Looking for the King. David C. Downing

think of a Broadway star walking out a stage door to be greeted by a mob of autograph seekers.

      Tom waited patiently, as individuals asked questions, nodding their heads or taking notes, then leaving one by one. One young woman in a fuzzy sweater and a feathered hat wanted to know why Williams dismissed the “Celtic school” so lightly. Williams answered simply that there was no evidence that the Continental writers knew any Welsh folktales, but he was certain they knew about the debates raging in the Church on the meaning of the Eucharist. He also found the idea of noble knights leaving all behind, risking life itself, in quest of a self-refilling stewpot simply foolish. As the group of questioners thinned out, Tom noticed that Laura Hartman was among those waiting to get a word with Mr. Williams. She was wearing her hair curled in front, long in back, so that it cascaded over the fur collar of her beige coat. Tom surprised himself, as he didn’t remember names too well and he didn’t usually pay much attention to what people wore. But in this case, he didn’t seem quite his usual self.

      Williams looked at Laura, as if awaiting her question, but she said, “My question is a little more involved. I can wait for the others.” Tom felt the same way, so he too hung back from the knot of inquirers. Finally, when there only Tom, Laura, and two others still gathered around the lectern, Williams said, “The Kings Arms is just up the street. I wonder if we should seek some refreshment as we continue this discussion?” The other two listeners both declined the invitation. One was a middle-aged man who wanted to challenge Williams on a question of pronunciation. The other a young woman who simply wanted Williams’s signature on a copy of his new book, Descent of the Dove. But Tom was glad for a chance to join Mr. Williams at the Kings Arms and glad too that Laura wanted to come along.

      It was drizzling outside when Tom, Laura, and Mr. Williams left the Bodleian and walked up the street toward the King’s Arms. Williams had removed his academic gown, and was wearing a navy blue suit, gray silk tie, and flawlessly polished shoes. He and Laura brought out their umbrellas, but Tom just pulled up the collar on his jacket and followed closely behind. When they reached the Kings Arms on Holywell Street, they went inside, found a cozy table near the fireplace, and ordered drinks. Taking off his misty spectacles and wiping them with a handkerchief, Williams looked at the two young people across the table from him as if he were just seeing them for the first time.

      “So, you are both Americans, yes?”

      “That’s right,” answered Tom. “But I’m from the left margin of the continent, California, and she’s from the right margin, Pennsylvania.”

      “And did you come over together?” Williams asked.

      “No, we did not,” said Laura quickly. “We just met tonight after your lecture.” Tom thought her answer was more emphatic than it needed to be, and he wondered if Laura didn’t remember him as the one she had talked to in Blackwells the previous week. But he decided to let it pass.

      “We’re getting ready to send evacuees to North America, in case the war takes a bad turn,” said Williams. “I wonder what brings you two expatriates in the other direction?” Even in asking this simple question, Williams’s hands did half the talking. When he mentioned evacuees, his arms reached out, as if pushing a rowboat away from shore. But when he used the word expatriates, he pulled his hands back in toward his chest with fluttering fingers.

      Tom looked at Laura, remembering the Ladies First policy she had proclaimed at Blackwells. Laura looked back at him, as if she preferred to waive her rights in this instance, but Tom just kept waiting politely. Finally, she looked back at Mr. Williams. “Actually, it’s the war that brought me in this direction,” she explained. “My Aunt Vivian lives here in Oxford. She came over in the Great War as a volunteer nurse and married an Englishman. But he was called up for war work in Scotland, and there are no children, so she’s been alone all winter. My parents thought it would be good if I came over to keep Aunt Viv company, at least until her husband can get reassigned closer to home.”

      “That’s a lovely thing to do,” said Williams.

      “Oh, I really don’t mind,” said Laura. “I finished college last year, and I’ve been living at home, working part-time at a library. So I was ready for an adventure.” Laura paused a moment, as if deciding whether she’d said enough or not, then continued: “And I also have some personal things I’m looking into. Somehow I feel the answers are over here somewhere.”

      Both Williams and Tom kept looking at Laura and listening, as if they were expecting to hear more. “But we can talk about that later,” she said, taking a sip of coffee. “Tom, why don’t you tell Mr. Williams what you’re doing over here?”

      Tom was gratified that Laura remembered his name, so he acknowledged her cue and took his turn: “Well, I did my master’s thesis on Arthurian romance. I came over to research a book on the historical sites associated with King Arthur. I’m putting together a guidebook.” Tom usually liked to talk about himself and his projects, but he recognized what Laura had been feeling a moment ago. There was something slightly unnerving about Mr. Williams’s earnest gaze, the big eyes behind those shiny glasses that seemed to peer into your soul. Tom thought about volleying the conversation back in Laura’s direction, but then he remembered the question he wanted to ask. “I asked Professor Lewis a question last week and he referred me to you. I was wondering why somebody over here might take exception to my poking around Arthurian sites.”

      “Is that what happened?” asked Williams.

      “Yes it did. I ran into a couple of ruffians down in Somerset who tried to scare me off. They seemed worried about my finding an underground chamber somewhere.”

      “Professional jealousy perhaps,” said Williams. “They may think any important new finds should be reserved for Englishmen. There’s still a lot out there, you know. A few years ago, they were digging around in Cornwall and found the ancient tomb of ‘Drustanus,’ most likely the famous Tristran, lover of Isolt in Arthurian legends. And just last summer, before this Nazi rudeness, they uncovered a buried ship at Sutton Hoo, complete with silver and gold, helmet and shield, everything fit for a great Saxon lord.”

      Tom nodded his head and smiled, clearly aware of both discoveries. “And in your novel, War in Heaven, you have the Holy Grail itself turn up in Hertfordshire, of all places! Who would have looked for it just north of London?”

      Williams chuckled to himself, as if enjoying his own literary audacity. Then he explained: “If you’ve followed recent theories, the Grail has been turning up everywhere—in Wales and Scotland, even in Eastern Europe. So why shouldn’t humble Hertfordshire put in its claim?” Williams took a sip of his rum and hot water, then continued: “I grew up in Hertfordshire and found the county brimming with Grail legends. Not from Celtic sources, but from the Crusades. In the twelfth century, Hertfordshire was an important hub for the Knights Templar. They had castles and lands in Royston, St. Albans, Baldock, and a half dozen other places within a day’s ride of London. They claimed to have brought back all manner of sacred treasures from Jerusalem—splinters from Christ’s cross, fragments from the crown of thorns, and, of course, the Grail itself.”

      “They would have benefited from your lecture,” said Tom. “You seem to say that the Grail is just a literary device, a religious symbol, not an actual relic one might go questing after.”

      “I wouldn’t put it quite that way,” replied Williams. “I would say that Grail is all the more sacred, all the more worth questing after, because it means so much more than any relic ever could.”

      Tom took in these words for a while and then replied. “And yet your novel suggests that the Grail has some sort of stored-up power or supernatural energy, so that it could be used as a vessel of great evil as well as great good.”

      “Keep in mind it is a novel,” said Williams, “not one of my books on doctrine. And yet, surely you know, such a notion is not original with me. The whole premise of the Dark Arts—baptisms of blood, the Black Mass, crucifixes turned upside down—is that holy vessels can be