The Unburied (8 page)

‘Does the manuscript itself provide any clues?’

‘Unfortunately it was destroyed in 1643 when the Library here was ransacked. So all we have is a very inadequate edition of the Leofranc recension published by the antiquarian, Parker, in 1574.’

‘Why would anyone have bothered to forge it?’

‘I don’t believe anybody did, though I am prepared to concede that Grimbald’s original text was altered and added to by Leofranc. He certainly added that material at the end describing the finding of an old charter that enriched the abbey, and he probably added the account of the miracles in order to make the abbey a centre of pilgrimage.’

‘In that case, perhaps he forged the whole thing?’

‘That’s what a rogue who disgraces the name of scholar – a man called Scuttard – suggested about three months ago when he published a paper in the same journal attacking my own in the most violent terms. He argued that Leofranc forged the whole of it by plagiarizing and cobbling together other texts.’

‘You keep talking about this Leofranc as if he were living next door. Who was he, for heaven’s sake?’

‘Do you really not know? He was the bishop who created the cult of the martyred saint, Wulflac, here in Thurchester. Scuttard argues that he did so in order to raise money to demolish the Anglo-Saxon Minster and build the Cathedral ...’

‘I noticed that Grimbald refers to “the Old Minster” which suggests that the account was composed after it had been replaced. And that was not until twelve-something, was it?’

‘It was at the beginning of the twelfth century, Austin.’

‘Sorry. I get the elevens and the twelves and the thirteens a bit confused. The medieval period is nothing but monks and battles to me until you get to Henry VIII and his wives.’

I shuddered and went on: ‘The manuscript published by Parker was copied in about 1120, so that fits Leofranc’s dates. But you’re right that that is one of the pieces of evidence Scuttard used. And he argued that the whole enterprise that Leofranc carried out – elevating Wulflac’s Well and his tomb into a shrine which became an object of pilgrimage throughout the middle ages – was based on this forgery.’

‘Scuttard argues that Wulflac was not martyred?’

I nodded. ‘He goes much further: he actually argues that he never existed. And it’s true that there is no reference to his existence apart from Grimbald’s
Life.
But one of my objections to Scuttard in my riposte last month was to ask why, in that case, did Leofranc not forge a life of Wulflac rather than of Alfred?’

‘I suppose that what he did was much more sophisticated. Writing a life of Alfred in which St Wulflac is shown to play a significant role smuggles the martyr into existence much more effectively.’

‘That is exactly what Scuttard has replied,’ I acknowledged gloomily. ‘And if that is accepted, then some of his other outrageous suggestions are given plausibility. Above all, his absurd and horrible idea that Alfred did not defeat the Danes but was actually defeated by them, paid them Danegeld and became their vassal.’

Austin studied my face dispassionately. ‘Does it really matter?’

‘I don’t like to see a man using bogus scholarship to boost his career. That paper of his has made him the leading contender for the new Chair of History at Oxford. But if I can find what I’m looking for, the original version of Grimbald which I believe the antiquarian Pepperdine saw in 1663, then I can destroy his argument and prove that Grimbald’s
Life
is genuine.’

‘Who was the most likely candidate until Scuttard published his paper?’

I felt myself blushing. ‘I hadn’t decided whether or not to let my name go forward, if that’s what you mean.’

‘Did Scuttard attack you because he saw you as a possible rival?’

‘Without a shadow of doubt.’

‘So finding the manuscript would hugely help your chances?’

I was struck by the malice in his tone and I wondered if he felt bitter because, despite his brilliance, he had gained a disappointing degree and had had to abandon hopes of a fellowship. His lack of success was at least partly due to his refusal to work at the things he was not interested in – though other factors were also responsible.

‘I’m not sure that I would want the Chair. A life of quiet scholarship and teaching is all I desire and I have that already. The respect and even affection of my pupils mean more to me than the title of “professor”.’

Austin smiled to himself in the most irritating way. ‘Suppose you find the manuscript but it disproves your argument?’

To change the subject, I said: ‘Why don’t you open your gift, Austin?’

He picked it up. ‘I’d almost forgotten about it.’ He removed the paper with great delicacy and held the book in front of him. ‘Thank you,’ he said.

In some embarrassment, I said: ‘I understand it’s a formidable contribution to the debate about chronology.’

‘It was kind of you to think of it. I’m sure it’s a very intelligent piece of work.’

He made a pretence of being interested, opening and looking at it.

‘The author is a Fellow of Colchester which for you and me must be the strongest recommendation anyone could have. And he is, indeed, a brilliant man in his field. I know you will disagree, but he argues that the evidence from geology pushes the date of the Creation back to millions of years ago. I understand that ...’

‘I suppose it’s because of this blessed manuscript that you’ve arranged to see Locard?’ he interrupted me.

‘I assume you know him?’

‘Oh yes, I know him. I know him for a cold-hearted, ambitious and dry-as-dust pedant. He is one of those men for whom the shell is more important than the content, the form than the substance. He is one of those men who have stood on the edge of life, too frightened to dip more than a toe in the water.’

‘I don’t mind how dry Dr Locard keeps his feet so long as he knows his business,’ I said with a smile.

‘He might know his business as a scholar but he certainly does not know it as a churchman. Beneath all the accoutrements of a Ritualist, he’s as devoid of faith as the author of this.’ He tapped the book. ‘Like so many in our age, he has abandoned the centre of our religion and fled to the trappings. But all of these scientific hypotheses about apes and fossils and galaxies are irrelevant. The fact that everything can be explained by one theory – the rationalistic-scientific as it might be termed – does not mean that there is not a larger theory to which it is subordinate.’

‘Oh, you mean that God put the fossils there when he made the world one Monday morning in 4004
BC
just in order to test our faith, as some of your distinguished co-religionists have argued?’

‘No, I do not mean that. If you would do me the courtesy of attempting to follow my argument, you might grasp the point I’m making.’

I felt in his cruel words all the frustration of a clever man who knows he has thrown away his opportunities.

There was a moment of silence. ‘I hope you haven’t made an enemy of Dr Locard,’ I said, remembering what old Gazzard had said. ‘He’s obviously a powerful man.’

‘Powerful? Why, what could he do to me?’ he said, throwing the book down on the floor beside him.

‘At worst, I imagine he could have you dismissed from your post.’

‘Yes, in worldly terms he is powerful, if that is what you mean.’

‘How would you live if you lost your situation?’

‘Very poorly. I have no resources and no friends who could help me. But do you think I would regret the loss of my post – teaching lumpen youths in this vicious little town? I long to return to Italy. You remember I was there once?’

‘But Austin, how would you live? Even in Italy you would need some sort of income.’

‘You reduce everything to money and jobs. Don’t you see that none of that really matters? Not ultimately.’

‘Then what does matter?’ I asked.

He gazed at me with an unfathomable expression and when at last I realized that he didn’t intend to answer I said: ‘Do you mean that all that is important is the fate of your soul?’

I meant to keep from my tone any note of sarcasm as I pronounced those last words. But Austin smiled bitterly. ‘You accused me just now of believing in “eternal life and all that nonsense”.’

‘I apologize. I momentarily forgot myself. It is quite contrary to my principles to ridicule the beliefs of another.’

‘However ridiculous?’ he asked with the merest hint of irony.

‘Historically, most men in most societies have believed in the survival of the soul after death. In believing in a heavenly reward you have at least the weight of opinion on your side.’

He held up a hand to stop me. ‘I haven’t made myself clear. I do believe in good and evil and redemption and damnation. I accept them utterly and without question. They are as real to me as the chair I am sitting on. More real. You say I’m taken in by the idea of eternal life, but I tell you, damnation is more real and convincing to me than salvation. And certainly more probable.’

Just as I believed I was close to understanding him, comprehension was snatched away. ‘Why do you say that?’

He held my gaze until I looked away. ‘Let me ask you the question you just put to me: What does matter? What ultimately matters to you?’

I found it hard to answer. ‘I suppose scholarship. Truth. Humanity.’ I broke off. ‘Oh for God’s sake, Austin, that’s a question for undergraduates. What matters is trying to live decently. Trying to do one’s best. I mean, trying to behave with respect and understanding towards other people. And finding some degree of intellectual fulfilment, social sustenance and aesthetic pleasure.’

‘There you have the difference between us. Let me put this to you. Suppose you had to describe your life as if it were a journey, then what would you say about it?’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘I am suggesting that for you life is a slow progress across a wide plain – you can see the land ahead and behind for many miles.’

‘I understand. And you don’t see your life in such terms?’

He smiled. ‘Hardly. For me, life is a dangerous quest through thick mist and darkness along a narrow ridge with a steep drop on either side. At moments the mist and the darkness lift and I see the giddying drop on either side of me, but I also see the peak towards which I am making my way.’

‘My life is not without its moments of unexpected excitement. For example, when I found the reference to the possibility of the Library here having that manuscript ...’

‘I’m not talking about manuscripts,’ Austin interrupted. ‘What about passion?’

I smiled in irritation. ‘At our age, Austin ...’

‘At our age! What nonsense. You sound like an old man.’

‘Austin, we’re no longer young. We’re both nearly fifty.’

‘Fifty! That’s no age at all. We have several decades of life before us.’

‘Be that as it may, I think I’ve had enough passion for one lifetime.’

‘I assume that you are referring to ...?’

‘Don’t speak of it, Austin. Really, I have no wish to rake it up.’

‘And since then?’

‘Since then?’

‘It’s been more than twenty years. Did everything but your professional life end at that moment?’

‘My professional life – which you seem to dismiss as insignificant – has been rich and rewarding. I have my pupils, my colleagues, my scholarly papers and my books. I believe I am a respected member of my college and of my profession. I think I can say that many of the young men I teach even feel a degree of affection for me as I do towards them.’

‘You talk of it as if it is in the past. Have you no desire for that Chair or are you perfectly content to see that man – Scuttard, is it? – carry it away?’

‘I’ve told you, I won’t stoop to obtain it. And it would be a risk.’

‘A risk?’

‘If I were known to have sought it and failed, I would be somewhat humiliated.’

‘That’s what you call a risk?’

‘I don’t need a Chair. My professional life is already very full without it.’

‘Very well.’ He leaned back. ‘Have you never thought of marrying again?’

‘I am still married,’ I said shortly. He looked at me severely and I added: ‘At least, so far as I know.’

‘As far as you know. Well, I can tell you ...’

‘I don’t wish to know. I’ve told you I have no wish to discuss that.’

‘Did your passional life end twenty years ago? Have you never developed tender feelings for anyone else since then?’ His tone was impatient rather than affectionate.

‘How could I? I’m not free to do so. And besides, as I’ve just said, I’ve had enough passion for one lifetime.’ In the face of his silent scrutiny I said, absurdly: ‘I’m perfectly happy as I am.’

‘Happiness’, he said softly, ‘is much more than merely the absence of misery.’

‘That may be, but I dare not risk again the misery I endured twenty years ago. I will settle for the absence of pain.’

‘How can you say that? The only thing in life that matters is passion. The only thing.’

Many responses rose to my lips – that what we call passion is often nothing more than a childish love of excitement, of wanting to be the centre of attention – but they died there as I looked at his face. There was such intensity there, such concentration. I turned my gaze away. What on earth was he referring to? What was the passion which animated his life? Who was its object? It was strange to connect a man of his age and mine with the notion of passion. And yet perhaps he was right. Certainly he was if he was talking about love. But the word Austin had used was not ‘love’.

‘What do you mean by passion?’ I asked.

‘Do you need to ask? I mean that we don’t exist in and for ourselves but only in as much as we are re-created in the imagination of another person – by entering that person’s life as fully as possible. I mean, entering it imaginatively, intellectually, physically and emotionally with all the conflicts that that makes inevitable.’

‘I don’t believe that. I believe we are absolutely alone. What you describe is a temporary condition of obsession.’ I smiled. ‘Temporary, even if in some cases it lasts a lifetime.’

‘We’re alone if we choose to be so.’

I disagreed but I would not respond. I was curious now. ‘Is this abstraction that you call passion so different from love, from affection?’