The Lost Book of the Grail

by Charlie Lovett

  But the wily bishop was not so easily fooled. “I accept your proposal with two caveats,” he said to Harold as the two stood before the altar of what the Norman visitor must surely have thought of as a crude chapel. “We must not disturb the rest of your blessed St. Ewolda. To remove her from her shrine would be a sacrilege of the highest order. She shall rest in peace where she is.”

  Harold knew, of course, that the bishop’s desire to keep the mortal remains of St. Ewolda had nothing to do with sacrilege. Already a cult of pilgrimage was growing up around the shrines of saints, and the bishop surely hoped that Ewolda’s shrine would mean pilgrims and offerings even in a place as remote as Barcaster. Insisting on leaving Ewolda undisturbed was all about finance.

  “And the second caveat?” asked Harold, wondering if he dare leave behind the bones of his patron in order to save a relic he wasn’t even sure he believed in.

  “That you allow our builders to erect your new monastic church. It need not be so grand as my cathedral, but a foundation of four hundred years deserves something more than . . . ,” the bishop looked around and sniffed with condescension, “. . . than a barn.”

  Harold could see no other way. If they stayed where they were, the monks of St. Ewolda’s would be subsumed into a new monastery with a new patron and the relic he had sworn to guard would almost certainly, within a generation, fall into the hands of these invaders. If they moved, they would lose the shrine of their founder but would be able to continue the traditions of her monastery in a modern building and with the relic properly secured, possibly for hundreds of years to come.

  Eventually he had prevailed upon his brothers to see the wisdom of the move. They knew nothing of the relic, of course, and so did not understand the situation as clearly as he, but he subtly played on their feelings toward the Normans, which ranged from quiet resentment to outright hostility, and presented his plan as one that would take advantage of the invaders’ expertise and wealth while, at the same time, preserving their own autonomy.

  And so he stood at the edge of the field, and imagined a church growing there. It might take a generation or more to complete, and Harold would almost certainly not live to worship under its roof, but smaller buildings could house them for now. They had made do with simple structures since the founding of the monastery; they could continue to do so. Within a few months, there would be enough of a settlement in this empty field that he would be able to move the relic from Barcaster to safety at the new St. Ewolda’s. He hoped the Normans would not discover it, or at least, not knowing its true nature, would release it to his care. Fearing the worst, and feeling that some record, at least, of the treasure that had been handed down for so many centuries should survive, Harold had taken the great risk of writing a marginal note in the monastic service book. Beside the Prayer of Consecration he had written, “Here I remember the great treasure of Barsyt.” He prayed that, when the Norman takeover was complete, these words would not be the final record of that treasure.

  April 30, 2016

  FIFTH SATURDAY AFTER EASTER

  The River View Elder Care facility smelled faintly of ammonia and less faintly of overcooked Brussels sprouts, but the view from the south-facing rooms was as advertised in the name, and Edward Alford lived in one such room. Arthur and Bethany had taken advantage of their open schedules early Saturday evening to seek out Mr. Alford, and they found him sleeping in a chair, an open copy of Bleak House on his lap and an open window in front of him, the fresh air washing away the odors of the place. He opened his eyes before they had spoken and gave a deep sigh.

  “Never tire of that view,” he said, gazing out across the water meadows to where the curve of the river still glimmered in the sun. On the far side of the stream, beyond where a lone willow drooped over the water, the ground rose steeply and sheep dotted the hillside.

  “Mr. Alford?” said Bethany gently. “Are you Mr. Edward Alford?”

  “Been him all my life,” Edward responded. “And look—it’s finally earned me a visit from a pretty girl.”

  “I’m sure I’m not the first,” said Bethany. “May we sit down?”

  “You sit here by me,” said Edward, motioning to a second chair positioned to take in the view. “My competition can sit over there.” He waved his hand vaguely in the direction of a couch in front of a small television.

  “Oh, I’m not your competition,” said Arthur. “We’re not . . . that is . . .”

  “Can I get you a cup of tea?” said Edward to Bethany, ignoring Arthur’s stumbling speech.

  “That would be lovely,” said Bethany.

  Edward leaned forward and whispered to her. “What’s his name?”

  “Arthur,” she whispered back.

  “Arthur,” he bellowed, “get this lovely young lady a cup of tea. How do you take it?”

  “Two sugars, no milk,” said Bethany.

  “Two sugars, no milk,” Edward repeated for Arthur’s benefit. “Everything’s in the kitchen.”

  The kitchen was no more than a narrow counter with an electric kettle, a sink, and a small refrigerator. Arthur put the kettle on and wondered how he had so quickly become a third wheel.

  “Now,” said Edward, “you know my name, but I don’t know yours. All I know is how you take your tea and that you’re an American.”

  “Bethany,” she said, extending a hand. “Bethany Davis.”

  “I’m very pleased to meet you, Bethany Davis,” said Edward. He turned her hand in his and held it for a moment, then lifted it to his lips and gave it a surprisingly soft kiss. “And to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”

  “You were a choirboy at the cathedral during the war,” said Bethany.

  “Oh, dear, if you want me to sing for you, I’m afraid you’re about forty years too late. I could recite some poetry, though. Do you prefer Tennyson or Browning?”

  “Tennyson. But I actually wanted to talk to you about the night of the bombing.”

  Edward sat silently for nearly a minute as the smile gradually faded from his face. “That was a long time ago,” he said.

  “Do you remember that night?”

  “Bethany,” said Edward, reaching for her hand, “there’s a good chance that tomorrow I won’t remember you—which is a sin, because you are such a vision.” He turned and looked her in the eyes for the first time and squeezed her hand tightly. “But I remember that night like it was yesterday, and I shall until the day I die.”

  “Can you tell us about what happened?” asked Arthur.

  “How’s the tea coming?” said Edward.

  “Nearly ready,” said Arthur.

  “Should I send him out for biscuits?” said Edward, leaning conspiratorially toward Bethany but speaking loudly enough that Arthur could hear him.

  “I think it’s all right if he stays,” said Bethany. “We probably should have a chaperone.”

  “Right you are, my dear. It’s quite dangerous for you to be around so much charm.”

  Bethany returned the squeeze to Edward’s hand, which she continued to hold as she settled back in her chair and stared out at the view. The sun was lowering and the shadows of the sheep striped the green of the hillside. “Was it terrible?” she said.

  “It was the proudest moment of my life,” said Edward. “And no one ever asked me about it.”

  Bethany turned to see a tear trickling down his cheek. She reached up with her free hand and brushed it away gently. “I’m asking,” she said. “Tell me everything.”

  For the next hour, Edward sat holding hands with Bethany and recounting the events of seventy-five years earlier in almost cinematic detail, as the tea grew cold. While he listened to the story, Arthur marveled at Bethany’s transformation. This was not the combative, overly talkative, digital Bethany; this Bethany was pure analogue—gentle, soothing, and as comfortable with this old man as Arthur was with an old book. H
e felt a hint of jealousy that Bethany could be so at ease with someone she’d only just met.

  Edward told the whole story, from the moment the noise had awoken him, to the strange uniform words of the manuscript he carried into the cloister, to the frantic hour of passing books out of the library, to the moment he was standing breathless outside the cathedral cloister watching as the volumes were carted away. Then, after a long pause, he turned to Bethany and said, “And that was the last time I saw him.”

  “Saw who?” said Bethany.

  Arthur resisted the urge to correct her grammar.

  “The man in the gray robe. I had seen him in the cloister with my manuscript, the magical manuscript, and then I saw him again walking toward the arch that leads into St. Martin’s Lane—the one with the stone steps next to it.” Edward paused and turned from Bethany to look once again out the window, where the setting sun had turned the meadow a riot of colors from eggplant to flame red.

  “The steps to St. Cuthbert’s,” said Arthur.

  “I didn’t know that at the time, but yes. He was still holding the manuscript,” said Edward, his gaze fixed on the hillside. He paused again and they all watched as the sun dipped below the hill and the colors disappeared as suddenly as if someone had turned off a light switch. The sheep now huddled in the dusky shelter of a horse chestnut tree. Edward squeezed Bethany’s hand, let out a small sigh, and turned his attention back to her.

  “There were lots of manuscripts being rescued that night,” said Edward. “I don’t know why he should have taken that particular one. He had both his arms wrapped around it, and he seemed to look right at me and then . . . then he turned and faded into the shadows.”

  They sat quietly for a few moments before Edward spoke again. “I suppose now that you’ve heard the story of that night you won’t be coming back to visit me.”

  “Of course I will,” said Bethany. “I’m sure there are other nights you could tell me about.”

  “None quite like that,” he said, smiling.

  “One night like that is enough for a lifetime,” said Bethany. She leaned across and kissed him gently on the cheek. Edward let go of her hand, and Arthur could see the regret in his eyes as he did so. There would not be time, he thought, for Edward to tell Bethany about all the nights.

  “Thank you for the tea,” said Arthur.

  “Are you still here, Arthur?” said Edward with a smile. “Perhaps you’d be so kind as to walk this young lady back to her lodgings?”

  “I’d be happy to,” said Arthur. As they crossed to the door, he stopped and turned back. “Could I ask you a question, Mr. Alford?”

  “I won’t forbid it.”

  “Have you ever been back to the library?”

  Edward was silent for a moment before answering. “I used to go back every year on the anniversary.”

  “And were there people there? People working?”

  “Sometimes. Mostly theology students in the years after the war, and some of the older cathedral clergy. But fewer as the years went by. I haven’t been back in a long time now.”

  “I’ll take you,” said Bethany. “Someday soon.”

  “Good night, Miss Davis,” Edward called out as they left his room.

  “How did you do that?” asked Arthur when he and Bethany were back out in the street.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You were so good with him.”

  “He’s not a wild animal, Arthur.”

  “Yes, but you were . . . different.”

  “You know I reserve my evil side just for you. Sorry he didn’t tell us anything useful.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “No, Arthur, I’m not kidding. Don’t you know you have to be over eighty for me to kid with you?”

  “But he told us something tremendously useful.”

  “The man in the gray robe?” said Bethany.

  “The man in the gray robe.”

  “OK, lecture me.”

  “Consider the evidence carefully,” said Arthur, warming to his analysis. He had hardly spoken a word since they’d arrived in Edward’s room and was ready to pontificate. “Edward said the manuscript he carried to the cloister was in some language he didn’t understand and that all the words were the same length. That sounds like a cipher to me, and it makes perfect sense that the monastery’s biggest secrets would have been kept in code. And there are no coded manuscripts in the collection now, so that has to be our missing manuscript.”

  “So you admit it’s not a boring old Psalter,” said Bethany.

  “Yes,” said Arthur, giving her a slight bow, “I admit that you were right and I was wrong.” Bethany smiled.

  “Now,” said Arthur, “consider the two clues about the man who took the manuscript: he was wearing a gray robe and he disappeared in the direction of St. Cuthbert’s Church. The gray robe is the traditional vestment of an order of Franciscan monks—that’s why they became known in England as the Greyfriars. In the thirteenth century, a small Franciscan house called Greyfriars was founded just outside the cathedral close in what is now St. Martin’s Lane. When Henry VIII dissolved that monastery, most of it was destroyed, but one of the monastic chapels was absorbed into the cathedral precincts and reconsecrated as the parish church of St. Cuthbert. Since then, it’s been traditional for the vicar of St. Cuthbert’s to wear the Greyfriars’ robes.”

  “You do love to give lectures, don’t you?”

  Arthur considered this question thoughtfully, for Bethany had asked it not with a tone of judgment but with true curiosity. He considered all the interactions he had with students and staff at the university—the meetings, the tutorials, the office hours—and he had to admit that giving lectures was just about the only part of his job that he enjoyed.

  “Yes,” he said, “I really do.”

  “And you think the man in gray was the vicar of St. Cuthbert’s?”

  “I do. And for some reason he wanted to take personal charge of the coded manuscript.”

  “So who was the vicar of St. Cuthbert’s in 1941?”

  “Easy enough to find out,” said Arthur. “The diocesan records are in the county archive.”

  “And the archive is only open on Thursdays.”

  “You remember that, do you? As it happens I have to attend a meeting of the Media Some-Damn-Thing Committee on Thursday afternoon, but I can get you a pass so you can go and request the parish records.”

  “Arthur,” said Bethany, “sometimes you overthink things.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What’s through this archway?”

  “I beg your pardon?” Arthur had not paid attention to the direction they had been walking since leaving River View, and he realized now that Bethany had been guiding their path. “The cathedral close, but why—”

  “And what is above this archway?” said Bethany.

  “The Church of St. Cuthbert,” said Arthur with a sigh.

  “The Church of St. Cuthbert. You see, I know a little something about the cathedral precincts myself,” said Bethany, striding through the great stone arch and turning to mount a narrow flight of stone steps. “It was unlocked when I peeked in last week. Are you coming?”

  Arthur hurried up the steps just in time to see Bethany pull open a heavy oak door. In another moment, they stood in St. Cuthbert’s. The small space was lit only by the candle of the sanctuary lamp burning at the east end and the street light that filtered through the single stained glass window above the altar. Only half a dozen pews separated Arthur and Bethany from the Communion rail. The only other furnishings were the simple altar table and an old carved pulpit.

  “I love this place,” said Bethany softly. “I was just wandering around the close and happened to discover it last week and I must have sat in here for an hour. It’s so peaceful and dim. It’s the exact
opposite of my father’s church. I like the cathedral, but this is . . . intimate.”

  “I haven’t been up here in years,” said Arthur.

  “So, anyway,” said Bethany, taking Arthur by the hand, “I remember seeing something the other day.” She pulled him down the aisle and through a low curtained doorway to the left of the altar and into the sacristy, little more than a closet. Arthur tried not to think what it felt like to be holding hands with Bethany, and instead to wonder what she wanted to show him, but he felt a pang of disappointment when she dropped his hand.

  “What is it?” said Arthur. “Why are we in here?”

  “That,” said Bethany, pointing to the wall above Arthur’s head.

  He turned to see a painted wooden board. At the top it read: Rectors of St. Cuthbert’s. “There,” said Bethany, pointing toward the bottom of the board, “just above Charles Edward Harding. That’s our man: Henry Albert Naylor, 1937–1946. That must be the man in the gray robe. The question is, where did Mr. Naylor hide the book?”

  But Arthur didn’t hear her. While Bethany stood waiting for his response, brushing her hair out of her face, Arthur stared at the board on the wall and the name just below Henry Albert Naylor. Charles Edward Harding had been rector of St. Cuthbert’s from 1946 to 1980. Charles Edward Harding was Arthur’s grandfather. The man who had told Arthur that Barchester was the resting place of the Holy Grail had succeeded Henry Albert Naylor, the last man seen with the missing manuscript. Arthur had known, as a child, that his grandfather was a retired clergyman, but he had never asked for, nor had his grandfather ever offered, details of his service. But now it seemed the Holy Grail might be linked to the Book of Ewolda; the Book of Ewolda was linked to Henry Albert Naylor; and Henry Albert Naylor was linked to Arthur’s grandfather. Had his grandfather seen the missing manuscript? Did he know what secrets it contained? And did those secrets lead him to believe the Grail was in Barchester and to send his grandson looking for it?

  “Arthur! Ground control to Major Prescott. Can you hear me?”