Arthur did not hear much after this—or at least he did not comprehend much after this. He heard Bethany’s voice—a different voice from what he had heard before. As she read she seemed less . . . well, less American, and less sure of being right. Her voice sounded more musical and less abrasive—like the difference between a perfectly rehearsed choir and an egotistical soloist. Arthur briefly considered the question posed by the beginning of the passage—did marriage ruin a woman’s career?—but decided it had been answered in the negative long ago. And so he allowed his mind to empty and his body to relax, lulled by Bethany’s reading.
When Arthur excused himself to go to Compline, David, Oscar, and Bethany were still talking about Bethany’s digitization project. Arthur had remained largely silent through the evening—his distaste for what Bethany was doing in the library prevented his speaking politely on the topic, and as he seemed to be outnumbered, for Oscar and David showed nothing but enthusiasm for Bethany’s work, he decided it best to hold his peace. With a sense of resignation, he slid into his usual seat in the Epiphany Chapel. The precentor was leading Compline that evening, and he gave a perfunctory nod to Arthur as he entered the chapel. Always punctual, the precentor began the service as the last nine o’clock bell was still reverberating. Arthur was the only other soul present.
“The Lord Almighty grant us a peaceful night and a perfect end,” chanted the precentor.
Arthur replied, with more feeling than usual, “Amen.” As the short service progressed, he thought how much easier life would be if worship at the cathedral were more than just a comforting rhythm, more than lovely music and sonorous words. If only he believed in the underlying foundation of it all. And then the precentor reached that familiar and colorful phrase—your adversary the devil prowls about like a roaring lion—and Arthur thought, yes. There is something I can believe. The devil may not be prowling around this cathedral like a roaring lion, but Bethany Davis certainly is.
V
THE TOWER
The central tower of the cathedral is of late Norman construction, but the graceful spire that sits atop that solid base is considerably later. Originally, a wooden spire topped the tower, but this was destroyed by fire sometime early in the fourteenth century. The tower sat without adornment for nearly fifty years, before a stone-clad spire was constructed. Most of the sculptures that once adorned the tower were pulled down at the Reformation or in the years that followed.
A.D. 950, St. Ewolda’s Monastery
Eadweard knelt before the altar of the monastic church, his face illuminated by a beam of moonlight that shone through one of the narrow windows overhead. He felt the task before him should be done in the most holy place possible—on the altar of the church. At this hour of night, he was safe from the prying eyes of the other monks. He prayed that he might perform his work with skill and accuracy.
He had spent thirty years as Guardian. Soon after Leofwine had passed the responsibility to him, his fellow monk had died peacefully in his sleep. The early years of his guardianship had been quiet ones, with no threats coming from Glastonbury or anywhere else. Eadweard had eventually risen to the post of abbot, and his daily responsibilities had almost made him forget his job as Guardian. But then the enthusiastic new abbot of Glastonbury, Dunstan, began rebuilding the abbey church in that place and soon emissaries arrived at Barchester asking about a treasure from Glastonbury hidden at St. Ewolda’s in the years of the Viking invasions. Three times Eadweard had moved the treasure, and three times had he denied its existence. Most recently, Dunstan himself had come, ostensibly to talk with Eadweard about establishing the Benedictine rule at Barchester as Dunstan had done in Glastonbury. Even the great abbot had asked about the lost treasure, and when Eadweard had disavowed any knowledge of it, Dunstan had departed and promised that Glastonbury would pester Barchester no more. Eadweard felt confident that Dunstan believed the treasure was nothing but a myth and, for now at least, the secret would remain safe.
Tonight, Eadweard turned his attention to another problem. He had worried for many years about the condition of the document with which Leofwine had entrusted him so long ago. Even then it had been difficult to read without the help of bright sunlight, and the corners of the folds had created holes in the parchment. Eadweard feared that the next Guardian might not be able to read every word. He had memorized the text within hours of first reading it, which made his task tonight easier.
As abbot, he had control over the paltry resources of the monastery, and it had been a simple matter for him to obtain a fresh piece of parchment. He had insisted on a well-prepared sheet—thin, gleaming white, and well scraped of hairs. Eadweard had spent a lifetime handling the few books that belonged to the impoverished monastery—the founder’s book, the service book, a Psalter, and the Gospels. Just that morning he had read from the pages of a newly transcribed Gospel of John—a treasure created by one of his own monks, but financed by a local landowner who wished to make penance for some unnamed sin. As he had turned those fresh parchment pages, and as he ran his hand across the blank sheet before him now, Eadweard marveled that the sheep and cattle and goats in the fields surrounding the monastery could be transformed into such a beautiful and durable writing surface. St. Ewolda’s had small enough need for parchment that none of the brothers were trained in the technique of cleaning, curing, and scraping the animal hides, but when an animal was slaughtered, the monks often sold the skin to the merchant who had provided Eadweard with the piece of vellum now on the altar. Beside it lay the faded, worn document that Eadweard had kept hidden for so many years.
Finishing his prayers, Eadweard rose and stood at the altar. His script was far from beautiful, but he could write legibly. The text he must copy tonight was not long and he had at least four hours before the disappearance of the moon would signal that brothers would soon arrive to prepare the altar for Prime. He lit a taper, placed it on the altar, and, in the mixture of the warm candlelight and the cold moonlight, began to write.
Well before dawn, his work was done. Being sure that the ink was fully dry, he folded the new parchment and slipped it within his robes. The original document he placed in a chalice he had set on the altar for this purpose. He held the flame of the candle to its corner and watched as the glow slowly spread to the vellum. The flames leaped up and the fire flared and then died as the precious words were consumed. When he was sure nothing remained but ash, he carefully transferred the contents of the chalice to a small phial. This he set in a niche in the wall next to the altar. For the day that dawned was Ash Wednesday. In a few hours, Eadweard would strew these ashes on the heads of the monks in his charge, repeating the words that reminded them of their mortality: “Remember, man, that thou art dust, and unto dust thou shalt return.”
Eadweard would remain at St. Ewolda’s for his Lenten fast, and on Easter Sunday, after proclaiming the glorious Resurrection of Christ the Savior, he would appoint a new Guardian. With the mantle of responsibility lifted, he would leave St. Ewolda’s. He thought he might walk to the sea. He had never seen the sea, and he would like to do so before he died.
April 21, 2016