The Hidden Treasure of Glaston

by Eleanore M Jewett

  He sighed, lost in thought for the moment.

  “And then? What happened next?” urged Hugh quietly.

  “And then,” continued Bleheris, rousing himself. “I began to wander again far and wide, the old stone lantern in my hand, the bell at my girdle to ward off evil spirits, and frequently the great sword in my other hand, held high like a cross. It seemed to lead me out over the marsh lands and to the hills, Chalice, Weary-All, Tor, and back again to St. Joseph’s Chapel. I could not guess why my steps were drawn over and over again to the Old Church, deserted for so long. And then, one time, I found the entrance to the passage down into the Cave of the Well.”

  Dickon started and opened his mouth to say something, but Hugh made violent signs to him to keep still. The old minstrel was sinking into one of his absorbed, dreamy moods in which an interruption would startle and annoy him and be fatal to the continuation of his narrative.

  “Inch by inch, not once but many times, I explored that cave for hiding places, for chests of treasure. I knew what it must be, a stage in the underground way where precious things must once have been hidden. And then, not many months since, I found the passage from the Cave of the Well to that stone-lined room with its entrance cunningly concealed by the aumbry doors. And along that passageway were niches and alcoves that must once have held treasures beyond count! How I hoped and prayed and hunted, my heart in my mouth, for that Sacred Vessel, the Holy Cup—but it was not there, it was not there.”

  Dickon could contain himself no longer. “What was there? By the saints, I wish I had come upon that passageway! Maybe there were all sorts of relics and saints’ bones and things I could have added to my collection!”

  Bleheris slowly and meaningfully nodded his head. “Aye,” said he, “there was much. The great quest was closing in closer all about me, though I knew it not. My heart failed me, grieving that I had not found that one treasure—but—look you!”

  He rose, moved swiftly into the hut and dragged from thence the ancient black oak chest that Hugh had been wondering about ever since he had first seen it. Throwing open the lid he began to take out its contents, handling each object with infinite care and laying it beside Hugh so that both boys might see. There were a hauberk of linked mail, silvered, that glinted and shone in the sunlight, and a long, strong lance of tough ash-wood, its iron tip blunted as with many battles, a mailed gauntlet set with gems and a helmet of metal shaped like a peaked cap with a bit of frayed silken cloth tied to it, a scarf maybe, or a belt once worn by some fair and noble lady and given by her to her knight. Only shreds and tatters remained, yet one could tell from these the texture of it, heavy and rich and finely woven, and in the knot close to the helmet a glowing red gem still clung to it.

  Dickon whistled softly. “And these must once have belonged to some knight who rode about adventuring, doing great deeds of valor,” said he, his gay matter-of-fact boy voice subdued and awe-filled for once.

  “A knight indeed, and very like a knight of the Round Table, for all these things be of King Arthur’s day.” The old hermit’s great powerful hand touched first one object, then another, with gentle carefulness.

  “But how do you know these things had anything to do with King Arthur?” asked Hugh a little skeptically.

  “It is because of this, I know,” said Bleheris, taking from the chest a final object wrapt in soft linen.

  The boys watched breathlessly as he unwound it and, laying the wrappings aside, held in his hands with infinite care and tenderness a crystal cross about a foot and a half square, even, with spreading ends, transparently clear, unblemished, lovely beyond words.

  Hugh and Dickon both exclaimed in astonishment, not only because of its beauty, but because both recognized at once that it was the cross Bleheris had drawn on a stone for Hugh, and the very cross the picture of which had adorned the chart and some of the other pages belonging to The Book of the Seynt Graal. Dickon seemed even more excited than the other.

  “It’s the same!” he whispered. “Hugh, I found that figure cut in the stone of—”

  But Hugh nudged him to be quiet, for the hermit was speaking again.

  “This crystal cross was there among all these things,” said the old man, “and it is the one that was given to King Arthur by Our Lady Herself. It was in the days of great adventuring when all the knights of the Round Table had gone forth to seek the Grail.” He paused for a long moment, then shook his head sadly. “The story, once I knew it well, but alas I have forgotten it again. Only I know She gave it to King Arthur, after a vision—”

  “Why, I know that story!” said Hugh, sitting upright as the truth flashed upon him. “It is in the broken book! I know! I pieced the ending of it together a long time ago. He went to a chapel in an island surrounded by marshes—”

  Bleheris, with a great sweep of his hand, indicated the marsh meadows all around them.

  “Beckery!” cried Hugh. “It could have been Beckery! The book said ‘The Chapel Perilous’—”

  “Aye,” declared the hermit, “and so was this chapel once called; the stones lie scattered, the walls are down, the altar vanished, but the very spot whereon we are now sitting was once called by that name. But go on, boy, what happened to King Arthur here?”

  “He had a vision,” continued Hugh, “not here but some place else, and he was bidden to go, in the dead midnight, to the Chapel Perilous, and there he found a Mass being said by an old, old priest. And Our Lady appeared out of the shadows and assisted in the celebration, and after the service was over she gave Arthur an even cross of clear crystal. I had forgotten the story and a good deal of it was missing—still is, in fact—and I never did understand why She gave him the cross or what it signified.”

  “And this is it!” Dickon touched it gently as it lay in the hermit’s lap. “And you found it with those other things, in the passageway to our vault?”

  “Yea, I told thee it was so,” Bleheris impatiently brushed the boy away, his mind having caught upon something else. “But there is something hidden in thy speaking, Hugh. The story, where did’st thou come upon it? No minstrel knows, no one in all the world knows those stories of King Arthur and the Grail save I, myself—I, alone. A book, saidst thou?”

  Hugh told him then, impulsively, all about the broken book in the Painted Aumbry, how he and Brother John had found some written-over pages belonging to it, and then how he and Dickon had found more in the chest in the treasure vault.

  Bleheris listened with eager intentness and, when Hugh had finished, still sat gazing down at him with eyes wide in his pale face, his lips parted in astonishment.

  “The lost book!” he cried at last. “The lost Book of the Seynt Graal! And now the vision of the burial of King Arthur. Boy, do you not see how all the hidden forces are working together? The time has come! It must surely have come, when the mystery of the vanished Holy Grail will be revealed!”

  He wrapt up the crystal cross carefully again, and then gathered together the other treasures he had spread out for the boys to see and replaced them in the chest, muttering the while, half to himself, half to the two, who were silently watching him.

  “I must see that book,” he said again and again, and then, after he had dragged the chest back into its accustomed place in the hut, he stood in the doorway looking first at Hugh, then at Dickon.

  When he spoke again his voice sounded as if he were on the defensive, as if they had been arguing with him.

  “They are mine,” he said positively, “all of them, mine! I found them; I have cleaned them, cared for them, cherished them, these treasures of King Arthur’s day. The book should be mine also—and the Cup—the Sacred Cup—if ever the saints permit us to see it!” He sighed wearily.

  Hugh felt almost as if a cold wind had blown over his spirit. He had grown to love Bleheris, to feel intimate and companionable with him, to understand his wavering moods and to have faith in the fine and tender side of him that lay like a rocky foundation underneath those flighty and tempest
uous seizures. But now he knew, somehow, that the old hermit had struck a false note, that he would never find his heart’s desire if he sought it selfishly, possessively. He thought of the Benedictine rule that a monk should consider nothing, even the clothes he wore and the bed he slept in, his personal property. In spite of the fact that the idea was carried to an extreme, he sensed a humility and idealism in the way the brothers avoided the use of those little words, my, mine, my own. He said nothing, only looked at Bleheris wistfully, hoping he would change his mood. But the old man seemed to have turned definitely glum and irritable. He dismissed Dickon with little ceremony and carried Hugh back to his straw bed in the hut without another word.

  When Hugh at last went back to the abbey, fully recovered, he found, to his surprise, that the monks regarded him with curiosity and interest. The story of his vision in the marshes had been spread abroad. Brother John almost immediately asked him to repeat the whole of it in every detail, and then he must tell it over and over to other monks, among them to Brother Symon, who listened with shining eyes but said nothing; and finally even to Abbot Robert himself. The good father summoned him to his own quarters and questioned him minutely, coming back again and again to those final words so unforgetably written on Hugh’s memory:

  “Between the two pyramids outside the Old Church; dig there.”

  The abbot gave orders that digging should be begun as soon as possible. Hugh was given the honor and privilege of first breaking the sod, and then two strong lay brothers from the grange went to work at it. Nobody seemed to have time to think or talk about anything save what the busy picks and shovels might unearth.

  The monks surrounded the space between the two pyramids with screens, that their labor should not be under the continual view of the curious. But Hugh was allowed to watch the proceedings whenever he had a mind to, and nobody seemed to object to Dickon’s being with him. The two were permitted to lend a hand with the digging whenever they wished. It was curious to see how the different monks took the matter, and listen to the buzz of gossip among them. Most of them were as vague in their ideas as they were superstitious. Relics, the bones of some saint—no? A king then? Arthur? Some of them apparently had never heard of King Arthur. But they expected a miracle of some kind. There had been instances in other abbeys.

  Tongues wagged and clacked, but Hugh noticed that the few to whom some hint of the story of the long lost Holy Grail had been vouchsafed said little, yet carried in their faces an eagerness, a barely masked fire of desire and wonder. Brother John, Brother Symon, and Bleheris, most of all, hovered over the diggers impatiently, tirelessly, and the boys knew that they were looking for something infinitely more important than the discovery of the tomb of a king, be he ever so famous.

  The diggers had got down fifteen feet or so and nothing more interesting than a few bones had been uncovered. One late afternoon, just before Vespers, only Hugh and Dickon had remained, watching and giving an occasional hand at the work, when things began to happen. The picks of the diggers struck something hard, metallic. The workers cried out excitedly, the two boys scrambled down into the hole, and all began feeling about in the damp earth with their hands. Dickon got hold of it first, something large, cold, heavy. With a huge effort on the part of all four, they overturned a great iron cross which was lying face downwards. Dickon climbed out of the hole and ran to get more aid; monks and lay brothers came hurrying from all directions. The news spread like wild-fire; something had been discovered at last between the two pyramids! Someone brought strong hempen rope and extra shovels. The cross was hauled up out of the excavation and laid on the ground. Eager hands brushed the dirt from the inscription which was on the underside of it. Brother John pushed everybody aside so that he could kneel close and bring his nearsighted gaze to bear upon it. An expectant hush followed as he read and translated the half-obliterated inscription:

  “‘Here lies the great King Arthur, buried in the Isle of Avalon.’”

  Then came a rush of talk, more excited than ever. Abbot Robert, who had been summoned, bade the diggers climb down into the hole again and dig further. They did so at once and with feverish haste, their picks flying and falling in quick alternation. The onlookers watched, tense, eager, silent again. No one spoke a word and only the dull sound of iron cutting into soft earth broke the stillness. Then a fresh tremor of excitement ran through the crowd. One of the picks had again struck something solid. Hugh and Dickon who had managed to keep their positions in the forefront of those at the rim of the hole, though they were not permitted to go down into it again, never let their eyes wander from the diggers for a moment!

  Slowly, very slowly in spite of the eagerness of the workers, a huge, rough hewn, long box of oak came into view. Without waiting to get it entirely out of the earth in which it was embedded, the diggers set to work to pry the lid from it. With relatively little effort they got it open and all gazed down at the contents with silent astonishment. Inside reposed the bones of a human being, large beyond those of an ordinary man, the skull pierced as if with many wounds. Beside it lay a heavy golden crown rich with inset gems, and at the feet were the bones of another figure, small, delicate, the bones of a woman; and a long thick strand of human hair that glinted as yellow as buttercups in the sun, and as fresh and living.

  “Arthur, the King,” murmured Brother John in an awed whisper, “and Guenevere, his queen. Peace be unto their souls!” He crossed himself as in the presence of something holy. A solemn silence lay over the company standing there. Dickon broke it by suddenly scrambling down into the deep excavation.

  “A miracle!” he cried huskily. “Her golden hair! See how it shines!” He reached over the edge of the rough, hollowed, oak coffin as if to touch it, and immediately the gleaming tresses dulled and there was naught but a little pile of gray ashes. Or had it been only a trick of the sun caught by a gem in the fillet of gold that lay half-concealed by the ashes, a thin little jeweled crown?

  It took many hands, strong cords of hemp, and much labor to get the huge coffin out of the ground and beside the iron cross that had been buried face down over it. Then the brothers formed themselves into a great procession with a cross-bearer and Father Robert at the head, and novices with incense following after. They bore the relics and the iron cross with chanting and singing, in all solemnity into the Abbey Church of St. Mary and there laid them down in the north transept, to await a special day which would be set apart for the shrining.

  The delayed Vespers followed immediately. Afterwards, during the short period before Compline, when talk was permitted, the whole community burst into excited conversation.

  The bones of King Arthur and Queen Guenevere!

  Found miraculously through the vision of a boy, lost in the fog out in the marshes of Avalon!

  Yes, Hugh—their Hugh, the lad Brother John was turning into a scribe!

  The bones would probably be enshrined, with great pomp and ceremony, under the floor of the chancel near the High Altar.

  The king must be told! Couriers must go at once with the news to the royal court in London Town.

  The record must be written down in full detail, how the grave was found, and of the miracle of the shining strand of Guenevere’s hair, and how it turned to dust before the eyes of them all.

  A miracle truly!

  A costly shrine!

  Honor and glory for our Glaston!

  Dickon heard it all, never missed a sentence, as he milled about among the brothers in the common room. He was so interested in everything that was said that he did not notice for some time that Hugh was no longer beside him. Stepping out into the cloisters in search of his friend, he soon came upon him sitting disconsolately on a bench near the Painted Aumbry. Twilight was fast slipping into evening, but there was still light enough for Dickon to note the dejected droop of Hugh’s shoulders and, as he drew closer, he thought he saw tears on his cheeks.

  “What aileth thee, Hugh?” said he. His voice was gentle and the arm that he threw a
round the boy’s shoulder was warmly affectionate, though the gesture was awkward.

  “Oh, Dickon, it was not there!”

  “The Cup, you mean?”

  Hugh nodded.

  “But there is so much to be excited about!” Dickon paused for a moment, then added shyly. “Do you care such an awful lot about—just the Holy Grail?”

  Again Hugh nodded. “It isn’t the Vessel itself,” he tried to explain. “It’s—it’s—what it means—all the sacredness and wonder—and—and what jut seeing it might do to a person’s life, as it did to the knights who found it in King Arthur’s day. Seems as if I never wanted anything in all my life so much as to see the Holy Grail with my own eyes.”

  Dickon’s hand on Hugh’s shoulder poked him in affectionate raillery. “You and Master Bleheris! Seems to me the one is near as loony as the other!”

  “Bleheris!” cried Hugh, jumping to his feet. “Why, the old hermit never put in an appearance at the finding of King Arthur! Maybe he does not know yet! Maybe he is sick! I was thinking so hard of my own disappointment I quite forgot him! Come on, let’s go over to Beckery now and see what ails him!”

  “Now?” repeated Dickon, aghast. “Why, we can’t! It will be dark in a little while, and black as a monk’s habit going through the orchard and marshes.”

  Hugh looked up at the sky. Twilight was already darkening into night but across the garth, climbing up over one of the lower buildings, he could see the moon, pale still, but almost full, the harvest moon. It would grow bright and brighter.

  “Look!” said he, pointing. “It will be plenty light; the moon will be high over the marshes and we can see as well as by day. Bleheris may be needing something or somebody. I don’t want to wait until tomorrow.

  Dickon shrugged his shoulders but moved along after Hugh who had already started across the garth, headed in the direction of Beckery. “What will Brother John do to you if you don’t turn up in the dorter at the proper time?” said he. “I’ll be all right if I just tell Brother Symon I was off on an errand of mercy, which, goodness knows, this is! And anyway, he doesn’t thrash people. I don’t believe he could intentionally hurt anybody. And it’s a funny thing how he affects one. I’ve never been so good and obedient for so long in my life as I have been since I’ve been under him.”