Walter de Bingham knelt at the high altar of the monastic church of the Priory of St. Ewolda, just outside Barchester. The morning sun streamed through the east window, dappling his face with blues and greens. Around him, the massive columns and heavy curved vaults of the church rose toward heaven—though not as far toward heaven as the nearby Barchester Cathedral. The Norman architecture of the priory church was, in fact, a bit out of fashion. The thick walls, rounded arches, and small windows meant the church was often dark and cold. Walter had heard one monk say, after the fifth service of the day, that the place felt more like hell than heaven, but that young man had soon left the priory for a posting at one of the new cathedrals, with their soaring pointed arches, vast windows, and ribbed vaulting. But Walter liked St. Ewolda’s, old-fashioned though it might be. He liked dimness and damp and mystery, and every morning after Terce, when the other brothers had left the church and returned to their work or their studies or their private devotions in their cells, he took a few minutes to pray, and he always prayed to that saint whom he saw as his own private protector—St. Ewolda.
The brothers knew that the monastery had been founded by a saint named Ewolda; but they knew her in name only. Walter alone knew the details of her life, for Walter was, and had been for nearly thirty years, the keeper of the Book of Ewolda. When this responsibility had first been passed to him he had been a young monk, freshly arrived from Cluny to a foundation that was both ancient and new. St. Ewolda had founded the monastery hundreds of years ago, early in the first great age of English monasticism. Unlike so many of its contemporary foundations, it had survived through the centuries—probably, thought Walter, because St. Ewolda’s always managed to have barely enough wealth to feed its monks but never enough to invite sacking, whether by Vikings or by someone else. After the Norman invasion, the monastery had been refounded on a new site, and twenty years later became a Cluniac house—part of the new order of monasticism based in Cluny. But Walter thought of the priory as a Saxon foundation with a Saxon patron.
Often, following his prayers to this patron, Walter would sit in the small chapel of St. Martin—a chapel that would not hold more than two or three—and read from the book of St. Ewolda. He remembered well the day that one of the oldest monks, Brother Simon, had called Walter into his cell.
“There is a secret with which I must entrust you,” Simon had said. “And you must be the bearer of this secret for the next generation.”
“I am at your service, Brother,” said Walter. “What is this secret?”
“You will know in time,” said Simon, “but first you must learn a strange and unfamiliar language.”
Walter had come to Simon’s cell every day for an hour after Terce and had proved a quick study. Within a few months, he could read the Saxon language, and Simon showed him, for the first time, the Book of Ewolda.
“The book was copied from an ancient manuscript in the last days before the coming of the Normans,” said Simon, “so that Ewolda’s story might be kept alive.” Walter read to Simon from the book every day, translating each sentence as he read. Simon gently corrected him when his translation was not perfect. And thus Walter learned the full story of Ewolda, founder of the priory.
“But why should this story be a secret?” asked Walter one day after Simon had closed the book and placed it in its hiding place under his bed.
“When the priory joined the order of Cluny,” said Simon, “the new prior allowed us to keep the name of St. Ewolda and to celebrate her feast day. But he felt that any further allegiance to a Saxon founder was allegiance that ought properly to be paid to Cluny or to our Lady. So knowledge of Ewolda was forced underground, and the book was hidden by a monk named Harold, who had once been the abbot of the original St. Ewolda’s Monastery. He decreed that the book should always have a single protector, so that the story of St. Ewolda might be kept alive. But Harold was also the custodian of another secret—a deeper, more holy secret—that the keeper of Ewolda’s book must protect.”
“And what is this secret?” asked Walter, leaning forward, trembling with wonder.
“You have mastered the language,” said Simon, “so only you among the monks of the priory will be able to read Ewolda’s book, and only you will be able to read this.” From within his robes, Simon pulled out a single sheet of parchment, twice folded. “Take it with you. Read it only in the privacy of your cell. Guard it with the greatest care, and choose your successor wisely, for none but the Guardian must ever know.”
That night, by the light of a single taper, Walter read the document. The words had faded in places, but some Guardian, perhaps Simon, had traced the originals with fresh ink, so the text was legible. Yet the secret it revealed was nearly incomprehensible. How could such a secret have remained hidden at Barchester for so many centuries? When he went to see Simon in his cell the next morning, eager to discuss this monumental intelligence, the old monk was gone. Walter never saw Simon again. The message had been clear—there is only ever one Guardian. And Walter knew what he had to guard.
Now Walter read again from the story of St. Ewolda’s life. As priceless treasures go, the Book of Ewolda was unassuming. It was small enough to slip into a pouch that Walter had sewn inside his robe. The vellum covers were worn at the edges and scratched. They were blotched with smears and smudges, spots that could be wine or ink or blood. The interior boasted no illuminations or decorative capitals. The pages themselves often lacked a corner or a bit of fore edge. Walter was proud to think, though, that the book was in no worse condition than when he had taken over the guardianship thirty years ago. The same could not be said, however, for the document that Walter also kept in his pocket. He had folded and unfolded the parchment so many times—even though he had committed the text to memory decades ago—that the words on the folds were illegible. He knew old age was stalking him and that the time was near when he must appoint a new Guardian. That brother must be able to read the words that had so amazed Walter all those years ago.
It seemed foolish to Walter that the document should be separate from the book. A single parchment could so easily be lost or destroyed, but a book, even an ancient and tattered book, was a thing of value. A book was easier to protect. He turned to the last pages of the volume. Because of the small format, the original sheets of parchment had been folded twice to create the pages—eight pages from each sheet. But the text of Ewolda’s history extended across only five of the last eight pages. In any other book, this valuable space would have been filled with prayers or Scripture verses or illuminations, but in Ewolda’s book, the pages remained blank. There was just enough room on those three pages, thought Walter, to copy the text of the document—to bring together into a single volume all the great secrets of St. Ewolda’s.