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. He 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.