The Hidden Treasure of Glaston

by Eleanore M Jewett

  “What tale, my lord?” questioned Sir Walter. He had risen and moved nearer the king.

  “The lad and the vision,” prompted King Henry somewhat irritably. “Thou shouldst know; thine own books have prophesied the finding of King Arthur’s bones in Avalon, which, they say, is the marshy country round about the abbey, and a name frequently applied to the monastic property itself. But they say that which led the brothers to go digging and unearth the grave itself was a dream, a vision seen by a sick lad lost in the fog out on the marshes. Faith! We have all heard the story a dozen times by now! The monks were all agog with it. Why dost thou mistrust the truth of it?”

  Sir Walter Mape shrugged his shoulders. “It may be true, Sire, yet it hath the sound of monkish invention.”

  “The grave was found, was it not? You cannot deny that,” spoke up someone in the circle.

  “Aye, that is sooth enough, but the vision; who can say that was true?” Sir Walter was evidently in the mood to argue.

  “I would that I had summoned the lad himself and questioned him while I was in Glaston,” declared the king. “I had much of importance to discuss with Abbot Robert, and the time was short.”

  Hugh had been edging his way toward the front of the group. He was breathing fast, his heart was in his mouth. Was there ever a more fortuitous time for him to declare his presence and make his request?

  “So please Your Majesty,” he cried, stepping forth and bowing before the king, “I am the boy who saw the vision of the burial of Arthur in Glaston, and it is all sooth and true, on my life and honor. If you desire to question me, I am here to answer.”

  A gasp of astonishment and then a moment of bewildered silence held the group in the circle. King Henry broke it with a quick, rather harsh laugh.

  “By all the saints! This land must be enchanted! I have but to express a wish and the fellow I wish for literally springs up out of the earth at my feet!”

  “May it be ever so when my liege lord graciously consents to honor my dwelling,” said a tall man standing behind the king’s chair. Evidently he was the host, the lord of the manor.

  King Henry grunted, none too courteously, in reply, and kept his eyes still on Hugh.

  “Who may you be, boy, and how comes it that a dreamer of dreams and a seer of visions follows after my very worldly court?”

  “I am Hugh, son of Sir Hugh de Morville,” declared the boy quietly.

  There was a sudden, startled exclamation, then a hush. The king’s face grew scarlet, the veins at his temples seemed to swell visibly, and the smile that had been on his lips grew strained and frozen. Hugh continued:

  “I followed your train, Sire, because a book, which is old and broken but very precious in our eyes, hath disappeared from the Painted Aumbry at Glaston, and I bethought me there might be someone among your followers who had borrowed it.”

  The awkward silence in the group around Hugh was broken by an incredulous laugh which was almost a gasp. The expression on the king’s face changed from painful remembrance to surprise, then relief and amusement. He suddenly clapped his hand upon his thigh and roared with laughter.

  “Odd’s my life!” he exclaimed, “the whole world is turning dizzy! Let me clutch one handle to this most remarkable business at a time! Whew!” He mopped his brow and the back of his neck, thereby turning into a humorous gesture his humiliating embarrassment. “Now, boy, begin at the beginning, and explain slowly. You are Hugh de Morville’s son, how is it you are here at all while he is gone on pilgrimage for his murder of the Archbishop à Becket, to the Holy Land?”

  Hugh winced at the raw reference to the ghastly deed. “My father left me at Glaston when he fled the country,” he answered briefly.

  “To become a novice and then a monk?”

  “As to that I know not yet.”

  The king gazed at him silently for a few moments.

  “Thy sisters are in France,” he said at length, dropping into the familiar pronoun. “They be married, I am told, and happy enough. I wonder that thy father did not take thee there also.”

  “We love England,” declared Hugh stoutly. “I think my father would have some of his blood still on English soil. And I—I am glad. I have been very happy in Glaston.”

  “Dreaming dreams?” The king’s voice was soft and held no shade of scorn in it.

  “Aye, dreaming dreams,” assented the boy, “and seeking that which is lost, and rebuilding a book that had been broken—and is now lost also.”

  “Your Majesty,” spoke a voice behind Hugh, and Walter Mape stood forth. “The lad is over bold but I think I know whereof he speaks. May I have your gracious permission to ask him a further question, and perchance lay his doubts to rest on a certain score?”

  The king nodded.

  “Is it The Book of the Seynt Graal, the volume hidden in the Painted Aumbry, to which you refer, boy?”

  “Aye, Sir Walter, that it is. It hath not been seen since—”

  “Since Maurice and I gazed upon it covetously and held it in our itching fingers! And, naturally enough, you thought we had borrowed the same to enrich our own or the king’s library! Well, lad, thou hast guessed wrong. We laid no impious hands upon your Glaston treasure. Did we, now, Maurice? Speak up, man; our characters and honor are in question!”

  “By the bones of Saint Bridget, I swear we never touched the volume, boy, though I will confess I would have deemed it no sin to transfer it to the king’s chamber!”

  Hugh looked from one to the other of the two men who were now standing on either side of him. Walter Mape had spoken in a light, bantering tone, the minstrel was forceful and emphatic. But the faces of both were open, honest, concerned. Somehow he could not doubt the truth of either. His heart sank, but there was nothing further to be said. With a little bow to the king, he was about to step back into the circle when the monarch motioned him to remain where he was.

  “Art satisfied, lad?” said he with a teasing grin at Maurice and the archdeacon, “for if thou art not, I will have the possessions of these two brought forth and searched—Odd’s blood, I will! They have played me many a prank in their day, the both of them, and I would not trust them, at least as far as books and tales are concerned!” His quick, roguish laugh belied his words, and everybody felt at ease again and in a good humor, the unhappy, fearful mood created in them by the mention of À Becket having been already forgotten.

  Hugh smiled also. “Sire,” said he, “I need no more than the honest word of a gentleman. We must look elsewhere for our stolen treasure.”

  “But first, boy, tell me of thy vision of King Arthur. I had thought the gods had dropt thee into my presence for no other reason.”

  So Hugh told the story of his wanderings in the marshes of Avalon, of his strange other-world experience, and of how Dickon and Bleheris, the mad hermit, had found him and borne him to Beckery, and how, later, the monks had dug between the two pyramids in the graveyard outside the Old Church and discovered the king’s grave just where the vision had foretold. But of the Holy Grail and the age-old tradition that it had been lost or buried somewhere in Glaston, he said nothing. That was too deep a matter, too sacred and, for him, too precious, to bring forth in this little company of idle courtiers, so worldly-wise and incredulous. Instinctively he knew they would not have understood. But perhaps he was mistaken, for a hush lay upon them as he ceased speaking, and in the king’s face was a look of wistfulness as well as interest.

  “I would I had a son like thee, my boy,” he said impulsively.

  The remark thrust a knife, as it were, into Hugh’s heart and memory. He had forgotten the message from the tall outlaw, bringing ill news to this father of a rebelling son. He wished he might withhold the folded bit of parchment, but that, of course, he could not do.

  “Sire,” said he hesitantly. “I had almost forgot; as I passed through a wooded road on my way hither a stranger bade me give Your Majesty this written message.”

  He knelt as he handed the king the note and th
en stept back among the courtiers, watching the sovereign’s face with concern and real sympathy as he opened and read the missive. The round face flushed darkly, the color sweeping up in waves from his thick neck. He leaped to his feet, his stocky body alive with energy and determination.

  “By God’s eyes!” he cried, using his own peculiar oath, “the ingrate, the inhuman creature that would take up arms against the father that begat him and that loves him! Oh, my son! My son!”

  The little company about the fireplace broke up instantly. Those sitting rose to their feet. Faces paled and grew troubled. “What is it? What hath happened?” one after another whispered to his neighbor. King Henry brushed them aside, calling for his personal servants and closest friends.

  “My son, Henry, has taken up arms against me!” they heard him state in a voice cold with fury. “We must get back to London at once, without a moment’s delay!”

  In the confusion that followed Hugh was quite forgotten. He managed to get himself out from underfoot of the courtiers and servitors who immediately began rushing about. Everyone was far too busy to notice or delay him if he wished to depart, and he did so wish. There was no further need for him to stay, save to find the little Lady Eileen again and bid her farewell. She, however, seemed to have been swept away with the hurrying, whispering women folk who had rushed off to prepare the queen and themselves for departure. He made his way toward the outer court to find his horse but, as he was crossing it toward the stables, a light footstep sounded behind him. He turned and saw her running after him.

  “Eileen,” said he. “My Lady Eileen! I had feared I could not tell thee my thanks for thy help and—”

  “There is naught to thank me for,” interrupted the girl breathlessly. “But I wanted to see thee again and tell thee I am sorry about the book—that it was not here to be recovered. Oh, Hugh, what can have happened to it? Who would have taken it? What wilt thou do about it now?”

  At the sound of his very own thoughts being put into words by the sympathetic girl beside him, all the discouragement and despair Hugh had not yet allowed himself to face seemed suddenly to rise up and overwhelm him. Tears started to his eyes and his lips trembled so that he dared not trust himself to speak.

  “Hugh, thou art weary beyond bearing!” Eileen laid a hand gently on his sleeve. “And I doubt not thou art hungry also. Hast eaten at all since leaving Glaston?”

  The boy shook his head, forcing a little smile. He was hungry, faint for lack of food. That must be why he seemed to be behaving like such a baby. Things had happened so fast and he had been so desperately eager to overtake the king and his court before they moved beyond his reach, and scattered, perhaps. He had not even thought of food until this moment and, now that the girl mentioned it, he realized how completely empty and hollow he felt.

  And Eileen, womanlike, did not need to be told anything further.

  “Come with me,” she commanded, seizing Hugh’s hand and moving down the court in the direction of the cook houses.

  In no time at all she had got hold of a friendly servitor, who found a seat for Hugh in a corner of one of the great kitchens and supplied him with a bowl of rice soup and a generous slice of pigeon pie, thick, juicy, and succulent. The boy fell to with a good appetite and soon found both courage and conversation coming back to him.

  The little lady hovered over him, replacing his empty soup bowl and his dish of pie with other delicacies, serving him with her own hands, and keeping up a running stream of talk that was friendly and comfortable, but needed little more than nods or brief comments in reply.

  When at last the boy stood up, replenished to the full, he felt that he was a new man entirely. Eileen smiled up at him.

  “There now,” said she, “that is better! I wonder thou wert able to stand on thy two legs at all with nothing inside thee since yesterday noon!” She dug into the silken pouch hanging at her girdle and produced the yellow hair ribbon. “My favor is still thine. May it help thee again and to better purpose!”

  “Oh, Eileen, thou hast been mortal good to me!” said Hugh, accepting it. “I will never forget thee!”

  “I think thou wilt find the book,” she continued with hopeful assurance. “Nay, I am certain of it! Thou canst not fail! Farewell and God go with thee!”

  Hugh knelt and kissed her hand in true knightly fashion, and then watched her as she walked with easy grace to a door of the cook house that led into the manor hall. Just before she disappeared in the doorway she looked back and waved to him, smiling her wide friendly smile. Somehow Hugh felt immensely cheered and turned with a far lighter step back into the courtyard to find his horse.

  After a bit of searching in the manor stables he spied the beast, untethered him and mounted. Everybody about was too busy getting ready for the sudden, but already announced, departure of the king to bother or question him. He rode across the courtyard and out over the drawbridge, then turned in the direction of Glaston. As his horse fell into a steady trot and the muddy road stretched out evenly before him, his heart grew heavy again. He realized with renewed and devastating force that the treasure of Glaston, the priceless, precious Book of the Seynt Graal, had vanished completely. He had not even the vaguest idea as to what could have happened to it, or who could have taken it.

  16. The Great Fire

  IN SPITE OF his downheartedness Hugh urged on his horse whenever he showed a tendency to slacken his speed. A strange feeling of haste was upon him, though he knew not why, and he was glad when at long last he galloped into the little village which straggled upon the outskirts of the abbey grounds. It looked quite deserted, as it had upon that other occasion which now returned vividly to his mind, the time when he had come upon Jacques de Raoul fleeing from the hue and cry that was raised hotly after everyone connected with his father’s household. He wondered what had happened to Jacques. It was good to know that his sisters were safe in France and his father in the Holy Land. Hugh thought of the king and was surprised to find how completely his feeling of resentment and hatred had vanished. Those short glimpses of the monarch when his remorse had been so apparent, and then his sorrow and hurt pride at the rumored rebellion of his son, had somehow shown the boy very convincingly that the king was an erring human being who suffered for his mistakes and wrongs as intensely as ordinary folk. Evidently he worried about his children, felt disappointment and regret for them and, perhaps, just because he was king, he knew greater loneliness than other people and found little sympathy and less honest friendly affection to lean on. Hugh not only forgave him in his heart for all the tragedy and pain in his own life and family that the king’s impulsive words had been at least partly responsible for, but he thought of him with a pity that was almost akin to affection.

  Strange that the little town through which he was riding should be so completely deserted. Hugh roused himself from his wandering thoughts as he spied an old peasant sitting in the sun before his cottage door. He was the only human being about and, as the boy rode closer, he recognized him as the ancient gaffer who had hobbled along beside him that day he had found Jacques and helped him on his way to sanctuary on the Galilee Porch of the abbey. He drew rein and greeted the old fellow with a friendly smile.

  “How comes it that there be no folk about the village, saving yourself, good neighbor?” he said.

  “Gone to the fire,” answered the old man briefly. “I could na go; legs be stiff and unsteady these days.”

  “Fire!” exclaimed Hugh. “Where?”

  “Abbey grounds. Hours and hours now they be a-burning.”

  The boy waited for no further word but dug his heels into his horse’s side, urging, shouting, beating him, tired though he was, into a gallop again. Before long he could see smoke rising in great clouds, then flames, like angry red tongues shooting through them. Half the monastic buildings must be ablaze! He raced on; his horse seemed to catch the sense of disaster and redoubled his speed. They reached the south gate which was crowded with peasant folk. Unable to force his wa
y through on horseback, Hugh slid off and, leaving the beast to take care of himself, rushed into the grounds.

  A scene of desolation and confusion met his eyes. Already the dorter, chapter house and several other buildings, all of wood, were a mass of smoldering ruins. A great wave of smoke, heat, and cinders blew toward him from the Church of St. Mary which was a blazing furnace. He skirted it, running around to the west. There he found the brothers gathered in a body on the lee side of the suffocating flames and smoke, watching it burn. Hugh joined them, but no one seemed aware of him. They all stood or knelt with tragic, white faces turned toward the fire. Some were praying, others weeping; the faces of many were black with grime and cinders, their habits torn and scorched. Some still held buckets half filled with water, useless utterly in the magnitude of the blaze, some clenched helpless hands, wringing them in despair. St. Joseph’s Chapel was burning, too, though the flames there had not yet got such a start. Hugh watched in agonized helplessness with the others.

  Suddenly someone clutched at his sleeve. Turning, he saw Dickon, his eyes wild, his face chalk white, his whole frame trembling.

  “Brother John!” he said, raising his voice almost to a shriek to be heard above the roaring and crackling of the flames. “Brother John! He is in the Old Church! I saw him go in a few moments ago and he hasn’t come out! He can’t get out! See, the wooden walls are blazing all around it now, and the door has fallen in!”

  A hoarse cry from one of the brothers standing near enough to hear; exclamations, shouts from others; half articulated, half sobbing groans and sentences that died on the lips. Hugh rushed nearer the blazing building, Dickon following him.

  “He must be trapped inside there,” he cried through clenched teeth. “Dickon, quick! Get people with picks to go to the cleft near the old north gate and dig! Make the entrance bigger—you know—the entrance to our passageway, so they can get to us that way or we can get out! I’m going to try to go through the flames here, through the door, and show Brother John the underground way out.”