But the old man only answered with his typical enigmatic smile, “There are no coincidences.” Was he trying to tell Arthur something? Did he know that one day Arthur would learn about the manuscript and Naylor’s connection to it? That he would discover that Naylor and his grandfather had shared not just the post at St. Cuthbert’s, but the one at Plumstead Episcopi—a position now held by the precentor?
Arthur wondered what it was about the precentor that bothered him so much. True, there was plenty to dislike—from his clammy handshake to his air of superiority to the way he had mistreated Oscar. But there had always been something else. The day he had met the man, Arthur had felt instantly averse. He had no doubt it was the precentor who was agitating to sell the library’s manuscripts, the precentor who suddenly demanded Arthur turn in the text for the guidebook, the precentor who was responsible for all that was wrong with the cathedral. Arthur knew this was a completely unfair assessment—after all, over the years the precentor had brought ritual back to cathedral worship, he had revitalized the choir program, and he had supported the dean in many of her efforts, even, in spite of his disdain for the design, in the attempt to rebuild the Lady Chapel. But whether Arthur’s assessment was fair or not, he took what he knew was unjustified pleasure in making it. At the root of the problem, he decided, was that the precentor always seemed to be saying one thing and meaning another. “Good afternoon, Arthur” meant “I’m sitting in your usual spot because I am better than you, now get some work done on that damned guidebook.” “Good evening, Arthur” meant “You have no place in this cathedral if you stubbornly refuse to believe in God.” And “It’s a lovely day” invariably meant “There is something about this day that I know and that you do not and that I will not be telling you.” Yes, the precentor, Arthur felt sure, was a man who kept secrets. And what better secret than the lost manuscript of Ewolda—perhaps the manuscript that had convinced Gladwyn, and Arthur’s grandfather, that Barchester was the resting place of the Holy Grail. But if the precentor had discovered such a secret in the locked church of Plumstead Episcopi, he would hardly take kindly to a request by the lazy, ignorant, pagan Arthur Prescott to provide the key. What’s more, if anyone, and especially Arthur, with his interest in the history of the cathedral, asked for the Plumstead key, the precentor would immediately smell a rat, and would no doubt move the manuscript to a . . . what did the Americans call it . . . a secure location.
Just as Arthur was drifting off to sleep, it occurred to him that all his musings about the precentor and his grandfather and the lost manuscript and the Grail were irrelevant. He could not go gallivanting about the countryside looking for ancient secrets. He had to produce a text for the new guidebook in less than ten days. There was no question of allowing someone else to do it. The cathedral had advanced Arthur five hundred pounds for the work, and that money was long ago spent on books. Arthur couldn’t afford to pay back the advance, and besides, after all the work he had done, he desperately wanted to be the one to write the guidebook. So he would have to set aside all thought of adventures with Bethany and produce a manuscript of his own.
VII
THE QUIRE
The quire was built in the Decorated style in the second half of the thirteenth century. Bishop Samuel Giffard, who began the rebuilding of the original Norman structure, is buried in the quire aisle. Although some of the woodwork was damaged or destroyed during the Civil War, many of the carvings, and particularly the misericords, date from the late thirteenth century and are thought to be the work of a single craftsman.
1280, Barchester
Adam Lyngwode stepped back from the wood to admire his work. The face of the woman was beginning to emerge from the oak—not as close a likeness as he wanted but recognizable. Certainly the hair that streamed from the side of the head could belong to no one but Clarice. It had been a cold winter in Barchester, and though a fire burned nearby, the stonemasons seemed constantly to surround it, warming their hands. Adam felt cold to his core, yet somehow his fingers could still carve. Over the years, they had memorized the motions needed to peel back the layers of wood and reveal the figures within.
Adam had come to Barchester almost ten years ago, when Bishop Giffard had decided to pull down the old Norman quire and replace it with a new, higher, lighter structure in the latest style. The bishop had given Adam a test—build and decorate an oaken chest to hold the cathedral’s growing collection of manuscripts. The result had been both practical and beautiful—a solid locking chest, inscribed around the top with the opening verses of the Gospel of John. The bishop had been impressed, and Adam had moved to Barchester, where he joined masons, glaziers, carpenters, and others. For the past decade, they had worked to achieve the bishop’s vision for the new quire. For some time now, Adam had been working on the carvings for the quire stalls. He had created arches over the canons’ seats that echoed the design of the clerestory windows, carved biblical scenes for the pew ends, and fashioned elaborate figures to separate each canon’s stall from the next. For the last few months, he had been engaged in his favorite part of the entire process—carving figures for the misericords. Because these images would rarely be seen, he was allowed considerable leeway in crafting them. Today he was, with the special permission of the dean, working on a portrait of his wife.
Although Adam was a lowly craftsman, becoming friends with the new dean, who had been installed two years ago, had proved simple. He had observed how, whenever the bishop was on the work site, he and the dean argued incessantly. Adam rarely followed the argument, but he had no doubt that the dean loathed the bishop. A few months ago, he had asked the dean to come look at his latest misericord carving. The dean had seemed exasperated at this request, but had complied nonetheless. Adam had pulled back the cloth that covered the carving to reveal the figure of a scowling man with batlike wings and ears. In one hand he held a book, but his other hand was raised as if in command. In place of a human hand he had the claw of a raptor.
“Is that . . .” The dean leaned over to inspect the carving more closely. “Is that the face of the bishop?”
“Is it?” said Adam. “Must be a coincidence. I can change it if you like.”
The dean turned to Adam with a wide grin. “No need to change it at all,” he said. “Nor is there any need to show this to His Lordship.” From that day forward, Adam and the dean were fast friends. At least once a week the dean would stop by to inspect Adam’s latest carvings. On one such day, three months ago, he found Adam in tears, still working but unable to hide his emotions.
“What troubles you, my friend?” said the dean.