his memory for nearly three months, he enjoyed a life of quiet contemplation. But inevitably the peace was broken. Two of the brothers would fall into an argument over whose turn it was to tend the monastery’s modest flock of sheep. A local merchant would claim he had not been paid for the latest delivery of flour. A fire would break out in the kitchens. Or a visitor would arrive. And a visitor never wanted to speak to a lowly monk; a visitor always wanted the abbot.

  “I greet you in the name of Christ, good Cenhelm. Your reputation as a fair and just abbot is known throughout the land.” This was an especially unbelievable bit of flattery, as Cenhelm was abbot of possibly the smallest monastery in the British Isles, but he let the visitor continue.

  “I am Brother Oswine of the abbey of Glastonbury. I come with greetings from our abbot, Hereferth, who desires me to speak with you on a matter of great importance to our foundation.”

  “Our kitchens and our place of worship, though surely less grand than what you know at Glastonbury, are open to you, good brother,” said Cenhelm, sincerely hoping he could dispense with this monk before the need arose for hospitality.

  “If you are able to grant the request of Abbot Hereferth, my stay will be brief and I need not trouble you for food or shelter.”

  “And what does your abbot request?”

  “Nearly a century ago, when word first came of the invasions from the north and the destruction of Lindisfarne, our beloved Abbot Beaduwulf sent to your Abbess Cyneburga one of the great treasures of Glastonbury, that it might be kept safe here from the attacks of the heathens. Now that King Alfred has driven the invaders far from our home, I am sent to retrieve this treasure and restore it to its rightful place at the altar of our monastic church.”

  “I have no wish to displease your father abbot,” said Cenhelm, “but how can you ask of things that happened a century ago? No monk here is older than three score years. How could any remember back through a century?”

  “I have no doubt,” said Oswine, “that the story of this treasure has been passed down from generation to generation.”

  “You monks of Glastonbury are wealthy; we are poor. If we had any great treasure we would have sold it long ago.”

  “No man of God would have sold such a treasure,” said Oswine firmly.

  Cenhelm feared this visitor would not be as easily dismissed as he had hoped. “I can tell you only this, Brother. I know nothing of any treasure from Glastonbury or anywhere else. You are free to search our church, modest though it is, and any other parts of our meager foundation. You may question any of my brothers and I will instruct them to speak freely and answer you truthfully. But though I offer you hospitality, our means are few. Take no more than three days. Remove any treasure you discover and leave us be.”

  Oswine agreed to Cenhelm’s terms and for the next three days searched every chamber of the monastery, from the kitchens to the cells to the very church itself. Cenhelm was proud of his church. Stone structures were not common in Britain, and part of the foundation’s poverty was due to the cost of its construction. He cringed to see the monk pulling stones from the floor to look for hidden treasure.

  All sixteen members of the foundation were subjected to Oswine’s scowling interrogation. None had any knowledge of a treasure from Glastonbury. Oswine’s refusal to reveal what form this treasure took made it difficult for them to cooperate with his search, but, at the instruction of their abbot, they rendered what aid they could.

  “It is tragic that such a relic should be lost,” said Oswine to Cenhelm at the end of the third day.

  “The years in a century are many. I re
gret that you will never know the fate of what you seek.”

  “Perhaps,” said Oswine icily. “Or perhaps it will yet come to light.” By dawn of the following day, he was gone.

  —

  Cenhelm waited an entire day after Oswine’s departure—followed by a long restless night. Worried the monk might not really be gone, but might instead be spying on St. Ewolda’s, he sent several brothers into the surrounding countryside to look for him, but they found no trace. Only then did Cenhelm make his way to the small wattle-and-daub barn that lay some distance outside the precincts. He swept away the hay from the darkest corner of the building to reveal a section of wooden floor. Carefully lifting two of the floorboards, he saw that the box holding the treasure was still in place. He replaced the boards and the hay and was back in his chamber before anyone had noticed his absence. That evening, he sent for the youngest monk in the foundation.

  “I serve you, Father,” said Leofwine.

  “Great service is required of you,” said the abbot. “Now that the threat of the northern pagans withdraws, our foundation will not be so isolated. I fear our most recent visitor may be the first of many.” He paused for a moment, before adding, almost to himself, “And the power of Glastonbury grows.”

  “What need we fear from Glastonbury? They serve Christ as we do. We should rejoice in their power. Perhaps now the light of Christ will reach every darkened corner of the land.”

  “There is a great secret at St. Ewolda’s,” said the abbot. “A secret I am about to entrust to you.”

  “I am honored,” said the monk.

  Cenhelm reached within his robes and withdrew a folded parchment he had kept there since the day he had become Guardian. Its words he had long ago committed to memory, lest anything should happen to the document. Now he held it out to Leofwine.

  “This parchment contains all you need to know. You will not sleep this night until its words are deeply etched in your memory. Henceforth you will keep it hidden on yourself at all times. Others may come to St. Ewolda’s to seek this parchment and the treasure it describes, but you are to reveal the secrets to no one. Only you will know when the time comes to pass this secret to a new Guardian. Then you must do as I am doing now. But I warn you, the monks of Glastonbury will want to unearth our secret and claim our treasure. Beware of any brother who hails from Somerset.”