The Hidden Treasure of Glaston

by Eleanore M Jewett

  The little lady’s blue eyes were large with tears when Dickon bashfully approached her, but she broke into a radiant smile at sight of her pet.

  “Oh, thank you!” she exclaimed, “thank you a thousand times! My Kenny must have been so frightened! He might have got away entirely if you had not caught him, and then my heart would have been broken, I verily believe.”

  Dickon, finding nothing to say, stood awkwardly on one foot, then on the other. Luckily, at this moment Hugh came up to them.

  “Greeting, fair lady,” said he with a sweeping, courtly bow, “and welcome to our Glaston.”

  The girl smiled and curtsied in return. Dickon, suddenly realizing that his manners lacked something in the way of knightly courtesy, snatched off his round cap and imitated Hugh’s bow, albeit he was ill at ease in the process. Then the three stood looking at each other, unable to get started in conversation.

  It was Hugh who saved the situation by saying with courteous formality, “It is a great honor to us of Glaston to receive Her Majesty, Queen Eleanor, and all her fair ladies, of whom you are surely the fairest.” (Not for nothing had Hugh been instructed in troubadour ways and manners of speech!)

  The young lady thus addressed colored and then giggled. “Faith!” said she, “I be not so fine as all that! I be just Eileen, ward to the queen. I come from a castle in the north and am sent to my lady, Queen Eleanor, to be nurtured and taught manners.” Suddenly her blue eyes clouded and the tears started. “I be mortal tired of being stiff and proper all day long, and sore homesick. If it were not for Kenny that I brought with me from home, I think I should die!”

  All the courtly, artificial manner slipped out of Hugh like starch from wet linen. “I know what it feels like to be homesick!” said he in quick sympathy.

  “And I’m—I’m so glad I found Kenny for you,” Dickon added heartily. “If you lose him again, just tell someone to find Dickon the oblate, and I’ll get him for you, if it’s the last thing I do in this world!”

  “So you’re Dickon—and I’m Eileen—and you—?”

  “Hugh,” said the other, then after a moment’s hesitation he added, “Hugh de Morville—you—you probably know of my father?”

  The girl shook her head. She was smiling again now, a wide friendly smile that showed her even, white young teeth and brought a dimple into one cheek. “No, but I don’t know many people yet, even by reputation. I’m new at court, you see.”

  At that moment a large scolding woman bore down upon them and whisked the Lady Eileen away.

  “Watch for me after dinner,” said she over her shoulder; “if I can, I will talk to you. Good-by, Dickon and Hugh; see, Kenny is waving to you!” She waggled the dog’s paw in their direction and then hurried on, in the train of the large woman, toward the guest house.

  The two boys watched her out of sight. “By the bones of St. Crispin,” declared Dickon emphatically, “if I were a knight, I should not rest until yon damsel were my lady! One does not realize, mewed up in a monastery as you and I are, that ladies are good to look at and to be with, does one?”

  “One does not!” agreed Hugh, “and one forgets. I thought my sisters were silly, with their troubadours making big eyes at them, and always laughing and giggling and fiddling with their hair, but the Lady Eileen—” he left his sentence unfinished.

  “Let’s show her around the place,” suggested Dickon. “We might even take her down to the treasure vault and let her see the sapphire altar.”

  Hugh shook his head dubiously. “She would not be permitted to go—and besides, she would probably be afraid. Girls are not very brave, you know.”

  “I guess Eileen would be!” Dickon defended loyally. “Well, come on, let’s see what else is new and exciting. The shrining begins well!”

  The rule of silence at the dinner table was laid aside because of the important visitors, but the guests were so distributed that they seemed to stand out less conspicuously among the monastery folk than when they had arrived in a body. The king and queen and their immediate followers were entertained in Father Abbot’s own quarters. The rest of the women folk ate in the guest house, and the men went to the monks’ refectory, where they mingled familiarly enough with the brothers.

  Neither Hugh nor Dickon caught sight of the Lady Eileen after dinner nor yet during the long afternoon, though they kept bobbing around in the vicinity of the guest house between their various tasks, always hoping they would meet her. After supper most of the guests and all the brothers gathered together on the lawn hard by the abbot’s quarters, to chat together and, perhaps, be entertained by a song or minstrel’s tale, for this was the time of day and the place where such things were customarily permitted.

  King Henry, Queen Eleanor, and the abbot sat on carved wooden chairs that had been dragged out from the chapter house for them, and the knights and ladies stood or strolled about, talking to one another or, occasionally, to some of the brothers, though most of the monks were so unaccustomed to small talk, especially with ladies, that they held back modestly, content to watch the unusual picture of the gay world disporting itself pleasantly in their domain. The twilight seemed long and the air mild for the season, though it was cool enough for the ladies to don their cloaks which fell so gracefully from shoulders to ankles and displayed edging or lining of vair, marten, or, in the case of the queen at least, soft white ermine. The king fidgeted incessantly, crossing and uncrossing his stocky, scarlet-clad legs. Father Robert, sitting beside him, seemed by contrast to hold himself unusually still. The queen sat in languid ease, not talking much, although several courtiers, in gay cloaks and tunics and modish pointed shoes, hovered about her. Among the ladies gathered together a little apart from the queen, stood the young maid, Eileen. Dickon and Hugh noted her as soon as she appeared and both stared at her in unconcealed admiration as much as they dared. She was a small person but she made the most of the inches she had, standing straight with head held high. Her hair, the boys noticed, had a touch of red in the brown of it, and the long green cloak falling from her shoulders and caught at the throat with a clasp of gold, became her well. They wondered what she had done with her dog; perhaps she had left some servant to care for it. She looked tranquil enough and smiled in frank pleasure when her eyes rested on their eager faces. They managed to work their way around through the crowd until they were near enough to speak to her.

  “Where’s Kenny?” said Dickon, by way of starting the conversation.

  “In the guest house, shut in. I only hope nobody will let him out!”

  Dickon privately hoped he would get out and run away so that he could have the pleasure of finding him and returning him again.

  Before Hugh could say anything there was a sudden hushing and quieting of voices and the faces of all turned toward the center of the terrace whereon the king and queen sat.

  “Maurice, the king’s minstrel, is going to tell a story,” whispered Eileen, “and it will be so long—and I would rather go about and see the grounds and talk to you two, the way the other ladies have been talking to the knights and courtiers.”

  “The ladies are talking to one knight each,” Dickon whispered back significantly. “Why don’t you slip away with me a little while and we can walk and talk in the cloisters back yonder, while Hugh listens to the story.”

  Hugh grinned. “Go to it,” said he good-naturedly. “The cloisters have plenty walking about in them already, folk who like talk better than a story! I prefer a story!” And he stuck his nose in the air in very uncourtly fashion, though he would have much preferred to join them.

  But in a few moments nothing could have dragged Hugh out of the sound of Maurice’s voice. The minstrel had plunged at once into a knightly tale, an odd story of Sir Gawain the Courteous and his encounter with a misshapen, “loathely” lady, who asked him to be her knight. The tale was interesting enough in itself, but what caught Hugh and caused him to hold his breath and gaze in fixed absorption on the teller, was the fact that it was a story told almo
st word for word in the broken Book of the Seynt Graal. Indeed, it was in the middle of that very story that the break came, that pages had been torn out and lost. Hugh had wondered how the tale came out; now he would hear. But what was more important to him was the realization that here, standing before him, was a minstrel who knew one of the collection of Grail stories. Perhaps he knew more, perhaps he knew the end of the whole and could tell what happened to the Grail finally, where it had been hidden, or if it had really been snatched away into heaven to be seen no more by sinful men. He could scarcely wait for Maurice to come to a close, and when he did, the king summoned him to his side to talk to him, and then others gathered around him. Hugh hung about, waiting his chance, and at last it came. Maurice strolled off in the direction of the cloisters with only the archdeacon, Walter Mape, beside him. The boy followed, hurrying to overtake him, then gently touched his arm. The minstrel paused in the middle of whatever he had been saying to Walter Mape, and the two turned and looked at Hugh questioningly.

  “Good Master Minstrel,” said the boy with a courteous bow, “that was indeed a goodly tale about the loathely lady. May I—sir, pray be not offended if I ask thee—I would fain know where it came from?”

  For a moment Maurice did not answer and the boy wondered whether he had committed an unpardonable fault in courtesy by asking such a question. Then the minstrel spoke, graciously enough.

  “It is a goodly tale and I am glad it liketh thee. I had it out of Wales, long since. Why do you ask?”

  “The story is the same as one I read in a book,” Hugh answered hesitantly, “a broken book. Half of the tale is torn away and it was right pleasant to hear the ending of it.”

  “What book was that?” broke in Walter Mape abruptly.

  “It is a very old book, sir, The Book of the Seynt Graal.”

  Maurice and Sir Walter exchanged meaningful glances. “And where saw you that book, boy?” continued the former.

  Hugh began to feel uneasy. How much should he tell these men of the hidden treasure in the Painted Aumbry? They seemed extraordinarily interested. “It is a volume we have here in Glaston, noble sirs,” said he, not knowing how else to answer them.

  “The Book of the Seynt Graal,” repeated the minstrel thoughtfully. “Surely it could not be the book—the lost volume of which we have heard! Boy,” he continued after a moment, “we must see that book. By my faith, I would rather set these two eyes upon it than on anything else in the world—if indeed it is the book!”

  “It may be Brother John, our armarian—” began Hugh, but Sir Walter interrupted him.

  “Nay, we would not bother the good brother with our idle curiosity. You must know, lad, that in Wales there is a tradition of a book long lost and mostly forgotten, containing the whole history of the Sacred Cup which men called, in the days of King Arthur, the Holy Grail.”

  Hugh nodded his understanding.

  “Now and then an ancient minstrel tells a tale concerning it, such as this our Maurice has just repeated, but the sense and source of them all is not to be found either there or, so they of Wales would have us believe, in any spot on God’s earth.”

  “Saving it might be in Avalon,” added Maurice.

  Hugh started. Avalon! The misty meadows between the abbey and Tor Hill, the place of his vision of the funeral barge of Arthur, and of strange tales and uncanny traditions of which Bleheris had told him.

  “And so,’” the archdeacon was continuing, “to see that ancient book would mightily please us, being minstrels both, of a fashion, for I too create verse,” he smiled wryly, “and likewise tell tales, though of an order quite different from the romances of King Arthur!”

  Hugh smiled back, for he knew the reputation of the clever Walter Mape for cutting personal satire and gossipy tales of court scandal!

  “But some day,” the other went on, “I, too, intend to write a tale that is lovely, perhaps a story culled from the history of the Grail and its seekers. Who can tell? Come, boy, if thou knowest where the book lies, let us look upon it now, this very moment. By tomorrow we shall all be busy with the shrining and after that it will be too late.”

  Surely there could be no harm in merely showing them the book, thought Hugh. He felt a sudden pride that Glaston should possess a manuscript that these two men, so world-traveled and important, desired greatly to see. And yet, he felt uneasy. If Brother John were only there. He looked hastily around at the thinning crowd. The twilight was deepening.

  “It will soon be too dark,” urged Maurice.

  “Over in the north cloister walk,” said Hugh. “But if you would wait until tomorrow Brother John could show you—”

  “We will ask the good armarian more about it on the morrow, if it be indeed the real thing,” said Sir Walter. “A glance should tell us.”

  They had walked on while they were speaking and now, led by Hugh, they stood in the alcove before the Painted Aumbry. Deftly and swiftly Hugh drew out the books that covered the secret panel, opened it and, with the reverent and careful handling that he always used for it, lifted out the broken volume of The Seynt Graal.

  Walter Mape took it in his hand while Maurice looked over his shoulder. He examined the title page, scrutinized the script, felt with practiced fingers the fine grain of the parchment and turned the volume over to its torn and mutilated back.

  For several moments not one of the three spoke. Then a long, slow sigh came from Sir Walter’s lips.

  “It is the book,” breathed Maurice, “there can be no doubt of it! But what of the missing pages? Sure and it would be worth a king’s ransom to find them!”

  Hugh’s heart was beating high with excitement and pride. He opened his mouth to tell them of his long guarded secret, of the pages he and Dickon had found in the underground treasure vault and how he had been working over them, hours upon hours, to fit them together and make of the book a more nearly perfect whole. But something restrained him and he said nothing, merely let the two look their fill and then reclaimed the volume and put it carefully back in its place.

  “That is indeed a treasure,” said Walter Mape as they turned away. “It is without doubt one of the most precious books in the world, even in its broken and imperfect state.”

  “It should be the property of the king,” said Maurice. “No one but His Majesty should own such a priceless volume. There is no other place in all the world where one may read those stories of the Holy Grail; they would be lost forever if anything should happen to that book.” He sighed. “I would I might borrow it and con the tales. Think you the Glaston folk would lend it to me?”

  Hugh went cold at the thought. He had not realized how precious to him, personally, was the knowledge that The Book of the Seynt Graal was there safely in the Painted Aumbry in his Glaston. If it should be lent to anybody in the trail of the restless King Henry, nobody could guess what might happen to it.

  “It may be Brother John will have it copied,” said he hastily; “especially if—if more pages of it should ever be discovered.”

  “It should be in the king’s possession now,” insisted Maurice.

  Dusk had almost slipped into night. As they left the shadowy cloisters Hugh thought for a moment that he had seen the tall form of Master Bleheris, but he must have been mistaken, for the walks and the terrace were empty. The abbot and the king and his party had all gone into the califactorium to warm themselves around the brazier, lighted for their comfort, though ordinarily the brothers made no such concessions to the chill damp of nights so late in spring. The bell for Compline rang clamorously. Hugh went in to the vast, dim, candle-lighted church with the brothers, and listened to the familiar service. He felt vaguely troubled; he wished he had not told those two men anything about the precious treasure in the aumbry. Tomorrow he must tell Brother John all about it. Perhaps he would be angry, but no matter, he must tell him without any more delay. He would also share his long kept secret about the recovered pages he had been working over. That had been kept from him much too long
. Suppose something should happen to them!

  He had scarcely paid any attention to the words and singing of the service of Compline. Now they broke in upon him, claiming his ear and mind. He sighed and something in him relaxed. The old familiar intoned words, the deep rich voices of the men quieted him, gave him the sense of peace they had so often given him before.

  “Into thy hands, O Lord, we commend our spirits;

  Guard us while waking,

  Watch over us while sleeping

  That, awake, we may watch with Christ,

  And asleep, we may rest in thy peace.”

  14. Stolen Treasure

  THE NEXT DAY came the shrining. All the countryside for miles about gathered at the abbey church for the great event. After Prime and High Mass which the king and queen and all the court attended, a great procession was formed. Acolytes with crosses and novices holding candles and swinging censers came first, then all the officials of the monastic community, the obediendaries as they were called. Behind them in a cloud of fresh incense swung from another group of censer-bearers walked Abbot Robert, King Henry, and Queen Eleanor and six tall and stalwart monks bearing on their shoulders the huge hollowed oak wherein rested the bones of Arthur and Guenevere. Monks and lay brothers followed, marching two by two. Hugh was there, and Dickon somewhat further behind with Brother Guthlac and other lay people belonging to the monastic family. All around the great Church of St. Mary the procession marched. The rich voices of the choir rang full and true, the metallic rattle of chains from the swinging censers sounded rhythmically, clouds of incense filled the air, and through it innumerable candle lights flickered and glinted like stars in a mist. The nave of the church was filled with lay folk, both high and low, and when the procession had passed three times around it, they joined in, following the last of the monastery people, out through the great arched central doors. The singing increased in volume as every voice took up the strains of the old familiar hymn, “Jerusalem the Golden.” Then it thinned and straggled as the marchers wound around the churchyard, circled the little, old, deserted chapel of St. Joseph, and entered the cloisters, where it drew together again around the garth. Then, at last, they returned to the church.