“Not that sort of believer,” said Bethany. “I mean are you a believer in the wonders of the digital world?”
“I can see how such wonders might be useful under certain circumstances,” said Arthur. “But I still prefer paper and ink.”
“The Internet will have to use you as a celebrity spokesman with a ringing endorsement like that. Wait up, I just need to get my purse.”
“Wait up?” said Arthur.
“I’m coming with you. To Evensong. You don’t mind, do you?”
“I thought you didn’t like going to church.”
“People can change, Arthur—you should try it sometime. So I’m coming to Evensong and I’m asking if I can sit next to you.”
“Yes,” said Arthur softly, “that would be lovely.”
VI
THE REGIMENTAL CHAPEL
Located in the south transept, this chapel pays tribute to all those of the Royal Barsetshire Regiment who have lost their lives in wars of the last two centuries. Of special interest is a monument, installed by Bishop Gladwyn, to the fallen of those parishes in the gift of the cathedral chapter—St. Cuthbert’s and Plumstead Episcopi. This beautiful tile memorial was designed and built by the ceramicist William De Morgan, and includes images of these churches.
1068, near Barcaster
Brother Harold looked out across the green fields and tried to imagine what would flourish there. Not crops or livestock but prayers and praise. He stood two miles upstream from St. Ewolda’s, or what had been St. Ewolda’s until the arrival of the Normans two years ago. They were a strange sort of invader. They shed no blood at the monastery or in the small town of Barcaster that had grown up around its gates. They brought with them wealth and learning and the ability to raise buildings beyond Harold’s imagination. It was, one of the brothers had said, as if the Romans had returned. But they were not altruistic. They did not kill, but they took what they desired. In the case of Barcaster, what they desired was the small rise of land above the River Esk. Situated on a sweeping bend of the river and in the lee of a larger hill, this spot provided views for nearly a mile up and downstream. It was, said the Norman commander who arrived at the gate of St. Ewolda’s one morning, of strategic importance. Already a stone castle was under construction at one end of this rise. At the other end stood the soon-to-be-abandoned monastery of St. Ewolda’s. For more than four hundred years, the monks of St. Ewolda’s had worshipped peacefully on the spot where their founder was martyred. But now they were to move to a new home, in fields that the monastery owned upstream.
“We come in the name of Christ” had been the first words of the commander to Harold. And in His name the Normans had been busy. Even before the castle construction began, they had started making plans for a grand cathedral on the site of St. Ewolda’s—the seat of a newly formed diocese of Barsytshire.
“The doors alone will dwarf any building you have ever seen,” said one of the builders to Harold. “The arches will soar overhead, and the very ceiling will be lost in darkness on all but the brightest days, so far toward heaven will it be.” And Harold could stay and watch it happen, for the new cathedral would be a monastic foundation. But the bishop and the abbot would be French-speaking Normans. The bishop had visited once already, to view the plans for the cathedral, and he had told Harold that the monks of St. Ewolda’s could be absorbed into the new foundation, which he thought of dedicating to St. Martin of Tours.
But St. Ewolda’s was a Saxon foundation in honor of a Saxon saint, and Harold had no desire for Norman grandness. He wanted simply to live out his days in the peace that St. Ewolda’s had always known.
And then there was the matter of his guardianship. As Guardian, he could not allow the relic to fall into the hands of the Normans. And so he had asked the bishop to approve a different plan.
“What if, My Lord, we were to reestablish the foundation of St. Ewolda’s on a plot of land already owned by the monastery, some two miles hence. With us we would take our few belongings—a small collection of books and furnishings, and of course the relics of our blessed St. Ewolda, who lies entombed below the altar of our church. You could then build your cathedral on this spot, which has been blessed with worship for four centuries.”
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.