“Arthur, you look sick,” said Bethany.
“I do?” said Arthur. “I feel . . .” Arthur didn’t even have the words to describe how he felt—he was in love, she loved him back, and he may have just solved a five-hundred-year-old mystery, decoded the lost Book of Ewolda, and found the resting place of the Holy Grail. “I feel fantastic,” he said, grinning.
“No,” said Bethany, “I mean, I think you need to cancel your classes. You can’t go to work today; you’re too sick.”
“Oh, I see,” said Arthur. “Perhaps you’re right.”
Bethany pressed her palm against his forehead. “Yes, you’re definitely running a fever.”
They stood looking at each other for a moment, then turned and ran for the library.
XIII
THE GREAT EAST WINDOW
Like most of the stained glass in the cathedral, the large window over the high altar, a Tree of Jesse, was installed in the nineteenth century. A traveler’s diary from 1612 describes the medieval window as depicting scenes from the cathedral’s history, but when the window was smashed by Parliamentary troops during the Civil War, that history was lost.
May 17, 1644, Barchester Cathedral
Laurence Rainolds knew the siege of Barchester would not last long. The bishop had already been arrested on the road to London, charged at Oliver Cromwell’s instructions with “unedifying and offensive ceremony and chanting.” The Parliamentary troops had arrived at the bridge over the River Esk a short time ago, and despite valiant efforts by a small garrison of Royalists, it was clear that the Roundheads would soon overrun the city. Laurence had heard what had happened at other cathedrals when the Roundheads arrived—memorials destroyed, altars overturned, furnishings smashed. In Winchester, Cromwell’s troops had pulled down the mortuary chests that contained the remains of early Saxon kings and used the bones to smash the stained glass windows. Their acts of sacrilege seemed to know no bounds. And within the hour they might well be marauding through the aisles and chapels of Barchester Cathedral.
Barchester’s greatest treasures were unassuming, but Laurence was their Guardian and he was not prepared to take chances. With the cries of battle ringing in his ears, he rushed from the streets into the cathedral close and up the stairs to the library. Bishop Atwater’s library was a masterpiece, thought Laurence as he arrived breathless at the top of the stairs. Gleaming spines of leather and vellum covered the sixty-foot length of the east wall, while individual cases stood perpendicular to the west wall. High windows let in enough light on bright days to read easily. Today was not bright. Not just storm clouds but the smoke of battle hung over the city. But Laurence did not need light. He did not need to read; he only needed to remove a single volume from the library. He wished he could take everything, that he could protect the accumulated knowledge that sat on these shelves from the . . . the damned Roundheads who threatened his beloved cathedral. But he had a job and he must accomplish it quickly.
He was halfway across the room when he stopped short. How could he have been so foolish? He could not remove the manuscript he was charged with protecting without the key. Bishop Atwater’s chained bookcase protected the ancient manuscripts well—but Laurence did not have the key, and the conditions of his guardianship forbade him from telling Canon Wickart, who did have the key, why he needed to remove a single manuscript from the library.
Laurence stood in the center of the library for a moment, considering his options. He might be able to tear the cover off the manuscript, but surely that should be a last resort. Damaging a treasure with which he had been entrusted was hardly performing the role of Guardian. He could try to steal the key from Canon Wickart without the canons knowing, but Wickart kept the key on his person at all times. He saw no choice but to bring Wickart into his confidence, and that meant that a great load was about to be lifted from Laurence. When he was made Guardian, his predecessor had told him, “You will know when the time comes to pass the mantle on.” Canon Wickart was twenty years younger than Laurence; it was time for a new Guardian.
Laurence found the canon in the treasury, helping the dean to fill a sack with plate.
“They are nearly upon us,” said the dean. “I will flee the city. If you are able, meet at the ruins of St. Ewolda’s and we will travel together, perhaps to France.”
Laurence could not believe they were abandoning the cathedral. Even when the king’s commissioners had come during the Reformation and thrown down the shrine of Ewolda, many church officials remained at Barchester. But there was no question of remaining now, and there was a very real question about whether the Church of England had any hope of survival. Presbyterianism was the preference of Cromwell, and lately Cromwell seemed to be getting everything he wanted.
“Might I have a word before you go, Canon Wickart,” said Laurence.
“Quickly,” said the canon, as the dean left the room with the plate that might pay for safe passage out of England.
“There is a manuscript in the chained library that I must take with me.”
“I am as fond of books as you are,” said Canon Wickart, “but there is no time to empty the library, and books will only slow us down in our flight.”
“I do not wish to empty the library,” said Laurence, who hated to think of the invaders touching a single volume in the collection. “I need only a single book from the chained library. Come with haste. I will explain to you as we go.”
Laurence had no time for details, but he told Wickart that the book he needed held great secrets and was closely associated with a treasure that Wickart must now guard. As they removed the volume from the chained library they heard shouts in the cloister. The Roundheads had arrived. As they ran down the stairs, Laurence described to Canon Wickart the place outside the city where he had hidden the treasure.
“The manuscript and the treasure,” said Laurence, passing the book to his fellow canon, “are of greater value than all our cathedral. You must guard them and you must appoint their next Guardian when the time is right. The rest I will explain when we meet again.”
The two men stumbled into the cloister. A Roundhead stood just a few feet away, and Laurence pushed Wickart into the shadows and toward the archway at the southeast corner.
“Fleeing with treasures, are you?” shouted a soldier, waving a pike toward the two canons and moving in their direction.
“Fly,” said Laurence into Wickart’s ear. And the canon did. “I can show you the treasures of the cathedral,” said Laurence, stepping between the Roundhead and the exit.