Free Finding Camlann by Sean Pidgeon Page B

arguments about provenances and dates, and amateur enthusiasts may wonder quite how Joseph of Arimathea came to lose his prize possession in a Wiltshire field, Dr. Trevelyan consciously distances herself from such debates. ‘In ancient times,’ she avows, ‘the Grail was revered as a pure symbol of the feminine divine. Medieval France is solely to blame for its brash appropriation by the Christian faith as the holy vessel of the Last Supper.’
With such trenchant opinions as these combined with her dramatic presence and fearsome erudition, Lucinda Trevelyan seems likely to become something of an icon herself. When this newspaper tried to reach her by telephone at St. Anne’s, we were told that she was engaged in an interview for the Daily Mail , and would call us back later.
     
    Donald exhales deeply and slowly, unsure whether to laugh or to cry. ‘From this morning’s paper?’ he says.
    ‘Yes, this morning,’ Madeleine says, ‘but of course you know about this already? This is your wife we are speaking of, this lady who so disdains my noble country?’
    ‘My ex-wife. We were divorced a few months ago.’
    ‘I am so sorry, Donald.’ Madeleine’s regret seems entirely sincere. ‘She is such a remarkable woman.’
    Felicity has a familiar discerning expression on her face. ‘Should we be sorry?’
    ‘Not in the least. You should be happy for me.’
    ‘But of course this is perfect,’ Madeleine says, the French coming back more strongly into her voice. ‘We can put our clever English scholar up against the crazy woman from America.’
    Donald cannot help smiling. ‘I’m not quite sure what you have in mind.’
    Madeleine picks up the cutting, flaps it melodramatically in front of his face. ‘You can use this in your book somehow, surely? The discovery of the Holy Grail?’
    ‘I’ve decided I’m not going to take that suggestion seriously.’
    ‘Archaeologists can be so dull.’ Madeleine’s smile is a flash of crimson on white. ‘If we’re quick, we can be first out on the street with our version of the story. You could do a documentary, Donald, become the new face of TV archaeology. What do you think, Felicity?’
    ‘I’m not sure our author is quite convinced,’ Felicity says.
    Half an hour later, nursing a second pint of Fuller’s ESB at the Prince of Wales pub, Donald is feeling quite sure of his opinions. ‘You seem to have mistaken me for the kind of person you assume Lucy would be married to,’ he says. ‘She was once my wife, but not any more. And even if we were still married, you would never persuade me to write that sort of book. It’s almost the opposite of what I set out to do.’
    Madeleine casually swirls the umbrella stick in her vodka martini. ‘So your book will become the opposite of a bestseller, is this the idea?’
    ‘Leave him alone,’ Felicity says. ‘He can’t help having principles.’
    ‘I was never troubled by them, darling.’ Madeleine empties her glass in one go, winking at Donald. ‘Sorry, but I must be getting back—I’ve got some sales figures to muster up for the boss this afternoon.’
    ‘Please don’t pay any attention to her,’ Felicity says, in the calm that follows Madeleine’s departure. ‘She likes to pretend she works for a more glamorous company. I’m with you on this, Donald. I’m not at all interested in publishing something that’s a fake.’

     
    JULIA IS DUE to spend the day in the section of the Bodleian known as Duke Humfrey’s Library, where she has privileged access to materials from one of the most extensive medieval collections in the world. She heads in early, cycling down the Woodstock Road to St. Giles, then cutting along the path that skirts the leafy parkland behind St. John’s College. At the main entrance to the library on Catte Street, she finds a small knot of people gathered in wholesome silence in the courtyard, familiar zealous faces waiting patiently to go in. She smiles at some of them, acquaintances of