The Hidden Treasure of Glaston

by Eleanore M Jewett

  Also by Eleanore M. Jewett

  Told on the Kings Highway

  Big John’s Secret

  Text © 1946 by Eleanore M. Jewett

  eBook formatting © 2012 Bethlehem Books

  All Rights Reserved

  340 pages in the print book edition

  First Bethlehem Books printing, June 2000

  Bethlehem Books • Ignatius Press

  10194 Garfield Street South

  Bathgate ND, 58216

  www.bethlehembooks.com

  Cover illustration © 2000 Gino d’Achille

  Cover design by Davin Carlson

  Interior artwork by Frederick T. Chapman

  Dedicated to Anne Lloyd

  Friend of Old Glaston and beloved friend of mine

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Also by Eleanore M. Jewett

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Map

  1. The Coming of Hugh

  2. Brother John and Dickon the Oblate

  3. Hue and Cry

  4. Hidden Hallows

  5. Missing Pages

  6. Who Goes There?

  7. The Mad Master of Beckery

  8. The Hermit’s Story

  9. The Sword and the Quest

  10. In the Marshes of Avalon

  11. Here Lies Buried

  12. Winter and Spring

  13. Royal Guests

  14. Stolen Treasure

  15. Henry the King

  16. The Great Fire

  17. The Choice

  Note

  About the Author

  1. The Coming of Hugh

  IT WAS A NIGHT of sweeping storm, a spring when the rivers were brown and full, the freshets boiling and the marshes around the abbey more boggy and treacherous than usual. Cold it was, too, bitter cold for March, and the wind-driven rain slashed against doors and walls and beat the muddy roads into a running ooze. God pity all poor souls abroad on such a night! Those who had shelter, be it ever so poor, clung to it, and within the great draughty halls of the monastery the good brothers rubbed their chilly hands together or muffled them in their black sleeves as they hurried through the cloisters to the church. The bell for Compline, the last service of the day, had just rung and after that there would be a chance to toast themselves a few moments, silently, in front of the huge smoky hearth in the common room before going to bed in the cold dormitories.

  The master of the guest house, however, the brother whose duty it was to greet any stranger of importance who came to the abbey, did not attend Compline that evening. Before the bell had ceased ringing there came a thunderous knock on the outer gate. A porter hastened to draw the bolts, opened the heavy doors and admitted, with a furious blast of wind and rain, a knight swathed in a heavy cloak and followed by a stout servant half supporting what might be a child, perhaps, or some slight or ailing person. Outside, the porter could just discern by the flickering light of his lantern two horses standing, heads down, tails close to their reeking shanks.

  He bowed the two men into the guest house hall, then ran quickly to fetch Brother Arnolf, the guest master, catching him just as he was about to enter the church.

  “There be strangers come to the gate, Brother Arnolf,” said he, “a knight, one nobly born I would think from the manner of him, and a squire or servant with what might be a child or young lad.”

  The guest master turned back toward the buildings beyond the cloisters, bidding the porter see to the horses. This he did with willing speed for it were ill to keep even a beast standing uncared for in such cold and wet.

  When Brother Arnolf reached the hall he found the strange knight, his wet cloak thrown aside, walking impatiently up and down the rush-strewn floor. Near the glowing brazier which was kept alight on bitter nights like these, stood a boy, delicately built, with large dark eyes in a thin, pale face. The servant had gone out again to the horses and, as the boy moved closer to the fire, Brother Arnolf understood why he had not entered unsupported and sturdily on his own two feet. One thin leg dragged pitifully; indeed it seemed as if he could scarce bear his weight at all upon it without falling.

  Brother Arnolf bowed dutifully to the knight and raised his eyes and hand for a moment, in the customary prayer and blessing. He had scarcely finished before the stranger spoke, quickly, nervously, yet as one accustomed to authority, asking to see the abbot.

  “Most surely,” said Brother Arnolf, “my Lord Abbot shall be summoned immediately after Compline which is even now being said, and while you are awaiting him, will you not seat yourselves before the brazier and grow warm in comfort? The lad seems chilled and as soon as the service is done, I myself will fetch wine from the cellarer and see to your beds.”

  “I cannot stay the night,” said the man, “but I would welcome wine, for it is raw indeed without. And make ready one bed, for the boy rests with you. However, I will keep my plans for the abbot’s ears. Do you call him as presently as may be.”

  Brother Arnolf bowed again and departed. He was puzzled and curious. Guests were frequent enough, none knew better than he whose task it was to make all the arrangements for housing and feeding them. Often the guest house dormitory was nigh full, to say nothing of the occasional princely visitors who were lodged in my Lord Abbot’s own quarters, and the always plentiful supply of beggars and vagabonds who found food and shelter in the almonry, a building near the gate, set apart for that purpose. For in those days (it was the year 1171) the monasteries scattered over the countryside, often on lonely roads and in desolate places, offered almost the only hospitality available for travelers. And welcome indeed must those great piles of buildings have appeared to the eyes of weary souls when they came upon them, perhaps after a long journey beset with manifold dangers and difficulties. All men, whether princes or beggars, merchants or pilgrims, wandering holy men or strolling mountebanks and peddlers, knew that they would be received graciously and without question at any monastery. They would be housed and fed for two days and two nights, and then they would be sped upon their journey with God’s blessing and not so much as a penny to pay—unless they were minded to give a gift to Our Lady or to the patron saint of the place or, perchance, leave somewhat for the abbot to use at his discretion.

  The coming of this knight and boy to the abbey, however, had about it something out of the ordinary. For one thing, none traveled after sundown except upon necessity. Thieves and cutthroats were too frequent upon the dark lonely roads, pitfalls and mud-holes and the danger of losing one’s way too constant in the best of weathers, and on such a night as this—! Moreover this man was evidently one of noble birth, accustomed to authority, and his clothing betokened wealth and comfort. What was he doing abroad in all this storm, unaccompanied except for that sickly boy and one servant, and apparently upon business too pressing to admit of even a night’s delay? Lords and nobles did not lightly thus inconvenience themselves. Ah well, the duty of Brother Arnolf was to obey orders, fulfill his tasks as guest master and not ask questions. Compline was over now, he would hasten to fetch the abbot and bid the cellarer bring food and wine to the guest house hall.

  Abbot Robert was a tall man, thin, erect, with iron-gray hair and dark somber eyes, and he moved with the gracious dignity of one accustomed to honor and obedience. He glanced keenly at the knight and the lad as he entered the room, then greeted the former in quiet courtesy and bade him come with the boy to the church, as the custom was, that they might be sprinkled with holy water and ask the blessing of Our Lady Mary upon their stay within the abbey walls.

  But the knight interrupted him somewhat brusquely. “My Lord Abbot,” said he, “I pray you have done with all these courteou
s entreaties and customary formalities. I know well the hospitality and good will for which Glastonbury is famed, and I would linger the night with joy save for a grievous necessity which speeds my journey, be time and weather ever so foul. And so, good Father, let me but speak that which I am come for without delay and be off upon my way.

  The abbot glanced keenly at the knight wondering if perchance some unlawful business might be the reason for his haste. He inclined his head, indicating his acquiescence, and the knight continued, “The lad yonder is my son, my only son. He is called Hugh.”

  He paused and looked at the boy who still stood shivering in spite of the blaze of the brazier and turned toward them large unhappy eyes that had in them fire as well as tragedy. In his father’s expression was a mingling of sorrow, pity, and perhaps scorn, and under his gaze the lad’s white cheeks reddened, but his eyes did not drop.

  “You may see for yourself how it is.” The knight addressed the abbot again, his voice sounding strained and hard in his effort to keep emotion from it. “A cripple, sickly, with nothing in him on which to build a fighter, and the business of a baron’s son is war and naught else, as all the world knows.”

  “Nay,” said the abbot quickly, interrupting him, “there are other ways of living save in fleshly combat and other foes to fight save those in mortal armor. I, too, was born the son of a noble line.” He stood tall and proud in his black monk’s robe, and his long thin hands clasped each other firmly, suggesting need for self-control.

  “Aye, the Church,” continued the knight still bitterly, “religion and the cowl for weaklings and cripples. Forgive me, Father—”

  The abbot had raised his hand again in a gesture of reproach.

  “Nay, in truth I meant not any harm, or rudeness. My heart is torn and broken this night and I scarce know what harsh saying may leap from my lips. And, in sooth, it is but natural a father should desire a stalwart son to carry on the honor of his house in valiant knighthood.”

  The abbot’s hand had dropt and his eyes were now full of compassion. “Have patience, my son, it is but a young lad; time and the mercy of God may still give him a strong and vigorous body, and by the look of him he is now no weakling in soul.”

  “The lad has mettle in him,” admitted the knight. Then for a long moment he said nothing but gazed unseeingly into the heart of the bright brazier. “His mother is dead,” he added abruptly.

  “God rest her spirit,” said the abbot, crossing himself. The other went on:

  “She was a gentle soul, yet brave withal; the kind of courage women have that endures much and says little. Our chaplain taught her to read and she loved parchment and vellum better than jewels. The boy Hugh is not unlike her. But come, I have delayed long enough; let us to business. I have brought the child here to be reared and schooled by you.”

  “As an oblate,” questioned the abbot, “vowed to the monk’s life? Perhaps you do not know that it hath recently been decreed from Rome that no child shall be vowed by his parents any more except upon the understanding that he himself shall choose between the world and the Church when he has come of age.”

  “That is as it should be,” agreed the knight, “I would not force the boy against his will, but for the present—I do not wish to take him with me. My life is hedged about with grievous dangers—I—”

  He hesitated, seemingly at a loss for words.

  The abbot regarded him questioningly. “You need not fear to speak openly to me, my son. You are, perhaps, fleeing the country, and would see the lad safe before you go?”

  The man shrugged his shoulders impatiently. “As you will,” said he. “I need not burden you with details; I desire only that the boy remain with you. Somewhat I have to pay for the boon which I ask.”

  The knight turned and strode toward the door of the great hall. He flung it open and motioned to his servant, who was standing without, to enter. The man advanced bearing a bulky leather satchel which, at a nod from his master, he placed at the abbot’s feet.

  “Open,” ordered the nobleman curtly.

  The servant knelt upon the rushes and, with clumsy, unaccustomed hands, struggled with refractory buckles. When the cover was at last loosed and the contents of the satchel pulled out and laid carefully upon the floor, the abbot bent forward, exclaiming with surprise and delight.

  “Books! Five, eight, more than a dozen! Why, good sir, there is nigh a nobleman’s ransom in the contents of that leather bag!”

  The knight smiled. “Aye, it is a goodly treasure, or so they say that value the scrivener’s art. I know naught of such things.” There was a suspicion of scorn in his voice and the wrinkled cheeks of the abbot flushed with displeasure but he kept his eyes on the manuscripts which lay tumbled on the rushes at his feet.

  “A princely gift truly,” he continued, picking up a large volume, the binding of which was studded with semi-precious stones and inset with a plaque of blue enamel. “There is no need to pay for the lad with such bounteousness. Indeed, he would be welcome among us for himself, without payment at all. If I seemed to hesitate it was but out of honesty, for our teaching is not what it once was, our discipline is relaxed, and scarce any others are here now to bear him company.”

  “Such conditions please me the better,” said the other. “Let him do what those in authority bid him; do, and keep silent. That is the rule, is it not? The fewer friends he has, the less he will talk and the better for him, as for me. I have spoken too freely as it is. The books and the boy are thine, Father. Do with them as thou wilt.”

  His voice softened as he dropt into the more familiar second person form. For a moment he glanced past the abbot toward his son as if he would speak to him. Then he turned and, with a sudden motion as if he had not intended to do so, knelt before the abbot, his head bowed.

  “Give me thy blessing, Father,” said he in a voice scarce audible; then, barely waiting for the blessing to be spoken, he rose and, looking neither to the abbot nor the boy, without a word more, went hastily to the door. The servant quietly followed him, their quick footsteps echoed down the hall, grew fainter, and were gone.

  The abbot remained standing in silence, his gaze turned again upon the books at his feet. A slight sound caught him out of his reverie. The boy Hugh was lying on his face on the floor, trying vainly to stifle with his sleeve his heartbroken sobbing.

  Father Robert knelt beside him, felt his thin body shaken by the violence of his weeping and drew him into his kindly arms.

  After awhile the sobbing grew less and Hugh lay back exhausted upon the rushes. The abbot rose stiffly from his knees and smiled down at him in gentle, friendly manner but said nothing. He knew well that no soothing words would comfort that tragic young figure, scorned by his father, caught up into the midst of circumstances painful, bitter, filled perhaps with terror, and now dropt down among strangers into a strange new life. He drew up a bench before the manuscripts, sat down and began picking up first one, then another.

  “Hey day, but your coming will be matter for great rejoicing in our abbey, young Hugh!” said he, more to himself than as if expecting the boy to answer. “Our aumbries—the presses or cupboards where books are kept, child,—or perhaps you know such monkish furniture?” He glanced at the lad who had arisen and was limping wearily toward his bench.

  “Aye, Father,” said he, “we have an aumbry at home for our own books, bought from a monastery—or we had,” he corrected himself, looking down in pained confusion.

  “Our presses, as I was saying,” continued the abbot, his eyes again upon the handsome volume in his hands, “are all too scantily filled with books. Father Henry, God rest his soul, he who was abbot before me, loved our Glaston passing well and would build and build. Nigh half the fair new structures on our grounds were of his dream and planning, and that left in the treasury but little for the purchase of new books. True, our scribes are busy daily copying and illuminating, yet the shelves fill slowly, very slowly. Aye, these are the welcomest gifts your father could have
brought us. We shall dedicate them at the High Altar on the morrow. You yourself shall take part in the ceremony, if you wish. Do you know aught of letters, lad?”

  Hugh had by now drawn up beside the abbot and was looking wistfully over his shoulder at the volume in his lap.

  “Yes, Lord Abbot, I can read the script a little. My lady mother’s clerk that she brought out of France taught me and my sisters when my father was away. He liked not the thought of learning in a knightly son—but—I could not run and ride at the quintain like other boys and—Oh, Father Abbot, the stories in that book are goodly! I know almost all of them!” He stooped and picked up a large, square, leather-covered manuscript from the floor. “And this one,” he continued, a note of eagerness in his voice, as he handed another to the abbot, “hath the softest vellum pages! The feel of them is gentle and I like well the smell of them.”

  The boy’s listlessness had left him and there was animation in his tone and face. The abbot watched him with a little smile of understanding and satisfaction, noting how lovingly his thin hands caressed the beautiful cream colored sheets of vellum.

  “I would I knew the ending of the longish tale at the beginning of this book,” Hugh ran on, “the one with the great gold initial on the red ground. I would have finished it a few days since but I could not.” The boy broke off with a little sigh and the abbot replaced the volume gently on the floor with the others.

  “We must have Brother John summoned,” said he. “Step to the doorway, boy, and bid one of the brothers come hither.”

  He watched curiously as Hugh dragged his halting limb across the floor, but the errand was accomplished without hesitation, the message dispatched, and the boy’s face and bearing were less sad and downhearted as he took his stand again beside the abbot’s bench.

  “Bibles, missals, Psalters, stories of saints,” enumerated the abbot, his eyes again on the books at his feet. “I fear me Brother John will not sleep this night for joy of our new treasure! And why couldst thou not read thy story a few days since?” he continued gently, dropping into the more familiar pronoun.