The Hidden Treasure of Glaston

by Eleanore M Jewett

  “Saw what?” interrupted Dickon.

  “The Holy Grail.”

  “The Cup itself?” cried the other in an awed voice. “By all the saints! What was it made of? What did it look like? How did it get there? Couldn’t you have brought it out with you?”

  Hugh shook his head. “I don’t even know for sure whether it was real or not. Oh, I saw it all right, as surely as I am seeing you now, as surely as I saw all those treasures of Master Bleheris’s at the foot of the altar. But the Holy Grail was not the same as those things—it was different, I don’t think anyone could ever hold that in his mortal hands.”

  “No one could ever hold anything again that was in that blazing furnace, that is certain!” Dickon’s voice grew suddenly bitter. “Seems as if the fire has taken all that we have, and that everything, every single treasure of Glaston is gone now—forever.”

  The enormity of the loss came over Hugh more appallingly than it had before. “Aye,” said he, his voice also growing tense with emotion. “And the book, Dickon, our precious broken Book of the Seynt Graal, that is gone, too. Bleheris had taken that in there with him, and all our pages.”

  “But why?” interrupted Dickon again, “just to be burned up? I never knew he was that crazy!”

  “He couldn’t have known they would be burned,” Hugh defended him. “I think I understand a little the way he was thinking. He loved those things, and he had the feeling he wanted to give something he loved; offer a sort of sacrifice—the way he did Excalibur, don’t you remember?”

  Dickon grunted. “Whatever he thought or was trying to do, it is fixed now so nobody in all the world knows about the Holy Grail, or how it came to our Glaston, or any of those wonderful things that happened long ago.”

  “I do,” said Hugh quietly. “Everything that was in that book and in the loose, recovered pages, too, are in my mind now And the story was almost complete. And the tales, too, that Bleheris told now and then about it, the fire hasn’t destroyed those either. They are all here.” The boy touched his forehead meaningfully.

  “A lot of good that will do anybody,” Dickon turned his back on the desolate waste of smoking ruins that had been Glastonbury, unable to endure the sight any longer. But in a moment he resolutely faced them again. “Guess I’ll see if Brother Symon needs any help,” said he. “One has got to keep going, somehow.”

  Hugh cast a wistful look toward the cloister walks. They were a mass of smoldering debris; the Painted Aumbry must be among the ashes, and the books he had brought from his old home. They were gone too. The guest house over by the south gate where he and his father had come that stormy March night, a year and more ago, stood stark and empty, its roof fallen in, its walls blackened with smoke, its interior a heap of wreckage. Glaston, thought Hugh, a great lump rising in his throat, his Glaston that had opened its friendly arms to him in his hour of greatest need, was now a thing of naught, a dead place of meaningless ashes. He had not realized how dear Glaston had become to him in the short time he had dwelt within its walls.

  Disconsolately and silently he and Dickon made their way between the charred skeleton buildings to the one remaining chapel with its incompleted bell tower. The place was crowded with monks, a somber, desolated company who stood or moved about, saying nothing, doing nothing, held in an apathy of despair. Dickon elbowed his way through the crowd until he found Brother Symon, while Hugh sought out the corner where Brother John’s makeshift bed had been laid. Unconsciously the two lads derived a measure of security from the presence of the men under whom they were in the habit of working.

  After a while there came a stir among the brothers and all eyes turned to the doorway through which Abbot Robert had just entered. His face was pale and there were dark shadows under his eyes, but the eyes themselves were full of life and fire. His lips had a determined look and he moved with assurance and confidence. Silence fell upon the crowded room as he mounted the chancel steps at the far end of it, and lifted his hands in blessing.

  “My children,” said he, “let not your hearts be troubled. Our Glaston is not gone or destroyed, even though scarce one stone be left standing upon another. For the real Glaston is not made of stone and wood and mortar, which fire can destroy, but lives, indestructible and forever, in the minds and hearts of men. Over and over again in the long history of our abbey, its outward frame and structure have been laid low, broken, burned to ashes, by accident as in fire and flood, by evil intent at the hand of enemies. And in the future it will happen again and yet again; the walls of our Glaston will be thrown down, its noble buildings will become as now, heaps of rubble. Yet out of its ashes Glaston has always risen anew, it will always rise anew. On these charred and smoking ruins will be built a yet more lovely Glaston, more beautiful perhaps than we have ever dreamed. To build and build and never be cast down though every outward evidence of our labor perish; to give and give no matter what the cost, to serve with all our hearts, no matter how little or how great the service we can render—it is that which makes the life blood of our Glaston, it is that spirit that will ensure for our Glaston an eternal life.”

  A little sigh ran through the listening group of monks, as when a breath of wind moves among fog and mist, dispelling it and letting the sunlight through. Faces that had been dark and haggard took on an expression of light and of new life. Heads lifted, hands moved involuntarily, brother touching the sleeve of brother in reassurance and affection. Heads nodded, and then, after a little pause, voices began again.

  “There be some of the gold leaf rescued from the cloister aumbry.”

  “Praise be the saints! The cook house hath scarce been touched! We shall have enough to eat.”

  “It is marvel truly, that of all our people only poor old Bleheris, the hermit, hath met his death, and none has sustained aught but minor injuries, save our good armarian.”

  “And Brother John will mend apace! You shall see!” It was Brother John himself who spoke thus cheerfully from his straw bed in the corner. His eyes were shining, his face radiant.

  Hugh bent over him to straighten the covering and ease his position somewhat.

  “Lad! Lad!” whispered Brother John in his ear.

  “Didst thou hear—‘to build and build, to give and give’—that is the soul of our Glaston! And to the builders and the givers will come the vision—when God so wills it!”

  17. The Choice

  DAYS PASSED. The exaltation produced in the monks by the abbot’s short talk began to wear off. They were crowded and uncomfortable in the half-finished chapel and bell tower, and a spell of cold wet weather added to their difficulties. The half-demolished kitchen made feeding the eighty or so who had lived in the conventual halls possible, but a real problem, and an epidemic of colds reduced spirits to a very low ebb. Dispositions were edgy, work lagged, and idleness gave ample opportunity for self pity and complaining. Abbot Robert was tireless in his efforts to set the routine of the Benedictine life going again. The daily offices were said in the crowded little chapel; there were no books to read but the novice master increased the time all the brothers were to spend in conning the music of the services, albeit without accompaniment. Labor in the fields could go on as usual, and Brother Symon went quietly about his work among the poor and sick again. The village folk did what they could to help out, though that was little enough, for the peasants were, at all times, desperately poor and overworked. The nearby manors sent food, clothing, and bedding, which did more than anything else to relieve physical discomfort. But daily life continued to be a pretty dreary business and eagerness to make the best of things began to slip into apathy again.

  Then came a day when a messenger clattered down the road to the south gate and demanded audience with the abbot and, when he had gone, the news spread like wild fire from one end of the abbey grounds to the other.

  The messenger had brought word from King Henry and Queen Eleanor that they themselves would finance the rebuilding of Glastonbury and that at once. Architects had already b
een summoned from France, stone would be bargained for shortly; the new Glaston would be all of stone with no wooden buildings to catch fire again; no expense would be spared, and the king himself would come presently to confer with Abbot Robert about actual plans.

  The spirits of the community rose as if by magic. King Henry’s name was blessed on every tongue, and everybody stopt talking about himself and his own griefs and discomforts, and began to discuss the future plans of the abbey with the greatest animation.

  “Now what do you think of King Henry?” Dickon demanded of Hugh triumphantly, after he had helped to spread the good news of those generous promises.

  “The king?” answered Hugh. “Oh, I got over hating him long ago before I saw the—” he hesitated, wondering how much Dickon had really understood about his strange vision of the Sacred Cup. “Before I had that experience in the Old Church. I guess if I had still held hate in my heart I could not have seen the Holy Grail at all. So the king is going to help us rebuild? Oh, I am glad, glad! Then he must love our Glaston, too. It will be wonderful to watch it growing up again, won’t it? And maybe we can take part in the work ourselves.”

  They were interrupted by the porter who still kept his watch by the main gate though his quarters above it and the almonry buildings just inside it were empty skeletons of their once solid selves. He came hurrying now across the grounds to where the boys stood.

  “Two strangers are come to the abbey gate,” said he, “a knight in the habit of a Templar and a younger man with him. They asked for Hugh. Ah me, ’tis a sad thing that we have no guest house in which to lodge them!”

  The boys turned quickly in the direction of the main gate. While they were yet some distance off they spied the strangers, still mounted on their horses, just inside it. The taller of the two had a long white surcoat about him with a red cross on the left shoulder and the distinctive red hat over a white under-cap with lappets over the ears, that the Knight-Templars always wore. The man beside him was evidently an esquire or attendant.

  Dickon suddenly gave a cry of surprise and delight. “Hugh, it is Jacques de Raoul! Do you see? It is Jacques himself, and some other!”

  But Hugh made no answer. Already he had outstripped his companion and was racing on.

  The knight dismounted as he saw the boys approaching and Jacques, for it was indeed he, did likewise and then took the bridles of both horses into his own hands. The other seemed not to know what he did, but stood staring in stupefaction at the slight boy figure outrunning his companion toward him.

  “Jacques!” he whispered. “Do you see what I see? Am I dreaming or is that truly my son?”

  “Aye, Master, that is indeed thy lad.” The man’s voice was husky with emotion and he paused a moment. “’Tis thine own Hugh, no longer a cripple, but sturdy and whole and free!”

  By this time the boys were upon them. If he had stopt to think; if he had been his old shy, self-conscious, unhappy self, Hugh would have held back, repressed his joy and eagerness and waited for his father to call him, but he thought of nothing at all, nothing in the world, save that his father was there.

  “Father!” he cried. “Father!” and rushed into the knight’s arms.

  Jacques turned away with a lump in his throat. It was not fitting that he should look upon his master, warrior, and man of iron that he was, with tears coursing down his sun blackened cheeks. Dickon had turned away too, his face working with an odd mixture of a grinning welcome and emotion.

  “Well, young Dickon,” said Jacques heartily, “so we meet again. The world is not so large nor time so immeasurable, after all. I had thought our parting was a matter of eternity, that day you accompanied me upon the road to port and exile; that I would never know peace and security again, nor a durable roof over my head, and that you would never know aught else. Now I find your haven roofless and I—I ride under the open sky, ’tis true, but in the safety of pardon from His Majesty, the King, and also from his Holiness, the Pope.”

  “So that is it?” Dickon looked at him wonderingly, then glanced at the knight and Hugh who were talking in low tones, their arms still about each other. “And he, Sir Hugh de Morville, is he pardoned too?”

  “Aye, that he is,” replied Jacques. “I found my master in France and went with him to Rome, and then I followed him also to Jerusalem.”

  “Did you have many adventures?” asked Dickon eagerly. “Did you fight the Moslems and rescue the oppressed? I would give anything to go on such a pilgrimage and see strange sights and do great deeds—!”

  “Lad, you forget, this pilgrimage was in the nature of a penance, and it was no lighthearted nor easy adventure.”

  “But, anyway, it must have been wonderful fun!”

  They were interrupted by Hugh’s calling for Dickon. “This is my friend and my sworn brother,” said he, drawing his father’s hand toward the boy.

  Dickon bowed awkwardly and fidgeted with the round cap which he was holding.

  Sir Hugh put his hand on the lad’s shoulder. “The friend of my son is my friend also,” said he.

  “Father, you have not said why you have donned the Templar’s robe, or why you are here at all. I was so full of gladness to see you that I thought of naught else save that it was indeed you yourself standing inside the gate.”

  “I have indeed taken the vows as well as the garments of the ‘Poor Fellow-Soldiers of Jesus Christ,’” said Sir Hugh, turning again to his son. “It is our sacred right and duty to protect pilgrims and guide them safe to the Sepulchre of Our Lord, and to keep the Temple precincts—and indeed, all Jerusalem—safe for those who would worship there. We live a life of austerity and devoted service to that cause, and I am minded to return soon and live and die in combat for the Holy Land. But Hugh, lad, I could not stay there without seeing thee once again. I thought I had put thee from me completely, with all my old life, my home in England, my service to court and king. But I could not. Boy, I have longed for thy face as a man thirsteth in the desert for springs of water. I would see thee once again, I told myself, just the once, and then leave thee with the good monks, knowing as I doubt me thou didst not know before, that thy father loved thee.”

  No one spoke for a moment and, when the knight’s voice broke the silence, it was on a more cheerful note. “And now, boy, thou art whole and well! Thou hast not told me yet—but thou shalt—how the healing came upon thee. No matter now! Thou art no longer a weakling but hale and strong, and nigh fourteen years of age, if I mistake not! High time to be a squire and anon a knight, spurred and accoladed! Hugh, thou shalt ride with me on the morrow, as my squire-at-arms. We shall travel, a-horse and by boat, over the long, long way back to Palestine, and when thou art man grown, perchance thou too wilt be both knight and Templar.”

  A little ghost of a sigh drew Hugh’s attention from his father’s face to Dickon’s. The boy had been drinking in every word and now his expression was filled with passionate longing, and yet there was no trace of envy in it. Dickon would rejoice wholly and fully in his friend’s good fortune, but he could not keep back that little, little sigh for himself.

  Hugh’s eyes dropt. “Father,” said he, “we must see to thy comfort, and that of Jacques, though ’tis little enough we have to offer. My Lord Abbot will, perchance, ride with thee to a neighboring manor to spend the night. Here, as thou seest, we have scarce place enough to stretch out side by side on the floor of yon one small building left by the flames. Many of the brothers sleep in the shelter of the ruined walls or out under the sky these last few starry nights.”

  He moved restlessly, as if to lead the two men to the abbot, but Sir Hugh stayed him for a moment. “We too shall lie out under the sky this night, my boy, or against some fire-blackened wall. Thy father is no longer the ease-loving courtier that he used to be. A Templar, lad, lives under as strict and simple a rule as the Benedictine. But lead the way to some place where our horses may be tethered and, if they will permit us, we will eat frugally with the brothers.”

  At t
his moment the porter, who had been watching from a tactful distance, approached again, took the horses into his care and bade Hugh lead the guests to the bell-tower Chapel where Vespers were about to be said.

  After Vespers came the customary time for quiet talk and relaxation among the brothers. Hugh took his father to Abbot Robert and then to Brother John, where he lay in his corner uncomfortably strapped to the rough board splint. Both men spoke of Hugh with such high regard and with so much genuine affection that the boy reddened with pleasure. But he, himself, said very little. He seemed almost dejected, strangely enough, at the very moment when he had every cause for joy and anticipation.

  That night Hugh slept but little. His mind seethed with memories, plans, questions. Before dawn he arose from his resting place hard by Brother John on the floor of the chapel, and made his way silently between the forms of the sleeping monks, out into the open. The trampled greensward, the broken and blackened walls of the ruined conventual buildings looked fantastic rather than ugly in the half light of sunrise. Hugh looked over the vast grounds, his heart heavy within him. Glaston had given him quiet, security, peace, and loveliness at the very time in his life when he most needed them. He would always be grateful for this year and more among the brothers. Out of the ruins Glaston would be rising up again, more nobly beautiful than before. He would like to see it grow, to have some little part in the rebuilding of it. He moved thoughtfully in the direction of the grange and the apple orchards and plucked a little green nubbin of an apple from one of the low branches, noting how heavily loaded they were already with the beginnings of fruit. It would be a good apple year; Brother Guthlac would have everybody picking when autumn came, and then storing the apples in big barrels at the grange for the cellarer to call upon whenever he needed a fresh supply.

  Beyond the orchards lay fields and then the marshes began. Hugh could see Weary-All and Chalice Hill and the great conical summit of Tor rising beyond them. Chalice Spring lay in a little valley pocket beyond his view. He pictured in his mind the ancient well with the odd shelf in it where he and Dickon had stood together, wondering, after they had climbed up from the underground passage. How long and uselessly they had sought for the Holy Grail! But it had been fun—and a mighty good thing they had plumbed the mystery of those passages from beginning to end! If they had not, Brother John—Hugh shuddered and resolutely put all recollection of the fire out of his mind. He wanted to go to Beckery, had an unaccountable longing to visit Bleheris’s island again before he left Glastonbury, in all probability forever.