“You’re so confident, aren’t you?” said Arthur. “It amazes me how you just don’t have any doubt.”
“Oh, God, Arthur, is that what you think? That believing means not having any doubt? Of course I have doubt. Every time I turn on the news and see man’s inhumanity to man I have doubts about God; every time I read some scholarly article about the ‘legendary’ King Arthur I have doubts about the Grail; and God knows every time I stop to think about who you are and who I am and how different we are, I have serious doubts about love. But doubt is what makes belief and love gritty and dirty and complicated and worthwhile and life-changing.”
“I wish I could have your faith. I wish I weren’t so weighed down by reason.”
“Faith doesn’t replace reason, Arthur,” said Bethany. “Faith begins where reason leaves off.”
“I think you may be the wisest person I know.”
“You’re welcome at that Communion rail with doubt, Arthur—just not with cynicism. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned about you these last few weeks, it’s that you may be a bit gruff on the outside, but you’re no cynic. Now, the prelude is starting, and if I don’t have the service and the music and my belief and my doubt to distract me for the next hour, I’m going to go batshit crazy waiting to get into that crypt.” She took his hand and added, “And I’d really like to be sitting in there with the man I love.”
Arthur swallowed hard and followed her into the cathedral.
—
When the time came to take Communion, Bethany nudged Arthur and whispered, “Try believing, Arthur, it’s not so horrible.”
The men of the choir were chanting the “Ecce Panis Angelorum,” a hymn written by Thomas Aquinas for Corpus Christi. Though this Roman Catholic piece was not traditionally part of the Anglican service, the precentor, Arthur knew, was always pleased to have an opportunity for a little Anglo-Catholicism. The music felt more ancient than any sound Arthur could imagine, yet he knew it dated only from the eleventh century. Ewolda’s monastery had already been five hundred years old when this Gregorian chant was written. He knelt at the altar rail, a sense, both comforting and terrifying, of the incomprehensible span of history enveloping him. How many thousands had knelt in this spot over the centuries and believed as they received Communion? What was the trickle of his doubt against that flood of faith? Even as Bethany, kneeling beside him, raised her hands to receive the Host, he was not sure what he would do. Yes, he doubted the nature of the Eucharist, but he also respected it. He was deeply moved by what it meant to those around him. As the dean stepped in front of Arthur, he looked up at her in the white vestments of this festival day that commemorated the very rite being performed. Gwyn smiled at him and waited silently, unmoving. Slowly Arthur raised his open palms toward her, but he simply could not force them into the proper attitude. His hands, almost of their own volition, it seemed, crossed over his chest, and he bowed his head as Gwyn made the sign of the cross in front of him, whispering, “May God the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit bless you and keep you.” Maybe next time, Arthur thought. Maybe by then God would forgive him his doubts. As he walked back toward the pew, he felt Bethany’s hand slip into his and there was one thing about which he suddenly had no doubt.
“I’m proud of you, Arthur,” she whispered as they slid back into the pew. And then, like her, Arthur knelt and prayed.
—
Only Arthur attended Compline. They thought it would look suspicious if all four of them suddenly showed up for a service they were not in the habit of attending, so Oscar, David, and Bethany agreed to meet Arthur in the south transept at ten o’clock, leaving plenty of time for the precentor, who was leading Compline that night, to make himself scarce. They had gone their separate ways for dinner. David had a date he didn’t want to cancel. Arthur dined at home alone. Bethany, eager to ring back her contacts to check on the progress in obtaining the last group of key words, didn’t eat at all. Oscar actually had an appointment for dinner with the dean to advise her on tomorrow’s vote about selling the manuscripts.
“Are you going to tell her what we’ve found out?” Bethany had asked.
“Not yet,” said Arthur. “Don’t tell her yet. If we find what we’re hoping to find tonight, we can go and roust her out of bed, but I . . . I’m too fond of Gwyn to get her hopes up.” Arthur had been embarrassed to admit his affection for Gwyn in front of Bethany, but she had squeezed his hand and kissed his cheek as if his capability for fondness made him that much more lovable.
At Compline, Arthur had scrupulously avoided eye contact with the precentor. He felt as if his body glowed with conspiracy. How the precentor could be alone with him, for they were the only two in attendance, and not see guilt and treachery oozing from his every pore Arthur did not know, especially when the precentor spoke the words, “Vouchsafe, O Lord, to keep us this night without sin,” to which Arthur responded, “O Lord, have mercy upon us.”
“A very pleasant evening to you, Arthur,” said the precentor, shaking Arthur’s hand when the service had ended.
“And to you, sir,” said Arthur.
“May I leave you to extinguish the lights?”
“Absolutely, sir,” said Arthur. He often remained behind in the chapel for a few minutes after Compline, so there was nothing unusual in this exchange, yet still Arthur felt the precentor was testing him. He sat for as long as he could bear after the sound of the precentor’s footsteps had died away, then finally looked at his watch. Nine forty. Twenty minutes to go. He knelt and repeated the simple prayer he had whispered after returning to the pew from the altar rail earlier that evening.
Lord, may our actions tonight preserve and protect this holy place and all its treasures.
At five till ten, he blew out all but one of the candles, taking the last one with him to light the way to the south transept. Before leaving the chapel, he reached behind the altar and retrieved a book of matches kept there for lighting candles. Who knew what ancient wind might blow on his candle before the night was over.
Ten minutes later, the four conspirators stood next to a small wooden-and-iron door in a corner of the retrochoir, behind the main altar. They carried what looked like a fairly useless set of tools. Arthur had a Swiss Army knife, Oscar a garden trowel, and David a long bread knife, which he now pulled out of his coat.
“What the hell is that for?” asked Oscar. “Do you think the crypt is made of wholemeal?”
“I don’t know,” said David. “We agreed to bring tools, and I don’t have any tools, so I brought this. Besides, you look like you’re off to plant tulips.”
“Enough, you two,” said Bethany. “If we’re going to do this, let’s do it.”