The Secret of the Swan

by Gill Jepson

  She took in a sharp breath as she noted the other saint’s name. St Cuthbert. She knew that Cuthbert was a monk… could he be Oswald’s friend? She couldn’t wait for the service to end, so that she could get home and go online to find out about the saints.

  After the service, Mum and Grandma seemed to take ages chatting to the old ladies they knew. The rotund and jolly vicar was standing at the door to say goodbye to everyone. He always made Rebecca think of a modern day Friar Tuck. As they moved nearer, Rebecca looked at some of the old pictures on the wall near the vestibule. She couldn’t believe what she saw next.

  CHAPTER 10

  THE VOW

  As John Stell lay quietly on his palette that night his mind was busy with questions and thoughts. It still amazed him that he had been chosen to take on such a task, to be a guardian of such a treasure was a great honour. But then, was not this the sin of pride emerging again?

  He had been shown the treasure and was astonished by its beauty, but it was more than that, it had power and an energy that could be felt even in the air. He needed no convincing that this object had special properties and he could only imagine what power could be unleashed in the wrong hands.

  The responsibility weighed heavily on him. He knew his destiny was tied to its existence and he must protect it. The two of them were bound together for eternity. He could not see into the future but knew that to protect his burden he would need to ensure its safe keeping long into the future.

  The bell rang for vigils. Brother John threw off the rough woollen blanket and rose from his cot. He slipped on his leather shoes and smoothed down his crumpled habit. He followed the other monks through the dimly lit dormitory and down the night stairs into the chancel. He knelt on the cold stone floor and began his devotions. His mind wandered back to his task and he could hardly wait for daybreak, when he could seek out Robert the Mason.

  The two men met at the packhorse bridge in Ennis Woods. Robert was a tall, powerfully built young man, whose large shovel like hands betrayed his work. He was head and shoulders taller than John, but bowed his head reverently. Although he was not a brother, he was an important member of the community. His craft was that of a mason and his work was much in evidence throughout the abbey. He belonged to the abbey as much as the stone statues he carved and even before he was appointed the protector of the treasure, he was bound to the very foundations of the great monastery.

  John and Robert were drawn to each other immediately, with an affinity usually only old friends feel. They knew their duties and were aware of their gravity.

  “We must seal our partnership for all time, Robert…” Stell suggested.

  “Aye! That we must, but what can be sworn upon, to make our pledge true, Brother?”

  “Follow me to the abbey church and I will tell thee.”

  The church was quiet and empty, but before too long the quire monks would be thronging for the next service of the day. They had but a short time to cement their pledge. Brother John led Robert to the Cuthbert Chapel, where an ornate sarcophagus rested. Robert recognised it as some of his own work. He instinctively reached out his hand and lovingly traced the shape of the swan he had carved only recently.

  “Lay your right hand upon this sacred stone, it contains the precious treasure we are bidden to protect… swear with me to protect it at all cost, even unto death… and beyond… how say ye, Robert the Mason?” proclaimed Stell solemnly.

  “Aye, master… I do swear to protect and save the treasure e’en to death and beyond…”

  The two men placed hands upon the sarcophagus and silently prayed for strength… a warm energy hummed beneath their palms suffusing, their bodies. They became one with the treasure and it became one with them… their pledge was sealed and so was their future.

  CHAPTER 11

  FINDING

  There was an assortment of old photos of serious looking Victorian gentlemen and ladies and one of St George’s when the surrounding houses still looked new. The last frame held an old plan of the church and a small map of the vicinity. Rebecca’s mouth dropped open, the church stood on the hill, just as it did now, but instead of being called St George’s Hill, it was called… Rabbit Hill. She had never heard it called that before.

  So, the final part of the jigsaw slotted into place. She had discovered where and who… now she needed to find why. As soon as she arrived home she went onto the computer. She looked up the saints and the swan… it took some time to find what she was looking for, but finally she did. She printed off the bits she needed and then ran over to Megan’s.

  Danny had seen Rebecca running across the road and into the garden and knew it must be important. He followed her to Megan’s.

  “Rebecca knows who Oswald is and where Rabbit Hill is!” cried Megan excitedly.

  “Whoa! How did you find that out – you’ve been to church all morning?”

  “It’s because I’ve been to church that I’ve found out!” exclaimed Rebecca.

  “Ho! Why did an angel fly down and tell you or something?” he quipped.

  “Not quite, smart arse! But you’re not too far off!” retorted Rebecca.

  She then told them about the revelation at church and what she had discovered from the internet.

  “It says that the swan is a symbol of Christian prayer and purity… but it also traces back to Pagan mythology too.”

  “What’s Pagan?” asked Megan.

  “Erm… its sort of religion and stuff before Jesus I think,” suggested Rebecca.

  “So, old then?”

  “Erm… Oswald… he’s a northern warrior King who became a saint because of his bravery in fighting the Vikings. He was beheaded and someone hid his head… wait for this… St Cuthbert had it taken to Lindisfarne and is often pictured with the King’s crowned head… and because he was so good he attracted wild creatures… otters AND…”

  “SWANS!”

  “Yes! And wait… he’s pictured as a bishop with swans… and he travelled all over the north founding churches and abbeys and his monks carried his coffin round the north for seven years to keep his body safe from the heathens.”

  “Phew, so… what’s it all mean?”

  “The treasure must be St Cuthbert’s… it says the swan is his… not Oswald’s…”

  “What sort of treasure could a monk have?” asked Danny reasonably.

  “I’m not really sure, ‘cos they aren’t allowed money or possessions.”

  “We get closer, but then there’s a riddle and we don’t have the solution.”

  “I think there are a few things to go on…” said Rebecca.

  “What exactly?” demanded Danny.

  “There’s the saint thing… we need to find out if Cuthbert ever came to our abbey… or any churches near here. And we need to see if they left any relics or stuff, ’cos they kept them in abbeys, didn’t they?”

  “Wow! It’s a bit complicated… I hope you’re up to this Beccs!” sighed Danny.

  That afternoon Rebecca was as good as her word, she had a long discussion with her mum about the abbey and St Cuthbert. By three o’clock Rebecca had so much information she didn’t know what she was going to do with it all.

  The children met later to discuss her findings and slowly, the information began to make more sense. St Cuthbert had travelled around the north of England, taking the word of God to all who would listen. He founded churches and many villages claimed that he had been responsible for their churches, including St Cuthbert’s at Aldingham. There was one theory that his bones were rescued by the monks after his death and carried into Cumbria to save them from the Vikings.

  “It says here, that he also saved many holy relics from marauders,” said Rebecca, “Maybe that’s what the treasure is?”

  “Well, we’ve got to go then haven’t we?” said Danny excitedly.

  “Where?” asked Megan.

  “ALDINGHAM!”

  CHAPTER 12

  THE SACRED PLACE

  A few days later Ge
orge visited his Grandparents at Ravenglass. Granny was a plump, little woman with a twinkle in her old blue eyes. Granddad was another kettle of fish, gruff and taciturn, but with a soft spot for George. George often wondered how they had lived together for so long, as they seemed to have little in common, apart from their twelve children and ever growing family of grandchildren.

  George had been charged with taking Granddad’s “bait” up to Muncaster Castle where he was working on the drawing room ceiling. Auntie Ginny had put up two lunches, so that they could eat together. He ran under the railway bridge towards the main road and down the path to the castle. He glanced through the window and saw Granddad working from the scaffolding. Granddad slowly climbed down the ladder and came outside to meet his grandson. The two sat on the low wall overlooking the Esk.

  “Eh lad, th’as brought me bait, hast tha?”

  George nodded, “Aye, Auntie Ginny said I can stop with you and have some too.”

  “Ah, so that’s it, what’s she give’ us then?”

  There were two huge teacakes, thickly buttered, a hank of cheese and an apple a piece. This was washed down with tea from the Billy can. When they had finished, Granddad took out his pipe and slowly began filling it with strong fragrant tobacco. He lit it and began sucking the end to draw the tobacco. He sat smoking quietly, the coils of smoke wafted past George and he basked in the aromatic smell, which he would forever associate with his grandfather. The old man looked at George and smiled beneath the heavy walrus moustache he sported. Soon enough George pulled out the little carving from his pocket, asking what Granddad thought of it. The old man held it, stroking its contours and inspecting it from every angle.

  “It’s old, lad. Where didst tha find it?”

  “On Piel Island, near the ruins.”

  He considered it for a moment. “It’s not from there, it’s the wrong stone. This is limestone, not red sandstone… it’s come from further along the coast I reckon.”

  “Do you think it’s a parson or a bishop?” asked George.

  “Nay, lad. I think it’s a more important fella than that… mebbe a saint,” he answered, shaking his head.

  “A saint! Can you tell which one?”

  “Nay… least, not unless tha knows what church or chapel it’s from. It’s mebbe come outa one o’parish churches.”

  “Crumbs! I wonder which one, Granddad?”

  “I reckon somewhere like Ulverst’n, Gert Ossick* or even Aldin’ham… none of ’em are sandstone… and as fer saints, well, I heard tell that St Cuthbert come up here and founded a lot of churches. He come up t’ Kirkby and St Bees and set up churches there… anyway, tha needs t’ keep it safe, it’s a precious l’ile statue.”

  On the train home, George thought about what he had been told and determined that a visit to the library was definitely needed.

  The next day he hunted through books about churches and the abbey, until he found what he had been looking for. He jumped up in triumph and slammed the heavy book shut, with a bang, attracting a stern look from the librarian. Aldingham did indeed date back to early Christian times and was named for St Cuthbert. The information on the saint told of him being accompanied by otters and swans. Importantly, the church was right by the sea overlooking the sands of Morecambe Bay. Everything was beginning to fit together like a jigsaw puzzle, even if a few pieces were still missing.

  He and Sid set out for Aldingham. George was so excited he streaked ahead on his bike, leaving Sid far behind him. They walked up the short path to the church door and into the porch. Carefully, they lifted the latch and pushed open the heavy wooden door. The boys took off their caps as they had been taught; pushing them into their shorts pockets and they slowly walked into the cool, quiet church.

  “What we looking for George?” whispered Sid.

  “I dunno exactly… look for summat to do with the little statue I suppose.”

  Sid frowned. They split up and walked around the church, looking at the inscriptions on the walls and the windows and inside the pews. After half an hour they gave up and sat in a pew at the back of the church.

  They continued to look around, hoping that something would jump out at them. They stood up and prepared to leave. As they shuffled towards the door, a beam of refracted light fell across the stone floor, from the stained glass window next to the font. They followed its source and looked up at the window… the figure on the window echoed the little figure and underneath was the inscription, “St Cuthbert.”

  “This has got to be good; it’s him, the little fella!”

  “Yes but it doesn’t really get us anywhere, does it?” offered Sid.

  George was already looking at the window, in the hope that it held a clue. He stood on the plinth of the scallop decorated font to see if he could get closer. He suddenly slipped and fell, banging his back against the base.

  “Ow! That hurt!” he yelped.

  As he rubbed his back he suddenly caught sight of something interesting. At the base of the opposite wall there were carvings. He felt the shape of the stone and traced the contours with his finger tips. A piece of the carving was missing, leaving a rough edge. George pulled the figure out of his pocket and tried to match it to the rough edge. He moved it around and then shouted in triumph. The piece fitted perfectly.

  “Well, what does that prove?” Sid asked, disappointed.

  Before George could answer, Sid cried out again.

  “Look! It’s the same little man, just over there, on the wall… and there’s a swan again!”

  George looked where Sid was pointing. Adjacent to the font was a range of relief carvings. Sure enough, the same image appeared and was attended by a swan, flexing its wings. The carving looked as clean and fresh as the day it was carved, amazing in its detail. George reached out to touch the carving and followed its contours with his fingers. He pressed and pushed and the stone felt hard and cold beneath his touch. He ran his hands down to the swan’s long neck, as his fingers travelled along the wings and up to the chest of the swan, he noticed a carved collar at the base of the neck. There was a cross carved on it and as he placed the flat of his hand on it, the relief image gave way beneath the pressure.

  As the swan sank, a low rumbling noise came from beneath it. The stone slid back, leaving a gap, just big enough to slip a hand in. George did just that and pulled out a small package, bound in a leather bag. As he let go of the swan, the stone slid back into place, showing no clue of it ever having moved.

  The boys were about to investigate the discovery further, when they heard the latch of the big wooden door slowly lift. They jumped to their feet and George pushed the package down the front of his shirt. A tall, thin pinched man entered. Something about his presence made the boys shiver. He looked directly at them, with unblinking, reptilian eyes. It was the man they had seen at Piel. They moved away from the panel, instinctively.

  “What do we have here, young gentlemen?” he said in a silky voice.

  “Nowt, mister… we’re just looking round the church!” said Sid defensively.

  “And what are we looking for, exactly?” he persisted.

  “We aren’t looking for anything… we’re just looking round,” said George.

  “Unusual interest for such young people, are you sure you aren’t trying to find something?”

  His piercing eyes sliced open their minds, almost revealing their thoughts. They stood closer together, feeling safer that way. The man looked them up and down slowly and his eyes seemed to rest on George’s shirt front. George automatically pulled his cap from his pocket and held it in front of him, protectively. The man registered the movement and looked hard into the boy’s eyes.

  “I do hope you haven’t taken anything from this wonderful, old church…”

  Before George could answer, the door opened again and two middle aged ladies entered, carrying armfuls of flowers. They smiled and greeted the man, glancing at the two lads. They explained that they would be decorating the church and engaged the man in
a conversation that he didn’t really wish to take part in.

  The two boys quietly slipped out into the sunlight, butterflies of anticipation welling up inside them as they ran for their bikes. They looked behind them and pushed off up the lane, heading for Scales village. They sped off up the hill as fast as they could go, trying to put distance between them and the strange man.

  The man took some time to free himself from the two very polite but chatty ladies of the flower committee. Finally, he walked briskly out of the church and into the narrow lane next to the churchyard. He looked up and down the lane in both directions, but could see no trace of the boys. Muttering beneath his breath, he ran to his smart black Morris motor car. He cranked up the engine and then set off at speed onto the new road. He was very annoyed that the boys had vanished…very annoyed indeed. He knew that they had found something… something that he wanted and must acquire at any cost.

  * * *

  *Great Urswick

  CHAPTER 13

  THE PASSING

  The plain song from the chapel filtered through the rood screen to the simple infirmary ward like sunlight through the trees. Brother John was warmed by the rich smooth voices and his spirit lifted momentarily. Robert Mason huddled on a wooden stool close to the palette bed which had become John’s refuge these last days. He had been fixed to the stool for many a long hour, not wishing to leave his master… and friend. John turned to Robert and smiled. Many years had passed since their pledge to each other and to the abbey treasure. Both men were aged now, but John was fading very fast, he had had the fever in the winter months and Robert had hoped his friend would improve with the warm spring. A terrible cough had wracked his thin frame ever since and it soon became clear that John was unlikely to recover.