The Hidden Treasure of Glaston

by Eleanore M Jewett

  He would start forth then by himself and wander hither and yon over the vast abbey grounds. At first his dragging foot made him tire easily but as the days passed, almost without his realizing it, he began to limp less, hold himself straighter and, as Brother John noticed with gratification, seemed in all ways to have grown ruddier and sturdier.

  One day Hugh followed the River Brue along its winding path, deep into the marsh lands, going farther afield than he realized. At length he sat down on the reedy bank of a backwater pool, to rest before retracing his steps. The air was very quiet, too late in the day for much bird song, and not a breath of wind stirred the tall lank rushes. Hugh could see his own reflection clearly in the still water and watched idly as the minnows darted about beneath the placid surface. Suddenly he was startled by a whizzing sound and an arrow bedded itself in a willow tree trunk directly across the pool from him. Through the tall rank grass some little distance from him, a boy came running. He stopt short directly in front of Hugh and began crossing himself, his eyes fairly bulging out of their sockets. He had on a rough, rather soiled woolen tunic such as peasants wear and over it what looked like the ragged remains of a monk’s habit. A round borel cap atop of his round, open-mouthed, astonished face, made such a comical picture that Hugh burst out laughing.

  “By my faith!” cried the boy. “By all the saints! I thought you were a duck—a wild duck! You were a water fowl! I swear you were! Enchanted maybe, under a devil’s spell!” He crossed himself again. “And sure I know not whether it be the greater miracle that you be changed this moment from a fowl into a boy, or that I did not pierce you dead with my arrow!”

  Hugh ended his laugh with a friendly grin. “As to that,” he said, “I am no water bird nor ever was one, enchanted or otherwise! But it is truly a near miracle that yon arrow did not lodge in my head. And glad I am that your aim was not altogether true!”

  The boy seated himself on the bank, pulled off his cap and made a lunge with it at a streak of sunlight that shone through the shade of the willows near him.

  It was Hugh’s turn to look astonished. “Whatever are you doing?” he asked.

  The boy laughed rather sheepishly. “Trying to hang my cap on a sunbeam. It’s been done, you know; Saint Vincent hung his hat and his pilgrim’s cloak on a sunbeam whenever he had a mind to—and they always held. A miracle, of course, but just an everyday kind of one. Some day it is going to happen to me, or a miracle of some kind—I know it is!”

  “But you aren’t a saint, are you?” queried Hugh, laughing again.

  “That I am not! But it isn’t always saints that get the wonders. Almost anything could happen in a place like this—to just anybody. So I’m on the lookout! Who are you, anyway? And if you were not that fat wild duck I thought I saw, where did you come from?”

  “I’m Hugh; I belong in the monastery.”

  “Oh, an oblate?”

  “No, not exactly.” Hugh spoke hesitantly as he always did when questioned about himself. “My father did not vow me to the life of a religious; he—he—just—left me here while he—while he went off to the wars. I might stay here always and again I might not.”

  “So you are free! I wish I was! I’m an oblate and no question about it. My father gave me to the monastery as a thank offering when he got well of the plague. I was but a young infant, but I guess I squalled even then. I don’t want to be a monk, or a lay brother, ever! I want to be a yeoman and fight and travel about and seek adventure!”

  “I’d like that too,” agreed Hugh heartily. “I’d like to be a knight but—”

  The boy followed Hugh’s involuntary glance down at his lame foot.

  “I see,” said he, “but, by Our Lady, there be miracles a-plenty these days! And here, most especially; why, I wouldn’t wonder to see you healed of that most any time!”

  “Why here in particular?” queried Hugh.

  “Don’t you know about old Glaston? Sure, it’s as full of saints’ bones and hallows as the Brue is full of eels! I’ll warrant there’s scarce a saint worth mentioning in the whole of Britain, or the land of Eire either, that has not stopt the night at least at our Glaston. And seems like they all left things behind them. There was Patrick and his bell—I’ve seen that many a time—and St. Bride. She left her loom and wallet and weaving stick, they say, over at Beckery where she lived in a hermitage. And, of course, St. Dunstan; did you know he had a forge here and worked in metals? And one time the devil came and Dunstan got him by the nose with his pinchers. They are hereabouts somewhere, too, his pinchers. It’s the most wonderful place in the world, our Glaston.”

  “You love it, don’t you?” said Hugh. “It’s just a place to me; but maybe I’ll get to love it, too, some day. Have you been here long?”

  “Since a small child; I am near thirteen now.”

  “I am near thirteen, too.”

  There was a moment’s silence between them but the two seemed to draw nearer to one another in spirit. An instant liking deepened, and each felt instinctively that he had found a friend. The silence threatened to become awkward.

  “Do you—do you ever fish for eels?” said Hugh, more to say something than because he particularly wanted to know.

  “Sure,” said the other. “And I go hunting with my short bow. I made it myself, see?” He handed the bow he had been holding to Hugh who felt its smooth surface appraisingly and tested the gut string.

  “Nice piece of work,” said he.

  “Of course I am not allowed to fish and hunt,” continued the boy, “and every so often Guthlac, the lay brother at the grange, gives me a drubbing, but he is glad enough to eat what I bring him. You see things aren’t as they used to be, or so he tells me; they used to keep their oblates very strictly, with their noses to their books and a switch held over their heads while they conned their service music. But me—I couldn’t read notes to save me, and the letters in the Psalter books are beyond my cunning, so they have turned me out on the farm to help with the creatures. I like that well enough and, if they must make a monk of me, I’ll serve that way. ’Tis not so bad, really, and there are the long afternoons when the lay brothers are dozing. That’s when I go where I please and—and—” He stopped suddenly in the middle of his sentence and edged closer to Hugh with a questioning look.

  “I guess you’re the right sort,” he continued, after a moment. “I’ll tell you a secret if you vow to keep it close.”

  “That I will!” agreed Hugh eagerly.

  “I hunt other things beside birds and eels,” said the boy in a solemn tone.

  Hugh waited questioningly.

  “I hunt treasure. I’ve a private hoard hidden away. Things I have found buried in caves or in underground passages, and some even in the marshes around the Brue.”

  “What kind of treasure?”

  “Saints’ relics; bones and jewels and coffers—and—but I’ll show them to you some day. Want to see them?”

  “Do I!” exclaimed Hugh, his heart beating high with interest and amazement.

  “But first I think we should swear brotherhood and eternal secrecy. My name is Dickon—I guess I didn’t mention it. Now who are you, really? And how do you come to be here? You just said you were Hugh, and nothing further. What’s the rest of it?”

  All the happiness suddenly died out of Hugh’s face. “I can’t—I can’t tell you—much more. My father—we had enemies who burned our home—my father brought me here—and is gone—out of England—and—I guess I’ll have to be just Hugh to everybody.”

  “But not to me if we are going to be sworn brothers!” Dickon’s tone sounded hurt. “You could tell me anything—I’d never breathe it. I’d vow on the bones of a saint, or anything. Even if your family had been traitor to the king, I wouldn’t mind; I’d keep it hidden, though I should die for it.”

  Hugh shook his head sadly. “I can’t; I just can’t tell anybody. My father—”

  But he got no further. The boy gave him a look in which disappointment and anger we
re blended, lept lightly across the stream and retrieved his arrow, then, clapping his cap on the back of his head, he remarked with an air of finality:

  “It was a fit beginning for true friendship, my arrow finding you in this marsh and near slaying you, but there can be no secrets hid between sworn brothers. If ever you be minded to tell me your story, the whole of it and the truth of it, seek out Dickon the oblate at the grange over yonder.”

  He moved off a few paces, then turned back saying, “There is nothing of me or mine, either past or present, that I would keep from thee, Hugh, wert thou minded to be my true friend.” Then, as Hugh made no reply he walked on without a word or look more.

  In spite of his clumsy mixture of clothes, his figure held a certain dignity, and Hugh watched him with a very heavy heart. He liked the boy immensely, and nothing would have made him happier just now than a friend his own age to whom he could talk freely. For a moment he felt he must run after him and say to him, “My father made me vow I would tell naught! I cannot break my solemn vow!” But even while he was thinking he would do so, the boy’s quick stride had taken him out of sight.

  3. Hue and Cry

  DISCONSOLATELY Hugh turned his steps back toward the conventual buildings. He thought he would take a short cut, so left the windings of the Brue and struck through a bit of woodland. Before long he realized he must have missed his way for no familiar landmarks appeared. The trees grew sparse, the land more open; he passed through an apple orchard and brought up before an ancient stone wall, evidently marking the end of the monastic property. Beyond the wall ran a rutty country road, and when he had got onto it Hugh could see in the distance the bell tower of the new chapel, the one which Abbot Henry had begun and which had not yet been finished. It seemed a long way off but the boy sighed with relief to see it. He was growing tired and hungry, too, for it was approaching sundown and the noonday meal had not been overfilling. He trudged along, his lame leg dragging more than usual.

  The road ran through a straggling village, with squalid peasant huts on either side of it. Pigs rooted and chickens scratched about in the mire before the blackened doors; gaunt, mangy looking dogs snarled at him as he passed but, except for a few half-naked, dirty children who stared at him curiously, there seemed to be no human beings about. Doubtless they were all still busy on the long strips of cultivated fields that lay beyond the village. One hut, a little larger and more prosperous looking than the rest, had a byre beside it, outside of which stood a heavy farm horse hitched to a springless cart. Hugh wished he might borrow the cart and drive himself back to the abbey. No one seemed to be about to ask and he was passing on when something caught his attention, a figure moving cautiously out from behind a high pile of stable refuse toward the cart. He looked furtively in each direction and, catching sight of Hugh, started and seemed about to retrace his steps, then seeing it was but a boy alone, came on. He was ragged and unkempt, his cloak, which must have once been gay with gold and scarlet, hung soddenly about him as if many times soaked in rain and mud. It was drab and torn, as was the cap with the bedraggled plume pulled down low over his forehead; not so low, however, as to cover completely an ugly cut with dried blood about it near the left eye. Hugh stared at the man for a moment, then a little cry escaped him and his hands flew to his mouth as if to crush back any further sound.

  The stranger stared back, scarcely less astonished, then, looking around him fearfully lest anyone be within sight or sound, he beckoned the boy closer, exclaiming in a hoarse voice:

  “Hugh! Young Master Hugh! Faith, I had thought you safe in France ere now! How comes it you are thus free and well-cared for and alone and unmolested in this filthy village?”

  “I am with the monastery folk—Glaston. But, oh, Jacques, how come you in such sorry case?”

  “’Tis harried and hunted I am, young master, as are all your father’s house that have not already fled the country. Even the king’s protection would scarce serve us now; the people—the fierce hatred of the mob—” He shivered as he spoke and moved nervously nearer the cart. “I had thought to steal a ride, so low am I fallen. Nights in the bare fields, days without food, hiding and slipping from village to village, afeared of my own shadow. Nay, I am even now near done for!”

  Hugh groaned. “The mob! I know well what that means! Jacques, we cannot face a mob gone wild again.”

  At that moment a peasant appeared far down the road, running. He was shouting and, as he drew nearer, others joined him. “Hue and cry!” he bellowed in a great voice that soon brought the village folk pouring in from the fields, down lanes, and out of byres and huts which but a moment before had seemed so still and lifeless. “Hue and cry! Hue and cry! ’Tis a criminal fleeing from justice!”

  The man at Hugh’s side looked desperately at the oncoming crowd and seemed for the moment frozen into inactivity.

  “Quick!” cried Hugh scrambling clumsily onto the high-wheeled cart. “Quick! Climb in! We’ll make Glaston before they can catch us! Sanctuary! You’ll find sanctuary at the abbey!”

  Jacques needed no second bidding. Up by the hub of the wheel and into the empty cart he tumbled.

  “Lie low!” shouted the boy over his shoulder. He had already caught up the thick reins and cowhide whip and was beating the horse into action.

  The jouncing of the springless wagon over the ruts of the road as the big lumbering horse plunged forward would have thrown Hugh out if he had not crouched into a sitting posture and clung desperately to the front board with one hand while holding both reins in the other. The whip he dropt almost at once, being unable to hold that also, but he would have had no further use for it anyway. The horse, startled by the quickness and the unfamiliarity of the hand and voice behind him, and still more by the shouts and running feet of the growing crowd coming down the road, made all the speed possible to get away from them. The cart swayed and tipped, first on one wheel, then on the other. Jacques bounced about like a pea in a hopper and Hugh hung on with all his might.

  A few of the swifter-footed boys among the pursuers gained on them for a few moments and ran along beside the cart, but they soon fell back, unable to keep the pace. The calls and shouts of the crowd grew angrier and more savage as they saw the prospect of their prey escaping them. A stone flew past Hugh’s head, barely missing him; then a clump of mud struck him between the shoulders. More stones and mud followed; a terrific jolt of the plunging wagon tore his grip loose and he would surely have fallen out had not Jacques’ arms caught and held him. Somehow they managed to steady each other. The abbey church seemed nearer now—but still so far! Could they make it? At least they were outstripping the crowd, but the horse had got the bit in his teeth now and was almost out of control of the reins.

  Suddenly they took a right-angled turn on one wheel; the cart tipped perilously, then lurched to the other side. It was too much. Hugh lost his hold and he and the fugitive were both flung out onto the road. The horse shied in added fright, wrenched the reins from the boy, who was still clinging to them, and ran madly on, the empty cart clattering behind him.

  “Are you badly hurt, lad?” asked Jacques, picking himself up and leaning over the boy anxiously. The cut in his face had broken open again and was streaming fresh blood.

  “No,” gasped Hugh, “I guess—I’m not hurt much if any. Don’t bother about me; you must run on; the crowd will be caught up with us again in a few moments. Run, Jacques, run! Get to the Galilee Porch of the abbey. ’Tis sanctuary there and none can touch you!”

  They could hear the shouting and running of the villagers drawing nearer. Jacques laid his hand on Hugh’s shoulder in a swift gesture of gratitude and, without a word, ran on.

  Slowly the boy gathered himself together and stood up. He was shaken, bruised, exhausted, but except for torn clothing, an ugly cut below the knee, and a bleeding hand where the reins had torn it, he seemed none the worse for his tumble. He limped back from the road and leaned against a tree trunk. Would the crowd mob him? he thought in near pa
nic. But he crushed the fear down. Would Jacques make it? That was what mattered. If the man could only reach the north door of the abbey—the Galilee Porch—then, according to the law of the land, he could claim sanctuary, for a time at least; just how long the boy was not sure.

  The running feet drew nearer. The first of the pursuers were upon him. “Hue and cry! Hue and cry!” They rushed on down the road, too intent on the fleeing figure far ahead of them to do more than glance at the boy leaning wearily against the tree by the roadside. Men and boys, the swifter runners, passed him first, then women, many with brooms and sticks in their hands, and old men hobbling awkwardly along on rheumaticky feet, and even quite young children. Their faces were hard and intent with a wild sort of savagery, the cruel thrill of the hunt. Hugh fell in with the last stragglers and hurried along beside them. He found himself keeping pace with an old gaffer who was wheezing and helping himself with a stout staff, but making surprisingly good headway.

  “What is it? What hath the man done?” asked the fellow, breathing heavily. “Know you who ’tis and what he be a-fleeing for? Be it murder or thievery?”

  “Neither!” said Hugh passionately. “He hath done naught at all!”

  “Hey day! Is it friend of yours that you know whereon you speak?”

  Hugh bit his lip. He must be careful how his tongue tripped him.

  The man halted abruptly, seized Hugh’s arm and swung him around, then looked him critically up and down.

  “By my faith, ’tis the boy that was driving the cart with the murderer in it! And ’twas Jehan’s cart! Hey, neighbors, stop a bit! Here be one that is a felon too!”

  But most of the villagers were already far ahead and paid little heed to his shout. He shrugged his shoulders and hurried along after them, glancing suspiciously at Hugh every few moments, as if he did not intend to let the boy escape him.