“I suppose the history of English cathedrals is full of stories of bits that almost fell down.”
“It’s also full of stories about bits that did fall down. I’m thinking of a new opening for the guidebook. ‘Widely considered, by those who bother to consider it at all, to be the most neglected cathedral in Britain, Barchester attracts little in the way of tourists, little in the way of historical or architectural study, and little in the way of funding—so little, in fact, that parts of it may well have collapsed into rubble by the time this guidebook is published.’”
“Would selling the manuscripts raise enough for the repairs?”
“I’ve no idea. But tomorrow afternoon I shall bite my tongue and smile and show Mr. Sotheby or whatever his name is around the library and just hope he doesn’t see too many things that appeal to him.”
“I’m not sure you have it in you to talk trash about rare books, Arthur.”
“Well, then,” said Arthur, thinking of the resolution he had made after talking with Gwyn. “I’ll just have to find another way.”
“Another way to do what?”
“To raise the money the cathedral needs to repair the north transept and maybe even build the Lady Chapel.”
“How much would that take?”
“Gwyn thinks about ten million pounds.”
“What’s that, fifteen or twenty million dollars?”
“Why, are you planning to write a check?”
“I’m not, but to Jesse Johnson twenty million dollars is chump change.”
“Are you saying that your boss, the evangelical nutcase who is dredging the Red Sea for Pharaoh’s chariots, would give obscure, forgotten Barchester Cathedral twenty million dollars?”
“I highly doubt it, especially if you keep referring to him as a nutcase just because his religious views are different from yours. But if we find the Holy Grail, or even something that could be the Holy Grail—he’d pay millions for that. Lots of people would.”
“And that fact may be exactly why my grandfather wanted me to keep the Grail a secret. But you bring up an interesting point.”
“And what is that?”
“That Jesse Johnson could easily afford to save Barchester Cathedral.”
“Do you want me to hit him up for a donation?”
“It couldn’t hurt.”
“I can do that,” said Bethany. “I’ll drop him an e-mail and tell him about the transept and the danger of the manuscripts being sold off. You never know—apparently he is very generous to causes that interest him.”
“Thank you,” said Arthur. “It may lead to nothing, but it seems worth a try.” They had reached the door to Bethany’s lodgings and she fumbled to retrieve her key from her handbag.
“Shall I make myself scarce tomorrow while you’re talking to the appraiser or whatever he is?” said Bethany. “I could go visit Evelyn. Tell her I’m bringing your good wishes.”
“That’s very kind, and probably just as well that we have a little peace and quiet.”
“Yes, I am such a loud and obnoxious American—how do you ever put up with me?”
“That’s not what I meant,” said Arthur. “I only meant—”
“It was a joke, Arthur. Thank you for taking me to Compline. And thank you for walking me home.” She stood on her toes and gave Arthur a light kiss on the cheek, then disappeared inside and closed the door. She had kissed David and Oscar good-bye when they had left Arthur’s cottage earlier that evening, so there was nothing unusual about her doing the same with him, but as he walked home, Arthur could not decide just how he felt about this new form of saying good night.
X
ST. DUNSTAN’S CHAPEL
This beautiful chapel in the Perpendicular style was one of the last pieces of new construction in the cathedral prior to the Reformation. It was built in 1450 as a chantry chapel for the late Bishop Draper. A chantry was an endowment left by wealthy donors to pay for Masses to be said for their souls every day in perpetuity. For Bishop Draper, perpetuity turned out to be about ninety years. At the Reformation, the chantry’s endowment was confiscated by the king, and the chapel stripped of its finery and rededicated to St. Dunstan, a tenth-century abbot of Glastonbury.
October 28, 1539, Priory of St. Ewolda
“The inventory is complete,” said Thomas, “and prepared as you requested.”
“Excellent,” said James. The two men stood in the treasury, over the open chest that held the monastery’s books. “Where is the volume of mathematical studies?”
“Is this the time to be reading about mathematics?”
“This is not the time to ask questions,” said James sharply. “Find the volume.” As Thomas sorted through the books, James took a quill and quietly added a column of numbers, memorized long ago, to the list of manuscripts.
“Here is the book,” said Thomas, passing the volume to James.
James inserted the inventory into the manuscript and returned the book to the chest. Then from within his robes he withdrew another volume.
“I have one more book to add to our collection,” he said. “It is a volume I have toiled many months to prepare.”
“What book is this?” said Thomas.
“There is but little time for me to acquaint you with its contents,” said James. “For now I must entrust you with the most important task of your life. You must enlist the aid of Brother Anthony to help carry the books to the cathedral, where they might find at least some protection from the commissioners. But there is another object you must take with you, and of this great treasure and its history, with which I shall burden you, you must tell no one.”
“What is this treasure?” asked Thomas, who could not believe that anything of great import could reside at St. Ewolda’s.
“The most sacred relic of St. Ewolda’s or of any monastery, and today you shall return it to its home in Barchester, whence our Saxon brothers removed it nearly five hundred years ago—for you, my brother, are now the Guardian.”
—