Hugh nodded. “Behind a loose board, to the left as you go in.” Then he was off and away, cantering over the grounds to the high road, then turning to the west as the king’s party had turned. He dug his heels into his horse’s flanks, spoke to him, urged him, then leaned forward clinging with his knees as the good beast broke into a gallop.
It was smooth enough going at first, the road straight ahead with no forks nor puzzling turns, but at the very first town, Hugh must pause and ask, “Which way did the royal court go?” and thereafter, whenever he came to a branching road or a possibility of two directions, he must inquire, and thereby lose precious time. And somehow he felt that time was all important.
In spite of all his haste, twilight came upon him before he had any reason to believe he had lessened the distance between the king’s party and himself by any appreciable amount. And with the dusk came a soft, persistent spring rain. Hugh did not mind it at first, except that it made the oncoming night swifter and darker, but it soon began to increase in volume. At the end of an hour he was wet to the skin and his horse was clopping and splashing through thick mud that hindered his progress. He slowed down to a walk, for his steed was already showing signs of fatigue, while he himself ached in his unaccustomed muscles, for it had been a long time since he had bestrode a horse. He began to wonder what he had best do, and as the cold rain trickled down his neck and his soggy clothes grew heavier upon his shoulders, he looked about uneasily, thinking perhaps he would have to seek shelter for the night and continue his pursuit in the morning. Until that moment he had not really thought out any plan of action; his one idea had been to get hold of the minstrel fellow, Maurice, and Master Walter Mape, and demand of them, in the name of Glastonbury, the torn Book of the Seynt Graal. It never occurred to him for a moment that it might not have been they who had taken it. The covetous look he had seen in their faces when they had been examining the book, and the feeling among many unscrupulous courtiers that they could appropriate anything they wished in the name of the king, made the whole thing seem inevitable to him. However, he would have to move warily in the matter. It would hardly do to burst in upon two full grown men, highly respected at that, and bluntly demand the return of the Glastonbury treasure. Hugh groaned aloud, unable to think of anything more definite than to get where the book was, quickly. He relinquished all thought of begging shelter somewhere for the night. The farther the court got ahead of him, the harder it would be to catch up with it. He urged on his horse again; the rain beat in his face, but he lowered his head against it and rode on.
Soon the road became an indistinct line in the surrounding blackness. He had left a fairly good-sized village behind him and was now in open country, what was probably pasture land and rolling hills, though he could not make out much of anything, with the rain pouring down upon him. He held his bridle loosely, leaving it to the horse to keep to the road which he himself could barely make out. No sound broke the stillness around him save the clopping of the horse’s hoofs, the straining of the saddle leather, and the monotonous beating of the rain.
Suddenly he heard a long low whistle, his horse, startled, flung up his head, and shied. Another whistle answered, more near at hand. Then a man’s voice shouted, and another; there came the sound of feet running in the mud, and out of the black dark on every side appeared men. One seized Hugh’s bridle, forcing the frightened horse back almost on his haunches. The boy could make out, dimly, forms and faces, though how many, or what sort of men, he could not have told.
“Who is it rides so late upon the highway?” spoke the man at his bridle in a mocking voice.
Hugh did not answer.
“Why, ’tis but a boy!” said someone else from the darkness.
“Who let you out of the nursery?” the first voice spoke again.
“Speak up now, who are you, whence came you, where are you going?”
They must be footpads, robbers or criminal outlaws! Hugh was shaking with fear, but somehow managed to keep his voice calm and steady as he answered. “I be a boy out of Glaston on my way to the king’s court. I have naught about me that is worth your taking.”
“We will judge as to that!” said one of the voices.
“’Tis a good horse, at the least,” said another.
Hands reached up and pulled Hugh roughly off his saddle. Someone thrust a lantern in his face, which blinded him for a moment, and then enabled him to see his would-be despoilers a little more clearly. The leader, the man still holding his horse’s bridle, was a tall fellow with a bold, impudent face and a cap with a curling feather in it. He regarded Hugh with a smile at once disdainful and a little curious, as the other men felt about his clothing for possible money or arms.
“And why do you ride to the king’s court?” said he. “Henry the Second is no friend of mine; if thou dost love him—” He paused, leering unpleasantly.
“I do not love King Henry,” Hugh answered coldly, “but he is my liege lord and I will tell him how his highways are beset with thieves who molest honest folk going upon their honest business! Sir, I bid you, in the name of the law, to let me go!”
The man laughed. “Boldly spoken, my poppy-cock! I like your manner well. But you have not yet informed me why you seek the king. I have a fancy to know.”
Hugh turned away angrily. For some reason he was not afraid any more. It would be wise to conciliate these men, he knew, yet something about their bold lawlessness made him wish to resist them even where resistance was impossible. Refusing to answer, he stood sullenly silent.
“There is naught in his pocket save a yellow ribbon,” said one of the men, flaunting the favor that the little Lady Eileen had given him, in the dim lantern light.
Hugh snatched it back and put it in his pocket again before any hand could stop him.
“Odd’s blood! A lady’s favor!” cried the man who was evidently leader. “The lad beginneth young! Let him keep the trinket and if there is naught more of worth to him set him again upon his mysterious way!”
There had been a guffaw of laughter at the ribbon which made Hugh flush indignantly in the dark. “Give me my horse then,” said he.
“Nay, not so fast, young blade; the horse looketh to have mettle. He bides with us. Get you along on shank’s mare. Know you the saying? On your own two legs!”
Someone gave him a buffet on the back which nearly sent him sprawling. Then the lantern moved away into the darkness. The men’s voices followed it and the tall fellow, still holding the bridle of Hugh’s horse, led it down the road and away.
The rain still fell steadily, relentlessly. Hugh shivered with cold and the reaction to his fright. He could not see a yard before him; his lame foot ached and, when he sought to walk on it, a pain running through his thigh stabbed him like a knife. Feeling his way, groping, reaching for the bushes which bordered the road to guide him, he struggled on, not knowing for a surety whether he was retracing his steps or advancing.
It was slow going, desperately slow. Hugh kept peering into the blank dark on all sides, hoping against hope that he might see a light or some sign of human habitation. At last he could go no further, twice he had fallen, his weaker leg, aching intolerably, had given out under him, and the second time it seemed as if he simply could not stand up on it again. He crawled into the bushes that crowded the edge of the road. At least he would find some shelter from the cold rain underneath them. It was not pouring so hard now and, when he had pushed himself well into the thick underbrush, he found a relatively dry spot in which to lie down, but his wet clothes kept him shivering, and the ground was chill. He could not sleep, but at any rate he could rest his aching body until dawn. However, he must have slept, finally, in spite of all his discomfort, for he started broad awake suddenly and saw that the night had broken and the dim twilight of dawn lightened the sky above the road.
He found his muscles stiff almost beyond endurance, but at least the sunrise told him in which direction to go. Woods and bushes still bordered each side of the narrow ro
ad as he pushed on slowly and painfully; the day grew gradually lighter and before long a warm sun slanted encouragingly upon him from between the budded trees.
As he rounded a bend in the road he was startled to come suddenly upon a horse which looked surprisingly like his own mount that the robbers had taken from him. Yes! It was indeed, and there beside him, stepping out from the underbrush was the leader of the band. Hugh stopt, uncertain whether to go on or turn and try to run away. The man, noting his hesitation, motioned to him.
“Come, boy, you have nothing to fear,” he called. Hugh advanced cautiously towards him. He was conscious of his limp which was much worse than usual owing to the stiffness and fatigue in his muscles and the chill of wet clothing. He struggled against it and held his head high and proudly because of his uncomfortable self-consciousness.
“So you are going to see the king,” said the man when he had got quite close. “And though you love him not, you are loyal to him?”
It seemed unnecessary to repeat the information he had given the night before, so Hugh remained silent.
“I am not so disloyal to the king, myself, as you might think, though, in sooth, I have much cause to hate him, my outlawry being the result of his highhanded, overswift judgment. But enough of that. It hath come to my knowledge that one of the king’s sons is instigating a revolt against his father; would be king in his stead without waiting for death to bestow the crown lawfully upon him. I like it not, and I would warn His Majesty, yet I dare not show my face at court. Wilt thou take a written message to the king, boy?”
“Aye, that I will,” said Hugh, “though in truth I owe you nothing after last night’s mistreatment! But for the king—I would do that much.”
The man drew from the pouch that was hanging from his belt, a soiled scrap of parchment folded into a small square.
“If thou couldst read,” the man continued, “I would let thee see that the message is even as I tell thee.”
“I can read,” said Hugh, “but I need not. There is something in thy face that promises truth though thou art consorting with outlaws and footpads.”
The man grinned in not unfriendly fashion. “Thou art a bold spoken youth,” he said, giving the parchment into the boy’s hands. “’Twill be quite useless to send the king’s men after us, for we shall be gone past recovery in the twinkling of an eye.”
“That I would never do!” said Hugh stoutly. “I know too well what it means to a man to suffer the hue and cry.”
The two looked at each other, friendliness growing between them.
“For the favor that I have asked thee,” the man said, “here is thy horse again. Ride straight along this forest road for an hour or better, then you will come upon a highway wider and in more constant use than this. Turn north and, before the sun has reached the high noon mark, thou wilt come to a large manor castle. It is there that the king and his court have bided the night. If they have not been minded to go further thou wilt still find them there. Farewell, boy, we shall not meet again.” He vanished into the underbrush as completely as if the earth had opened and swallowed him.
Hugh climbed into his saddle, thankful indeed to have his good horse between his knees again; thankful also that the outlaw had not returned it to him out of pity for his lameness. He drew a long breath and straightened his shoulders. “Come on, old man,” he said aloud, pressing his heels into the horse’s flanks. “Come on! The sun is shining warm now; I shall soon be dry. Pick up your hoofs and hurry to the rescue of our treasure!”
15. Henry the King
WHEN HUGH REACHED the manor castle where King Henry and his train were said to be lodging, he clattered over the drawbridge and outer parade ground with considerable confidence. He passed through the great gate with some peasant folk who were bringing in supplies, and then proceeded alone to the inner gate which admitted only noble guests and those who had direct business with them. The porter who answered his ringing of the heavy metal gong, looked troubled, as well he might, for the sovereign of England was no easy guest for any manor lord to entertain, and before his none too friendly scrutiny, Hugh felt his self-assurance slipping away from him.
“What wouldst thou of the king?” the man asked, barring the boy’s entrance with his broad bulk.
“I have a message for him,” said Hugh, “which may be of grave importance, and I have also business with Maurice, the king’s minstrel, and Sir Walter Mape.”
“They be occupied, I have no doubt, all of them, and I know my duty better than to trouble such high and noble folk for a boy such as you.” His eyes traveled critically over Hugh’s bedraggled, rain soaked clothes as he continued, “Give me the message for His Majesty; I will convey it to my betters and they to him.”
But Hugh shook his head. That message from the outlaw might be his sole means of getting into the center of the courtly folk and finding what he had come for. He would not let that out of his hands if he could help it.
Suddenly he bethought him of the Lady Eileen’s ribbon. He pulled it from the pouch under his tunic where he was carrying it.
“If you will take this,” said he, holding it up, “to a young damsel who is the queen’s ward, the Lady Eileen, she will vouch for me that I am nobly born and, what is more important, honest and loyal.”
The porter took the ribbon, hesitated for a moment and then, evidently deciding that Hugh was not the disreputable character that he looked, let him pass through the gate, bidding him dismount and wait until he should return. Then, with the yellow streamer still in his hand, he trudged away into the castle.
Before long he was back again, the little Lady Eileen beside him.
“Hugh of Glaston!” she cried joyfully as soon as she had got near the boy. “Oh, but I am glad to see thee! And Dickon the oblate—is he with thee? But what is it brings thee here so soon? Is it Kenny? Oh, Hugh, do you bear ill news of my little dog?”
She scarcely paused long enough to get even the briefest answers to her questions, and then chattered on so fast that Hugh began to think he would never have a chance to explain himself.
“But come,” she said at last, taking his hand; “let the porter have a care to thy horse and come with me into the hall; then we can really talk.” And she led the way, leaving the bewildered porter to catch the horse’s bridle rein and take him away to the stables.
When they were within the lofty castle hall, Eileen drew Hugh through an arras covered door onto a terrace where they were quite by themselves and could talk freely. “There,” said she, seating herself on a stone bench, “now, sit down and tell me everything.”
So Hugh poured out his story without a break, telling of the precious broken Book of the Seynt Graal; how he had shown it to Sir Walter Mape and the minstrel, Maurice; how they had both declared it should be the property of the king, and then how it had vanished with the departure of the court, so that one could not fail to believe those two had taken it, ostensibly to present it to the monarch. Such things had been done before. Brother John had once told him how a beautiful and priceless volume had been taken in a similar way, during the reign of a former king, from the neighboring Cathedral of Wells. In that case His Majesty had sternly insisted on the return of the book to the ecclesiastical library, but he need not have done so, for did not everything in the realm really belong to the king?
When Hugh paused, Eileen said loyally. “Our King Henry is just and honest, too. If the book is given to him and he knows where it came from, he will give it back, immediately, I know he will!”
Hugh sighed and looked doubtful. “If and when—but Eileen, they may not give it to him for ever so long; they want it for themselves, really, both the minstrel and Sir Walter. And the king moves around so fast it might so easily be lost. And, oh Eileen, we of Glaston need it now!”
And then he went on to tell why The Book of the Seynt Graal was so unique a treasure and how Dickon had found, and he had worked on, some of the missing pages, and how he was almost ready now to put them all together and
present them to Brother John.
“Would you search their possessions?” queried the damsel in a troubled voice. “Faith! and that would not be easy!”
Hugh shook his head. “They be gentlemen and not common thieves; if I but charge them to their faces with the taking of our book, like as not they will laugh and say they have borrowed it. Then, if they will in no wise be persuaded to give it back, I will appeal to the king.”
Eileen rose up. “Let us be about it immediately,” said she.
They went into the hall again. Innumerable people were passing to and fro therein; knights, squires, pages, ladies, tire women, and servants. At the far end, a huge hooded fireplace jutted out into the room, and at one side of this sat a group, laughing and talking together, undisturbed by the stir and movement in the rest of the room. The leaping flames played on the faces of those who sat about it and made a spot of color and light in the dimly lit, high-ceilinged hall. Hugh and Eileen made their way into the outer edge of the circle. The king held the place of honor in a huge carved oak chair near the blaze. At his elbow stood Maurice, the minstrel, and farther off, talking to some gaily clad courtiers at the other side of the fireplace, sat Sir Walter Mape. It seemed hardly the moment to step forth and ask for the return of a stolen volume! Hugh decided to bide his time.
King Henry was speaking in his customary quick, authoritative voice. “It might well have been all an invention of the monks of Glaston,” said he. At the name Hugh pricked up his ears and listened intently. “Our friend the archdeacon would have us believe it was naught else, but I am inclined to think otherwise. Walter—” he raised his voice and the talking in the small group on the opposite side of the huge fireplace ceased abruptly. “I say, Walter Mape, come hither and defend your cynical doubts in this matter of King Arthur’s grave in Glastonbury. Tongues are wagging and the tale waxes or wanes with each telling.”
The Hidden Treasure of Glaston Page 20
