The Lost Book of the Grail

by Charlie Lovett

  The Lady Chapel was exactly as Gwyn had dreamed it, thought Arthur, as he rose from the rail. Constructed almost completely of glass, it seemed both a part of the ancient building to its west, and yet fully immersed in the beautiful gardens that surrounded its other three sides. The dedication service took place on a Saturday afternoon, but the previous evening, Arthur and about a dozen others had attended the first service held in the chapel—Compline. The full moon had been the only light necessary, though two candles burned on the altar. Arthur, who had attended Compline hundreds if not thousands of times, could not remember a more moving service.

  The crown jewel of the chapel might have gone unnoticed in the bright light of the afternoon sun but had been astonishingly evident the night before. The floor between the front pews and the altar rail, a space about ten feet deep and some twenty feet wide, was made of a thick, scratch-resistant glass. Below, beautifully but subtly lit, one could clearly see the tomb of Ewolda and the shimmering waters of the spring that flowed by her side. Arthur considered the entire space a triumphant unification of past and present. He stood for a moment at the edge of that window in the floor, looking down on what only he and two other people on earth understood was the second greatest wonder of Barchester Cathedral. Tourists and pilgrims would flock to Barchester to see the manuscript and the tomb and the spring. The sick, who believed, would sip the waters in hopes of healing. But none would know the secret of the Mensa Christi, and even Arthur did not know where the table now rested. He nodded to Gwyn, who smiled at him and returned to distributing Communion. He had chosen well, Arthur thought. Gwyn had made an excellent Guardian.

  Arthur leaned down and picked up little Oscar. The two-year-old was on his hands and knees, peering through the glass.

  “Your mother’s waiting for us,” said Arthur. “And Gwyneth will be waking up soon.”

  He turned to see Bethany standing in the entryway to the chapel, her hair glowing in the sun, the baby asleep on her shoulder. She smiled at him and Arthur’s heart flooded with joy.

  Yes, he thought, he had chosen very well indeed.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Although the city and cathedral of Barchester are fictional, they are not my own invention, and I am indebted to Anthony Trollope for providing me with the setting for this novel as well as of the description of the church at Plumstead Episcopi here.

  With the exception of Spring Heat; Petunia and Pricilla; Harding’s Church Music and The Almshouse, which are inventions of Trollope; Arthur Prescott’s own A History of Plumstead Episcopi; Black’s Picturesque Guide to Barchester; and Lives of Twelve Christian Men, all the published books named in the text, their descriptions, illustrations, excerpts, and bibliographical details are real, though I have inserted biographical details of fictional characters into some of these real books. Lives of Twelve Christian Men is based on the book Lives of Twelve Good Men by John William Burgon, but that book was published in 1888 before the death of Bishop Gladwyn, so it could not contain his fictional biography. The Winchester Manuscript is real; the manuscripts in the Barchester Cathedral Library are entirely fictional, though similar to real manuscripts in cathedral libraries throughout Britain.

  The text of the letter from a monk of Lindisfarne here is taken, in part, from an account by Symeon of Durham of the first Viking attack on Lindisfarne. The description of the altar screen here is paraphrased from a memorial in Winchester Cathedral. Oliver Cromwell’s accusation of “unedifying and offensive ceremony and chanting” was made against the clergy of Ely Cathedral and the damage done by the Parliamentarians to Barchester was typical of that done to many real cathedrals throughout the realm. The Nanteos Cup and its history are real, as is the article about it in Ladies’ Home Journal (John Cottrell, “My Search for the Holy Grail,” April 1971).

  All the music sung in the cathedral is real, and I commend it to my readers.

  St. Ewolda is entirely fictional, and although Bede’s Martyrologium is a real book, it makes no mention of my invented saint. Many of the characters in the historic sections were real people, including Beaduwulf, Hereferth, and Dunstan of Glastonbury; the architect and designer George Gilbert Scott; Thomas Cromwell; Thomas Malory; Arthur Rackham; Archbishop of Canterbury Gilbert Sheldon; and John Collier. As for an early British King named Arthur, I leave it to the reader to decide whether he existed or not.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Richard Mackenzie took me to my first medieval cathedral in 1980 and to him I will always be grateful. I am indebted to all those over the years who have welcomed me into English cathedral communities in particular canons Peter Brett, Thomas Christie, John Darlington, and Nigel Stock, and retired dean Alan Webster. Canon Jeremy Haselock, precentor of Norwich Cathedral, has been a good friend, a consummate host, and an invaluable resource.

  The staff of Worcester Cathedral Library, and in particular Deirdre Mckeown, not only showed me a wealth of materials that inspired some of the books at Barchester but also gave me the chance to soak up the atmosphere of a cathedral library.

  My knowledge and love of English church music is due to many choir directors over the years but particularly to Kristin Farmer and Christin Barnhardt. My love and knowledge of liturgy has been nurtured by Reverend Faulton Hodge and Reverend Steve Rice. Stephanie Lovett provided both Latin translations and careful proofreading. Anna Worrall’s direction and advice have served me well, as has that of everyone else at the Gernert Company.

  Kathryn Court offered sage guidance before a single word of this novel was written and with Sarah Stein has made up the best editorial team an author could ask for, constantly pushing me, seeing potential where I had missed it, and making sure that this novel was much better than I could have made it on my own. Thanks also to the rest of the great staff at Penguin—the creation of a novel is an act of teamwork, and I am fortunate to work with professionals who value my opinions and make that teamwork a true pleasure.

  Without the support of my family, I could never have written this or any book. Thanks to Jimmy and Jordan for your love and encouragement. Janice has been not only a careful reader and thoughtful critic, but also the woman who makes me smile, makes me laugh, and teaches me daily how to love. Thank you for sharing the adventure.

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