An hour later, James watched as Thomas and Anthony made their way across the field outside the monastic precincts and toward the city of Barchester, carrying the book chest. Only Thomas and James knew the truth about the rest of their burden. James had prepared in every way he could for this day, even marking the treasure itself with a clue as to its true nature. He felt he had chosen the new Guardian well, that Thomas would do everything in his power to protect the treasure—he only hoped, in this time of great uncertainty, it would be enough.
Brother James now turned his attention to the task he had dreaded since he first heard the king had begun taking over the monasteries. With tears in his eyes, he made his way furtively through the lengthening shadows to the monastic kitchen. Several servants were already busy preparing dinner, and James stood watching them for a moment. As far as they knew, this was an ordinary day, no different from any other day of their lives. They had risen at four to prepare breakfast and would work in the kitchen until the evening bell tolled eight. Then, as required, they would sit in the nave, behind the screen, and listen to the murmured sounds of Vespers before returning to their lodgings. They were fed, sheltered, and clothed, which was more than many men of the realm could claim. And the monks of St. Ewolda’s prayed for them each day. Now James was about to destroy all that. He wiped the tears away with his sleeve, drew a deep breath, and stepped forward from the shadows.
“Servants!” he called. “The monastery is under attack. You are dismissed. Fly or face the consequences.”
“Pardon, sir, but where are we to fly?” asked a young man holding an onion in one hand and a knife in the other. “This monastery is our home.”
“There is no home for you here anymore,” said James. “The king’s commissioners are upon us.”
“But mustn’t they eat?” asked the man.
“Fly, I tell you. Do you not understand that I bring instructions from the prior himself? No one who remains within the precincts of the monastery is safe for another hour.” James knew he was exaggerating the threat to mere servants of the monastery. Only the prior was likely in any real bodily danger. Still, he needed the kitchen to himself, and it was true that within a few days the monastery’s coffers would be emptied and there would be no money to pay the servants. “Now go!” he roared.
The servants needed no further encouragement. While they may have had little understanding of theology or politics, they did understand that if one of the monks spoke to them in such an authoritative voice, it was best to do as he asked. In another moment, James had the kitchen to himself.
From beneath his robe, he withdrew a cracked and soiled volume, a book that he had kept on his person for more than twenty years. More than anything, he wanted to sit in the quiet warmth of the kitchen and read this book one last time. Though he knew every word, every wonder of it by heart, he still loved to run his eyes over those mysterious Saxon words he had mastered so long ago. Now the new manuscript he had prepared and explained to Thomas would keep Ewolda’s secrets safe. Never again would there be need for a monk of St. Ewolda’s to learn ancient Saxon. Never again, he thought with renewed tears, would there be monks of St. Ewolda’s.
Laying the book on the table, amid potato parings and mutton grease, James stepped toward the fire and threw several fresh pieces of wood on the embers. Sparks flew up and in a few seconds the fire leaped forth hungrily. James picked up the book and stood staring into the flames. As much as he longed to read the words within, words to which he had dedicated his life, he could not risk being too late. The book and its secrets could not fall into the hands of the invaders. He threw the book into the fire.
Sparks scattered into the room, and James stepped aside to avoid lighting his robe on fire. Yet perhaps fire was what he deserved. Perhaps he should plunge headfirst into the flames to either retrieve the book before it was destroyed or to follow it into nothingness, but he had not the courage for either. He watched as the flames consumed the volume, the pages of vellum peeling back one at a time, blackening, and then dissolving into ash. From outside he heard the shouts of his brothers, as word spread that the commissioners were at the gates.
James had loved his life at St. Ewolda’s—the rhythm of daily prayer and worship, his work with Brother Thomas copying out manuscripts, the quiet fraternity of his fellow monks. But now, he thought, as he watched the last ashes of the manuscript flutter above the fire, his life was over. With his final act, he had done the best and the worst that he could. No pain could be greater than what he now felt, he thought, as he picked up the knife from the table.
A few minutes later, when a commissioner of King Henry VIII entered the kitchen, he saw only a dying fire and the body of Brother James lying on the floor.
May 12, 2016
SEVENTH THURSDAY AFTER EASTER
Once a week, on Thursday mornings, Arthur treated himself to a full English breakfast at the Old Mill Restaurant in the High Street. He didn’t have to be on campus until ten o’clock, so he had plenty of time to go to Morning Prayer, take his walk with Gwyn, and still enjoy breakfast before his bus arrived. He always sat at the same table in the front window, so he would have a view of the bus stop. When he pushed open the door of the restaurant the next morning, he saw a familiar figure seated at his table.
“How did you know I would be here?” said Arthur, sliding into the chair opposite Bethany.
“Barchester’s a small town, Arthur, and, as previously established, you are a creature of habit. And since I’ve yet to try the cholesterol fest that your people call breakfast and I needed to talk, I thought I’d join you.”
Arthur was still settling in his seat when the waiter deposited two fry-ups on the table.
“Morning, Mr. Prescott,” he said. “First time I’ve ever seen you with a date.”
“Not a date, John. Just showing this young American one of the best parts of British culture.”
“Sounds like a date to me,” said the waiter as he walked away.
“So what was it you needed to tell me?” said Arthur, tucking into his meal.
“I found something yesterday,” said Bethany. “Maybe you know about it already. You probably do, which is why I didn’t mention it last night. And if you do know, then I have no reason to be eating this . . . is this, what do you call it, black pudding? It’s made of blood, right? I think I’ll stick to the sausage. So, anyway, I was photographing a manuscript of excerpts from different mathematicians, do you know the one? And I was in the section by Fibonacci—I looked him up and he’s the reason we use Arabic numerals. Can you imagine long division with Roman numerals? And he discovered the Fibonacci sequence. I don’t know if discovered is the right word, but . . .”
“Bethany,” said Arthur gently between bites of egg. “My bus will be here in fifteen minutes.”
“Oh, God, I’m sorry. I thought I’d stopped doing that. Maybe it’s the coffee. Anyway, I found a parchment inserted into the book, just a single sheet. On one side is a fragment of Psalm Fifty-nine in Latin, but on the other is what looks like an inventory of manuscripts, headed St. Ewolda’s Priory and dated October 28, 1539.”
“The day the king’s commissioners arrived and dissolved the monastery,” said Arthur excitedly.