On the morning of Pentecost 1665, the archbishop of Canterbury, Gilbert Sheldon, was to rededicate the restored cathedral. Gregory had looked forward to giving the archbishop a personal tour of the library, hoping His Grace might be moved to donate a few volumes. The cathedral dean had already given much of his own collection, as had a prominent merchant in the city, and the library looked a bit less barren than it had even a few months ago.
Earlier in the week, Gregory had been part of an entourage that had traveled to London to accompany the archbishop from his home at Lambeth Palace to Barchester. As he lay in bed while the early morning light filtered through the window, he realized what a mistake that journey had been. He shivered with chills, and his forehead sweated with fever, but that was not the least of his worries. Under his left arm, and on the side of his neck, were two painful, swollen lumps. Gregory knew he had been infected with the plague that was even then running rampant through London. He knew that no member of the cathedral clergy would come to his bedside. The risk of infection was too great. Gregory did not fear death. He had, he believed, served God on earth and looked forward to doing the same in heaven when the Lord saw fit to call him. However, he did fear a lapse in the guardianship. Though he had never understood exactly what he was guarding or why he was guarding it, he knew from the desperate tone of Laurence’s voice all those years ago that the coded manuscript and its associated treasure must be protected. Gregory had made many sacrifices in his years of exile to serve as Guardian, but now he faced the reality of a speedy death and the necessity of appointing a successor. If no clergy came to his room—and he already felt too weak to stand and walk—could a layman serve as Guardian? Laurence’s instructions had been hasty to say the least.
“Still abed, Father Wickart?” came a voice on the stair. “I thought you was to breakfast at the bishop’s palace this morning.”
“I am ill,” said Gregory in a weak voice. “You had best stay away, Margret.”
Margret was the housemaid, the cook, and the laundress all in one. Most mornings she made breakfast for Gregory, which he ate on his return from Morning Prayer.
“Indeed I won’t,” said Margret, appearing at the door of the bedroom. “Oh, me, you look like death himself. Shall I fetch the doctor?”
“The doctor, like everyone else of status in Barchester,” said Gregory, “is breakfasting with the archbishop. Besides, there is nothing a doctor can do for me now.”
“Some broth, then,” said Margret. “Or some water, at least.”
“You are kind, Margret, but there is nothing you can do either.” Or was there, thought Gregory. Was it possible to pass the mantle of guardianship not to a clergyman, not even to a layman, but to a laywoman?
“There must be something, sir. I cannot stand here and do nothing to help . . .” Gregory looked up and saw that Margret was now weeping. “To help a man who’s been so kind to me,” she said.
She was a good woman, an honest woman, thought Gregory. And there could be no doubt that she cared for and respected him deeply. She had always done anything he asked without question and she had accomplished every task with integrity and efficiency. She feared God, said her prayers every night, and attended services every Sunday. And Laurence had stipulated no rules about who should be Guardian. Gregory thought that Margret would perform the task nobly.
“Actually, my dear Margret,” he said, “there is something you can do.”
A few hours later, Margret Barlow, a spinster who could neither read nor write, and who had no means of accessing the places where the objects of her guardianship resided, nonetheless became the first layperson to serve as Guardian. As Gregory predicted, she discharged her duties efficiently and effectively. Her guardianship lasted less than a day. She remained with Gregory through his last hours, carefully keeping her distance, save for changing the cold compress on his forehead that offered some slight relief. When the end came, night had fallen on Barchester, the archbishop had departed, and all the clergy of the cathedral, no doubt surfeited on the feasts of the day, had retired to their lodgings.
The next morning, Margret attended Morning Prayer in the Lady Chapel. Following the service, as instructed by Canon Wickart, she approached Canon Hammond and asked if she might have a word in private. The canon expressed his opinion that this was an unusual request and that he had a meeting with the dean in a quarter of an hour to discuss a matter of importance, but Margret assured the canon that this, too, was a matter of great importance and that she would impose on the good canon for only a few minutes. And so, in a quiet corner of the retrochoir, Margret Barlow’s twelve hours of guardianship came to an end.
Two weeks later, Margret became Canon Hammond’s housekeeper, and though she saw him every day for the rest of his life—a span of more than twenty years—she never again spoke to him of the manuscript or of the treasure. Even in his final days, when Margret knew he must have passed the guardianship to another, she did not speak of it, nor did he. After the canon’s death, Margret left Barchester and went to live with her nephew in Somerset. There she often entertained the family with stories of life at Barchester Cathedral, but the secret of her hours as Guardian she took to her grave.
May 27, 2016
FIRST FRIDAY AFTER TRINITY
“Arthur?” said Bethany gently. “Arthur, what does it say?”
Arthur couldn’t form the word. They had found Ewolda. Because of her, Barchester existed, the cathedral existed, the library existed. She was the reason for all the best parts of his life. Without her, he would never have met Bethany. And he still believed, though he would share that belief only with Bethany, that Ewolda might one day lead him to the Holy Grail. He stood transfixed, feeling that he should mutter some words of thanks to this woman who, fifteen hundred years ago, had sacrificed her life for a religion she hadn’t even known about a few months earlier. But he couldn’t speak. He couldn’t move, not even to wipe the tears from his eyes.
“Are you all right?” asked David, laying a hand on Arthur’s shoulder. Bethany stepped next to him on the other side and took hold of his arm.
“Amazing,” said Oscar, joining the others in front of the tomb. They stood there for several minutes, the four of them. Arthur slowly emerged from his trance and began to wonder what the others were thinking. Bethany, he imagined, was saying a prayer. David perhaps was gauging how much longer he needed to stand there before he could go take a hot shower and start telling women he had uncovered an ancient secret. Oscar would understand better than any of them that this tomb and this spring certainly meant a huge grant from Heritage Lottery and an influx of tourist dollars into Barchester. Not only would the library be saved, there would be money to repair the manuscripts and the north transept and anything else that needed repairing. Gwyn might even get her glass-and-steel Lady Chapel. It was the thought of Gwyn that finally brought words to Arthur’s lips.
“We should tell the dean.”
“It’s one o’clock in the morning,” said David.