The Spoils of Avalon

by Mary Burns

  Her eyes widened, and she nodded quickly. “You mean old vicar found dead in’s cottage, Miss? Dreatful thing, that.”

  As I expected, the town gossips had got hold of this news quickly.

  “Yes, that’s who I mean,” I said. “What are people saying about his death?”

  “Oh, Miss,” Maisie said darkly, lowering her voice. “There’s some say as hit’s murther, Miss—” her accent thickened with her excitement— “as old mun us sure-footed us goat, and tumble downstairs be no girt thing t’kill a mun.”

  An elegant gilt clock on the mantelpiece struck the half hour, and I started—His Lordship would, I imagined, be severe if I were late. I dismissed Maisie, thanking her again, and promised myself another chat with the girl to see what else the townspeople had to say about this matter.

  Lord Parke seemed to have recovered his good manners and his equanimity, and was all polite attentiveness to me as we sat down to dine. I had been the last to arrive in the dining room, and had interrupted what appeared to be a lively conversation between John and His Lordship. I begged them to continue while I settled myself. I found my body had begun insisting it be fed, and I was glad enough to tuck into the delicious creamed fish and pasty pies the hotel’s excellent kitchen provided for its guests—or perhaps it was His Lordship’s presence that brought out the best of the best.

  “As I was saying,” Lord Parke continued, “I have indeed admired monsieur Carolus Duran’s portraits for some time, particularly the one of his lovely wife, which placed highly at the Salon a few years ago.”

  I looked up from the menu—Carolus Duran was the maître d’atelier where John was pursuing his training in oils. Yet another side to His Lordship.

  “I have learned so much from him,” John said, all aglow as he always was when he talked about art and painting. “I’m thinking of painting his portrait—as a kind of tribute, you see.”

  “Have you entered anything at the Salon yet?” Lord Parke asked, his attention entirely drawn away from the delicious food on his plate.

  “I had a painting this year, yes, that was accepted—a portrait of a dear friend, Fanny Watts—you remember Fanny, don’t you, Violet?” John said, turning to me. Dear Scamps, he was so modest, turning the subject that way.

  “Of course,” I said promptly. “It’s been some time since I’ve seen her and her family, but I have delightful memories of all of us playing in the broken, desolate and filthy avenues of Rome as children.” I looked over at Lord Parke, and decided to speak of John as he deserved.

  “That portrait was Mr. Sargent’s first entry to the Salon and, as you heard, it was accepted right off! Quite an honor, and we are all very proud of our great artist. And not only that,” I continued despite John’s murmurs of protest, “he placed second in the examinations at L’Ecole des Beaux Arts this past Spring—an unprecedented achievement for a so-called ‘American’ art student in Paris.”

  Lord Parke lifted his wine glass in John’s direction, and made a gracious toast to more successes and to great art. John blushed becomingly, and hindered as he often was by an inability to find the words he wanted, he fell silent, although a fond glance at me told me he was pleased. Then a sudden mischievous gleam entered his eye, and turning to Lord Parke, he said, “I say, Lord Parke, have you by any chance heard of a new, celebrated young writer? One Vernon Lee by name?”

  Lord Parke shook his head, looking a little curious at the abrupt change in subject. I felt myself coloring.

  “Oh, but you must have seen the last issue of The New Quarterly,” John pursued, refusing to see my grimaces in his direction. “There was a short piece, something about Musical Expression and such, in the Eighteenth Century.”

  “Do you know,” said Lord Parke, musing on it, “I believe I do recall an article with that title—it focused on the Italian composers, did it not?” He glanced at me and—perceptive man!—caught my slightly embarrassed look, then turned back to John. His smile was quite charming as he said, “I venture to guess that the estimable Mr. Vernon Lee might possibly be lunching with us today?”

  This made us laugh, and I acquiesced with as good a grace as I could muster.

  “But why, Miss Paget,” he exclaimed, “why do you not publish under your own name? Surely you must feel you deserve the credit of your exertions! It was, I recall, a very interesting article.”

  “Oh,” I said, airily, “I’m quite content that ‘Vernon Lee’ should not be known to be myself or any other young woman, for that matter, as I am sure that no one reads a woman’s writing on art, history or aesthetics with anything but unmitigated contempt.”

  Lord Parke protested mightily against this insult to humanity’s intelligence, and we had quite a lively conversation during the rest of the meal.

  Our plates were cleared away, and we had just been served dessert—a lovely cream confection—when I decided to broach a dire subject that I felt would bring renewed objections on His Lordship’s part, but I wanted to have the upper hand, so started up before anyone else could speak.

  “If I recall correctly,” I began, looking at John, “Uncle Chaffee’s cottage is but a ten minute’s walk from here.” I consulted my timepiece, which depended from a ribbon pinned to the front of my dress jacket. It was a present from my brother, recently bestowed in honor of this very journey, my first unaccompanied travel adventure. “It’s nearly three now, and although in these northern latitudes, at this time of year, the sun will be up for some hours yet, I’d very much like to see the cottage while there’s still sufficient daylight.”

  Lord Parke looked as if he wanted to protest, but I believe he truly couldn’t find anything to say. After a moment’s struggle, during which John assured me he was happy to accompany me, His Lordship spoke up with a good grace.

  “I would be honored if you would allow me to show you the way to the cottage, and to accompany you inside as well.” He consulted his own watch, which was extracted from his waistcoat pocket with a subtle gleam of gold and, I thought, a flash of rubies. Apparently my announcement of the time wasn’t accurate enough.

  “Mr. Crickley’s solicitor,” Lord Parke continued, “who also helps my cousin with local affairs from time to time, a Mr. Wattendall, should be in his office now. Perhaps we might take a short detour there in order to determine if our presence in the cottage would be in any way … inappropriate.” It seemed to me that he not only hoped that would be the case, but believed it.

  I rapidly scanned over this idea—after all, I wasn’t a blood relative, and it might be the case that consulting with the attorney first would be helpful—although my previous experiences with legal professionals frequently proved to be just the opposite.

  “Excellent idea,” I said, and rose from the table. “Shall we depart, then?”

  I realized I was hoping that our visit to this lawyer’s chambers might bring some clarification, somehow, of my departed friend’s note and the book he had sent to me, but I was completely unprepared for the extent of the matters regarding Uncle Chaffee’s estate that we were to learn there.

  8

  A goblet on the board by Balin, bossed

  With holy Joseph’s legend, on his right

  Stood, all of massiest bronze: one side had sea

  And ship and sail and angels blowing on it:

  And one was rough with wattling, and the walls

  Of that low church he built at Glastonbury.

  –Idylls of the King

   7 May 1539 

  Glastonbury Abbey

  Feast of St. Liudhard of Canterbury

  “My gracious Lord and King, I close this letter in the hope of being forgiven for my inability to attend the call to Parliament, which my lengthened years and failing health dictate as a necessity, to deprive me of that which I beforetimes called a blessing, of waiting upon my Lord, your most humble and devoted servant, Richard Whiting, Abbot of Glaston.”

  The Abbot watched as Arthur took down his words, looking fondly at the young novic
e. His heart had warmed to the boy, but in the privacy of his own thoughts, he was deeply doubtful that he had done well by him, bringing him into the holy conspiracy, as he’d once heard Arthur refer to it. He salved his conscience by calling it the mysterious will of the Lord, but he had felt much anguish when he thought about the wrath of Henry and Cromwell, should their subterfuge be discovered. But there was also a joy in being able to trust Arthur’s clear-sightedness and courage—and something more, a sense of honor, an aura of purity, like Parsifal or Galahad of the legends. The boy’s very youthfulness was a grace, and his keen mind often pierced the fog that seemed to envelop the Abbot these latter days.

  Arthur was looking at him intently, his pen in hand.

  “Will it not be considered an affront to the King, my lord Abbot, to absent yourself from the Parliament?”

  The Abbot smiled—clever lad. “Yes, my son,” he said. “It is even so, should he choose to take it that way—” he shook his head sadly—“and if the King is not inclined to think it, Cromwell will be close by to suggest it to him.”

  With a grunt, the Abbot pulled himself out of his massive chair, both hands on the rounded arms, and stood for a moment, finding his balance and feeling sore in hip and ankle. “But stay or go,” he said, “it is all the same. Henry—and that churl Cromwell—will have what they want, and they want Glastonbury.”

  Arthur frowned, put down his pen, and walked over to help the Abbot to the bed.

  The midnight journeys through damp underground passages had continued, and the Abbot had insisted once or twice on accompanying them. It had taken a toll on the old man’s failing body, but it had also eased his mind as to the disposition of the sacred wealth of the monastery.

  But Arthur chafed at what seemed to him to be delay—the expectation of imminent dissolution, that final, fatal Visit by Cromwell’s officers, which seemed to be always awaited and always delayed as if they were being toyed with. It was folly to wish it to happen sooner than later and yet, Arthur thought, it was inevitable, wasn’t it? Couldn’t they just strike and get it over with? Maybe there would be a battle, maybe the monks would rise up and fight…! He chided himself for these unseemly thoughts—unseemly for a monk, at any rate. It occurred to him for the first time, coming as a shock, that his future as a monk was rather a large question at present.

  The Abbot was speaking, and Arthur caught his words mid-sentence. “… how to hide away the large, starburst monstrance,” he was saying, “the one that is used in procession on all the chief holidays, with both the host and the precious sliver of the wood of the True Cross in it?” Arthur nodded, and flung aside the bed covers to help the Abbot to his rest. The old man continued in a half-mumble, more talking to himself than to Arthur. “It would be too noticeable if it were missing. Perhaps after Pentecost—the next major holy day won’t arrive until the autumn, and by then, it might very well be all over—for the Abbey, and for us as well.” His eyes began to close as he muttered a little more, unintelligible to the boy. Arthur drew the covers over him and walked back to the table where he had been scribing the Abbot’s letter.

  There his eye fell upon a royal missive, which he had seen the Abbot perusing and sighing over. With a quick glance that assured him the Abbot was sound asleep, he picked it up. It was dated from late in December, and was from Henry’s chief Visitor Richard Layton—“His majesty intendeth not in any wise to trouble you or to desire for the suppression of any house that standeth, except they shall either desire of themselves with one whole consent to resign and forsake the same, or else misuse themselves contrary to their allegiance.” This last phrase was troubling—anyone with a bit of brain knew how easily charges of actions “contrary to their allegiance” could be—and had been already—brought against those whom the king’s pleasure wanted to bring down.

  He read the next sentence, which stated clearly what would happen to those who crossed the king’s desire—“They shall lose more than their houses and possessions, that is, the loss also of their lives.” The threat was chilling, and Arthur dropped the letter on the desk, his heart pounding.

  He remembered a less intimidating Richard Layton, who had visited the Abbey four years ago, before all these troubles, just as Arthur was beginning his novitiate. The man, known for his love of antiquities and especially, ancient manuscripts and learning, had been overwhelmed by the treasures of the Abbey Library—had literally stopped in awe once he entered the reading room—and marvelled at the collection that included works of all the major saints and scholars of the Church: Augustine, Jerome, Gregory, Bernard, Anselm, Athanasius, Abelard and Hugh of St. Victor, as well as numerous histories, mathematical and astronomical works, and medical texts of the ancients. So many books—so much precious knowledge and inspiration. Arthur had been assigned to fetch and carry for Layton, and had caught from him the scholar’s enthusiasm for ancient and sacred knowledge, as the man cordially expounded upon the various books he was reading to the intelligent young boy.

  A knock at the chamber door interrupted his thoughts. He swiftly moved to the door and opening it, put a finger to his lips and stepped outside the room.

  “Praise be to God, brother,” he said to the man standing there.

  It was the Abbey’s singing man and choirmaster for the Lady Chapel, James Renynger.

  “I have a message for my lord Abbot,” he said, bowing slightly. “Master Gwillem Moor, the harper, arrived this morning. He said he wanted to know of it.” Renynger, for all his musical ability, was a man of few words, and those words seemed often abrupt and rough. He was not a monk of the Abbey, but a dedicated lay person whom the Abbot had hired but three years previous.

  “I will tell the Abbot,” Arthur said. He had seen Harper Gwillem Moor on occasion—the Abbot allowed him to entertain the brethren from time to time with folk songs and such. He nodded to Renynger. “The Abbot is just taking some much needed rest, but I am sure he will be able to see Gwillem Moor in an hour or so.”

  “Yes, brother,” said Renynger, and made to step away, but hesitated.

  “Yes? What is it?” Arthur said.

  The singing man fastened troubled eyes on Arthur’s face; he seemed reluctant to speak. Arthur felt a little knot of worry begin to tighten in his chest, but he held his tongue and tried to look calm.

  “It’s only, brother, I am concerned…for your health,” Renynger said.

  Arthur felt the knot in his chest tighten.

  “My health, as all my self and soul, is in the Lord’s hands,” he said, keeping his voice steady, though his heart beat fast.

  “Of course, brother,” said Renynger. He continued to look intently at the boy, then turned his face away, saying at the same time, “but we all must needs avoid the damp night air, even now, with summer coming.” He swallowed hard, and added, “I will go to the blind harper now.” And with that he turned and made his way down the staircase.

  Arthur moved not, nor scarcely breathed. What could it mean other than that he—and John and Roger, maybe the Abbot, too—had been seen on one or more of their night journeys? If seen, by whom? If only by Renynger, perhaps he could be trusted? He was the Abbot’s man. If by others, and Renynger had, perhaps, heard talk of it, then they were doomed. The sacred things, the books, the relics—were doomed as well.

  He thought rapidly, and his thoughts stirred his body to motion. He would have to think, and think hard, while the Abbot was sleeping. The old man’s mind, God keep him, seemed to be failing, and Arthur had a strong presentiment that it might fall to him to finish the work they had begun.

  There was much to be done in a very short time.

  9

  Rain, rain, and sun! a rainbow on the lea!

  And truth is this to me, and that to thee;

  And truth or clothed or naked let it be.

  –Idylls of the King

   Brampton, Cumberland 

  Tuesday Mid-Day

  Mr. Wattendall was promptly at the service of His Lordship, and His Lordship
’s companions, and we were ushered in to the lawyer’s private office with all due courtesy. He seemed, as first impressions went, a sensible man, quiet and mannerly, clean-shaven, tall and thin, though rather younger than I had expected for some reason, to be a family retainer. He heard my name with a significant increase of attention.

  “Ah, indeed, Miss Violet Paget, you are most welcome, and I hasten to add, please accept my sincere condolences upon the untimely death of your dear friend and ours, Reverend Crickley,” said Mr. Wattendall, attending me to a large chair set directly in front of his desk. As he bent over to assist me, I smelled a faint anise flavor, underlain by tobacco. A secret partaker of the wicked weed, I thought, with some amusement. If only people realized how very little such things as licorice pastilles covered up such vices! I thanked him for his attentions, and he smiled and nodded in a simpering, nervous sort of manner.

  John and Lord Parke seated themselves on either side of me, and Mr. Wattendall, having assured himself of Lord Parke’s being comfortably situated, retreated behind his desk. I looked around the room, and saw John doing the same, his eyes scanning all the surfaces, watching how the light from the high windows played across fabrics, wood grain, furniture. We had often talked about the differences between how an artist observes things and how a writer, like myself, sees the world. Other than the usual sets of law books on the shelves, and what looked like a brass rubbing of a gravestone inscription over which hovered a distorted angel, framed, on the wall, there was only a curious objet d’art of some sort, possibly ivory or pale wood, mounted in a gold frame on a short marble pedestal and covered with a glass bell, set in a small alcove in a corner. Mr. Wattendall’s desk was clear of papers with the exception of a small, neatly aligned stack squarely in front of him, and an ink pot and pen in a wooden tray. With so little upon which to form a judgement, I deduced nothing more than that Mr. Wattendall was neat, proper and perhaps a touch obsessive.