by Mary Burns
“I am,” Arthur said, standing taller, all his spirit shining in his clear blue eyes. He reflected on the import of the Abbot’s words. “Is there anywhere I can go, afterward, my lord Abbot, to continue my vocation?”
The Abbot looked grieved to his heart at the boy’s question. “I fear, my son, that soon there shall not be a monastery in all the kingdom that will have a wall standing to shelter a monk or a nun who wants but to worship Our Lord in peaceful contemplation—but I pray God that somehow that may not come to pass.”
The boy bent his head in acknowledgement, and then knelt down before the Abbot.
“Your blessing, my lord, to seal my vow.”
“Indeed, you shall have it, with the blessings of all the saints and kings of Glastonbury to sustain you. Be assured that as you bear the names of two of the great founders upon whom the wealth and glory and holiness of Glastonbury rest, that King and that Saint will guide and guard you in your quest.” He paused a moment, then raised his hand in blessing. “In nomine patrii, et filii, et spiritui sancti….”
When the boy rose, the Abbot motioned him to the table, and there proceeded to lay out for him what was planned, and when, and how he might be able to communicate with the Abbot once he and the blind harper commenced their journey. Arthur was quick to ask questions that were intelligent, even shrewd, but he accepted without question that the blind harper would be the one to lead them.
“You have travelled but the one time from your home to Glastonbury,” the Abbot said, “and then it was, four years ago, by straight roads and easy relation with the inns and taverns along the way. This will be a very different kind of journey, my boy, one which will take you through the dark places only the wild ones know, where”—here he paused to cross himself—“where the Old Ways of the hill folk are still practised, and their gods of fen and tree and cavern still hold sway over the hearts of men.”
“They say the harper is of Merlin’s blood, my lord,” Arthur said, and looked up, smiling faintly. “It’s what gives him sight without eyes, and knowing without speech.”
The Abbot nodded. “Aye, lad, and no doubt you’ll have need of all his skills if you are to reach Cumberland with your head and limbs still attached to your living body.” Arthur felt that the Abbot was purposely painting a gruesome picture for his instruction—that he wanted him to be vigilant and ever-watchful at every moment of this perilous journey. Well, he would prove himself worthy of this endeavour. A quest! A sacred undertaking like the knights of old! Arthur could hardly contain himself as he tried to listen to the Abbot’s instructions.
“Once you reach your father’s house,” the Abbot continued, “and the Canon and Sir William are informed, you’ll be relieved of your burden, my little brother, and the only thing more you’ll need to do is pray—for the safety of our monks and brothers here, at Glaston, and all God’s holy people who stay true to the Faith.”
“I will, Father Abbot,” Arthur said. “I will start now, and never cease.”
The sense of peril was shortly to overwhelm Arthur’s initial sense of adventure in the coming journey, by an unexpected visit to the Abbot’s chambers by Brother Anselm and Brother Thomas the Twin. Gwillem Moor and the Abbot had been in close and private conversation once or twice, to which even Arthur was not privy, and there were but a few days left before they were to leave the Abbey. This time of year, as always, a heavy mist from the water meadows rose every night to sheathe the land in grey darkness; not even the lights in St. Michael’s Chapel high on the Tor could be seen from below, but this would help screen their departure.
Arthur was busy tidying up the small dressing room adjacent to the Abbot’s chamber, while the Abbot sat at his table, reading, when he heard a knock at the door followed by its immediate opening. Some instinct of fear kept him silent and motionless behind the curtain, which was only partly drawn, but he could hear perfectly well.
“Brothers,” he heard the Abbot say. “I fear your haste in entering my room unbidden speaks of a dire purpose, some emergency in the kitchens perhaps?” Arthur had not witnessed this kind of speech from the Abbot before—it revealed the old man’s noble upbringing, affronted by the lack of courtesy.
“Your pardon, my lord.” Arthur recognized Brother Anselm’s fretful voice, although the tone was far from apologetic.
“We must speak with you, privately, on a most urgent matter,” Brother Thomas said, his voice stern. Arthur imagined his eyes sweeping over the room. “Where is that young sycophant who tends you?” Arthur took in a quick breath, appalled at the monk’s arrogant manner.
“Arthur Joseph is at chapel,” the Abbot said smoothly, and Arthur rejoiced in his quick thinking. “He should not return for some time, as I gave him a long penance for all his many sins.”
There was a breath or two of silence as the two monks took this in. Arthur wondered what they were thinking about the Abbot’s replies.
“May we sit?” Brother Anselm seemed to be taking the lead. Arthur heard the scrape of chairs on the wood floor. He noticed the Abbot did not offer them anything to drink.
“I have had little opportunity to speak with you, my lord,” Brother Anselm began, “since my return from Cambridge, and I was hoping that you might wish to hear a little of what I have lately learned there.”
“My opportunities for such activities are much circumscribed,” said the Abbot. “I seldom leave my chamber, but it is open to all to come here to me.”
Another pause. Arthur could almost feel the scholar-monk’s prickly temper peppering the room.
“It is precisely that, my lord Abbot, your being in such seclusion, that prompts my coming to you, with news of the outside world and, perhaps, if you would permit, some counsel that may be of benefit to you, and to all who dwell in Glastonbury.”
Arthur could easily picture the Abbot’s faint smile at this remark.
“The ‘outside world’, you say? And what has the outside world to tell me that I have not yet heard, or learned, or experienced?” The Abbot warmed to his subject. “Have men become more tolerant? Less violent? More charitable? All the books in our library—and indeed, the greatest Book of them all—tell us otherwise, except for that One Man who walked the earth for so short a time—after Him, we have all fallen short, and continue to do so. It is our nature.”
“These are indeed trying times—” Brother Thomas started to say, but broke off his speech, as Arthur imagined, at a curt sign from his colleague.
“It is in the nature of man to be loyal and to obey those whom God has ordained to rule over them,” Brother Anselm said.
There was a very long pause. Arthur strained his ears but could hear nothing.
“Say what you came to say, and have done with it, brothers,” the Abbot said, his voice cold but resigned.
There was a swish of robes as someone stood, Brother Thomas it seemed, based on Arthur’s sense of where his voice was coming from. He was walking around the room, pacing perhaps, back and forth before the Abbot. Arthur prayed he would not stroll over to the closet and look behind the curtain. When he spoke, it was a declamation from a pulpit.
“The great monastery at Canterbury has already given itself into the hands of the King for its betterment and reformation,” said Brother Thomas. “Westminster is on the verge of its own voluntary”—he stressed the word—“commitment to aid His Gracious Majesty in the purification of the Church in England.”
The pacing stopped. Arthur held his breath.
“We have it on very good authority that the King looks upon Glastonbury Abbey with the most charitable and paternal countenance, and wishes above all things that you, Abbot Whiting, will also voluntarily allow the Abbey to be placed under the King’s protection, with the view to saving the souls of all of its brothers and servants, not the least of whom is yourself, and conforming your practices to the newly reformed Church of our country.” Brother Thomas’s voice had risen from its somewhat temperate tone to one of stern pedagogy, a fiery preacher before a sh
ivering group of sinners.
Another long silence ensued, then Brother Anselm spoke again, a calm counterpoint to his colleague’s tirade.
“What have you to say to this, my lord Abbot?” he said. “We are obliged to relay your answer soon.”
“Answer?” said the Abbot, his voice steely and contemptuous. “Answer treachery and disloyalty? Answer arrogance and dishonesty? No, I have no answer for you.”
The scrape of a chair as Brother Anselm stood up. He began to speak but the Abbot cut him off.
“Go now,” the Abbot said, in so stern yet so broken a voice that Arthur longed to go to him. “Leave me, and do not presume to come again.”
There were quick steps to the door, then Brother Anselm spoke once more, urbane and icy.
“I cannot begin to say how much you will regret what you have said here today.”
Arthur heard the door close with a quiet thump, and after waiting a few moments to be sure they weren’t coming back, he rushed out to kneel at the Abbot’s feet.
“My lord,” he whispered, scarcely knowing what he said, “my lord, do not be distressed. They will not prevail, they cannot! I will fight them, I will make sure they will not hurt you. I swear it.”
The Abbot put his hand on the boy’s tousled hair, and kissed his brow. “Thank you, my dear,” he said. “It is in God’s hands now.”
13
Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel with smile or frown;
With that wild wheel we go not up or down;
Our hoard is little, but our hearts are great.
–Idylls of the King
Brampton, Cumberland
Tuesday Late Afternoon
The four of us stood staring at each other in the Reverend Crickley’s library, the open cabinet before us with its missing relic, not knowing what to say—or do—next. And then, so like the most transparent revolutions of Fate—and the devices of The Mysteries of Udolpho or some other such gothic-inspired novel—there came to interrupt us a knock at the library door, though it stood open, and a footman in scarlet livery with gold and white trim bowed low and addressed His Lordship.
“Beg pardon, my lord, but your cousin Mr. Howard has instructed me to give you this message, wherever you might be found,” he said, and walking into the room, bowed again before Lord Parke and handed him an envelope. As he bowed, I noticed that his old-fashioned short, dark red cloak had scattered across it, at regular intervals, repetitions of an elaborately embroidered cross of silver and white, most elegant—or was it a sword, pointed at the end, whose long guard across the grip only made it seem like a cross? Whichever it was, or both, it was a very striking emblem.
Lord Parke perused the message—it must have been brief—and nodded at the footman, who turned and went to stand by the door.
“My cousin has asked me to convey his deepest, most heartfelt condolences, Miss Paget,” he said, “and to you also, Mrs. Barnstable, on this grievous occasion.” We both nodded our thanks to His Absent Lordship-to-be, and waited for more.
“George also hopes that Miss Paget and Mr. Sargent will do him the great favor of dining with him tomorrow evening, at Naworth Castle, if it be not inconvenient.” He smiled slightly at John, and then turned to me. “I shall also be of the party, though I do not flatter myself that that is any great inducement. I assure you, however, that my cousin will be very happy to make your acquaintance.”
I was, I admit, rather flattered—not that I would show it—to be invited to dine with such nobility as the Howards, whose family tree reached several centuries into the legendary past of Great Britain, and I readily assented, after making sure, with a glance at John, that he was inclined to go as well. It also occurred to me that His Greater Lordship (so I impertinently named him, knowing he was the Earl of Carlisle in all but name only, and the death of his uncle, poor man, would rectify that before too long) might be able to shed some light on the mystery of the missing relic from Reverend Crickley’s collection.
Lord Parke smiled his approbation at our assent, then spoke again. “Unfortunately, my cousin requires my presence at Naworth, so I must take my leave of you for the time being.” He turned to John and bowed. “Mr. Sargent,” he said, “if you would be so good as to allow me to relinquish my care of Miss Paget into your hands? I have instructed my driver to attend both of you with the barouche for the entirety of your stay.” John inclined his head in a short bow.
“My lord, I can allow you to do no such thing—” I started to say, but he politely cut me off.
“It is done, madam,” he said. “The inn is too far for walking, especially with luggage to transport. My footman is used to staying in town, and my cousin has sent his carriage to take me to Naworth, so you see, all is settled.”
He drew near to me again, and taking my hand, kissed the back of it, bowing as he did so.
“Miss Paget, until we meet again,” he said. He left the room quickly, after a short bow to Mrs. Barnstable, who then curtsied to both me and John, and followed His Lordship out of the room, closing the door behind her.
At last, John and I were left to ourselves.
I sank into the chair by the fireplace that Mrs. Barnstable had recently quitted. John, restless, paced about the room, looking now out the window, now at the floor at the bottom of the stair.
“I must admit to feeling a bit overwhelmed, Scamps,” I said, watching my friend as he strode here and there in the library. His movements made me feel restless as well. “I say, are you looking for anything in particular? Cannot you come and sit here with me for a few moments? I need to sort things through.”
He stopped at this, hands in his pockets, and looked at me with a rueful expression. He came and sat in the chair opposite to mine.
“I do beg your pardon, dear Vi,” he said. “This is all just so, so…I’m sorry, I haven’t the words to express myself.” He smiled softly at me. “You’re the one with the words—you go first.”
“All right,” I said, and sat in thoughtful silence for a few moments, gathering my forces. “What is the first odd thing that strikes us?” John merely smiled and waited, assuming I would answer my own question. “Right. Uncle Chaffee sends me a strange book and note with a riddling poem, ending with an indication that he may be expecting that ‘something will happen to him’, which, as we now know, was a reasonable expectation.” I tapped my fingers against my lips.
“The book , he says,” I continued, “I must be careful to guard well.”
John nodded.
“Second,” I said, “Uncle Chaffee dies, seemingly by accident, and yet the town coroner—a friend of his—has his doubts. Also, what I haven’t had a chance to mention to you, the obligingly chatty maid servant in my hotel room—courtesy of His Lordship I have no doubt—tells me that the gossip around town is that it’s ‘murther’.”
I shook my head, thought a moment, and added, “She also indicated that Lord Parke often stays ‘in town’, at the Brampton Arms, when he visits his cousin, as yon castle is—and I quote—‘a girt lonely place’ for a young man like His Lordship.”
John raised an expressive eyebrow at this, but still said nothing.
“Third,” I continued. “Uncle Chaffee says to trust no one. All right, let’s list the ‘no ones’ we are not to trust.” I counted them on the fingers of my left hand. “Leaving out secondary persons, we have Lord Parke, Mr. Gravely, Mr. Wattendall, and Mrs. Barnstable.” I looked at John.
“I wouldn’t necessarily leave out Lord Parke’s cousin George,” he said, “though unknown to us at the moment.”
“Oh, yes, right. Good thought. So, let me hear your thoughts about any of those people,” I said.
John got a very concentrated look on his face. “As far as Lord Parke is concerned, I wanted to ask you—what did you think of his reaction to Mr. Gravely and the autopsy?”
“Oh, quite! A very good question, and I meant to bring that up,” I said. I mused a moment, thinking back a few hours. “His response to the autopsy coul
d have been one of two things—genuine indignation at what he felt was an unauthorized and indelicate intrusion, or genuine unease that some truth or evidence would be found out about Uncle Chaffee’s death that for whatever reason His Lordship wouldn’t want known.”
“And which do you think it was?” John asked.
I shook my head. “I really cannot say at this point—His Lordship’s stock has been fluctuating a bit in my valuation,” I said, thinking of his haughtiness and preemptory manner, and then his giving me his handkerchief, and kissing my hand. “I need to collect more evidence.” I looked narrowly at my friend. “What is your own opinion?”
“He seems to me a very polished yet earnest sort of man,” John said. “I’m inclined to trust him—to like him, even. But I think there’s something he knows—or suspects perhaps—that he has not imparted to us. Although why he should so impart anything is a question that bears asking. He doesn’t know us, so why should he trust us any more than we are inclined to trust him?”
I nodded. “All right, then—Mr. Gravely?”
“I like him,” John said promptly, and I nodded again.
“Yes,” I said, “I felt an immediate solidity and straightforwardness about the man—he brooks no nonsense—and of course, I liked immensely the way he stood up to His Lordship.”
“Mr. Wattendall?” John said.
I laughed. “No attorney is to be trusted,” I said. “But that of course is my continental cynicism rearing its jaded head. More to the point,” I continued, “Mr. Wattendall seems by nature prudish and self-important, but by profession discreet and dependable. However, we will have more to do with him in the days to come, so we may observe more closely.”
“And Mrs. Barnstable?”