by Mary Burns
“Sir, we have found a treasure,” he said, his eyes gleaming. In his hand was a chalice of worked gold, with precious gems set in the base and on the sides. The Abbot recognized it as one reputed to have been used by blessed Saint Patrick himself—and one which he himself had hidden behind a false wall in the refectory. His shoulders sank in grief, and he stumbled toward the window seat, where he sat down heavily. It was over; they had been seen, and all but the small treasures that were carrying to the North would fall to the King’s hand.
Layton loomed over him in triumph. “And there will be more, I’m sure of that!” he said, and turned to the man at the door. “Show me,” he said, and left the Abbot without another word.
“God have mercy on their souls,” the Abbot whispered. “God have mercy on us all.” He prayed for young Arthur Joseph and Gwillem Moor, and prayed again, most intensely, for their safety and the success of their journey. Do not forsake your children, Lord, who cry to Thee!
Three days later, Layton and his men rode out again through the Abbey gate, two cartloads of spoils tied down under canvas wrapping. The Abbot watched them depart, his heart heavy with grief, and yet the thought of Arthur and Gwillem Moor made room for a little cheer. He tried to strengthen his failing spirit with the words of the Psalmist, from the day’s readings:
The sword of the wicked is drawn,
His bow is bent to slaughter the upright.
Their sword shall pierce their own hearts
And their bows shall be broken to pieces.
The just man’s few possessions
Are better than the wicked man’s wealth;
For the power of the wicked shall be broken
And the Lord will support the just.
Even as he contemplated this wisdom, he felt his hope fading that it would prove to be effective in this world.
Accounting List of Sir John Williams
Keeper of the Royal Treasure-House
Received from Glastonbury Abbey
Anno Domini MDXXXIX
193 ounces gold
1,600 ounces gilt plate
10,700 ounces parcel gilt and silver plate
Two collets of gold wherein standeth two
coarse emeralds
One cross of silver gilt, garnished with a great coarse emerald, two balaces and two sapphires, lacking a knob at one of the ends of the same cross
Superaltar garnished with silver gilt and part gold, called the ‘great sapphire of Glastonbury’
A great piece of unicorn’s horn
A piece of mother of pearl like a shell
Eight branches of coral
19
“Be thou the king, and we will work thy will
Who love thee.” Then the King in low deep tones,
And simple words of great authority,
Bound them by so strait vows to his own self,
That when they rose, knighted from kneeling, some
Were pale as at the passing of a ghost,
Some flushed, and others dazed, as one who wakes
Half-blinded at the coming of a light.
–Idylls of the King
Brampton, Cumberland
Tuesday Night
I confess that i was hard put to keep my vow of reading through Uncle Chaffee’s book that very night before I went to sleep—the events of the exceedingly long day, combined with the wine at dinner and the lateness of the hour when I finally returned to my room caused me to fairly stumble into bed almost the instant John left me alone. He had insisted on coming into the suite in order to ascertain if further outrage had been committed upon my belongings—it hadn’t—and that no black-eyed murderer was hiding in the wardrobe—there was no one in the room.
Not even Annie, it occurred to me as I pulled off my clothing unassisted. I glanced at the fireplace and saw that the girl had not, as promised, made up the fire against my return. Luckily, it was a warm evening and I was comfortable enough as far as mere temperature went. A sudden thought caused my face to flame—perhaps His Lordship had requested her presence as well as little Maisie’s. Dear me. How should I ever see him again with any equanimity? I felt sure my knowledge of his dalliances among the maidens of Brampton would show in my face, if not my manner.
But then I recalled—Lord Parke had said his cousin required his presence at Naworth Castle, so perhaps he wasn’t dallying after all—or possibly, my jaded mind suggested, his cousin’s carriage and steeds were being put to for journeys to and fro this evening? After all, the castle, as I understood it, was a mere three miles or so outside of Brampton. Angry at someone—myself or His Lordship, I wasn’t quite sure—I dismissed the subject from my mind as unworthy on a number of grounds I didn’t want to inquire into any further.
I settled myself against the pillows on the bed, and opened The Abbey of Glaston, intent upon paging through it and discerning its secrets. As I perused the table of contents, I decided that I should look more closely into the “Relicks” section, given the prominence of those items in the current situation. With great care I turned to the opening page of that chapter, and began to read.
There is of course a great deal of skepticism about the veracity of many, if not all, of the known relicks of ancient and holy persons, reknowned in the early history of the Roman Church, that were venerated throughout all of Christendom, but particularly in the great monasteries and abbeys of England, Scotland, Ireland and Wales. At Canterbury and Westminster and Glastonbury, in special, a large number of the relicks were in dispute even up to the time of the Dissolution of the Monasteries under King Henry VIII, as executed by his deputies—called Visitors, after the numerous ‘visitations’ made upon the religious houses. These Visitations were purportedly to ascertain the monks’ manner of living and keeping their vows in chastity and poverty—wherewith the Visitors holped them to keep the latter vow by relieving the monks and abbots of a great deal of silver plate, gold altar furnishings, and other treasures, so to adorn the king’s houses, and thereby save the souls of the monks from hypocrisy, and indulgence in the dross of this world.
The subtly sardonic point of view of the Reverend Chaffee who wrote this book reminded me of my own Uncle Chaffee’s style and wit, and I felt a kindred spirit speak to me from the fragile pages. I continued reading.
The bones of the great St. Patrick of Ireland, for instance, were said to be variously entombed at Glastonbury, and at Canterbury, and at three or four other places in Ireland itself—and not simply a finger or another fragment, but the corpus totus, clothed in the bishop’s robes he was buried in. But later, after the Dissolution, all such things were dispersed throughout the land, some to find a safe haven with the remnants of Roman Catholics, particularly in the north counties, some to be destroyed and discarded by the ignorant, enflamed populace, as wicked items of popish idolatry.
The handsome clock above the fireplace struck eleven chimes, and at the same moment, I thought I heard a knocking at the outer door of my suite. I waited, and surely enough, it resumed. What on earth was going on in this hotel? I had enjoyed better slumber on the train from London!
I rose, threw my wrapper about me, and marched to the door. Caution demanded that I open it just a crack, and there in the hallway, lighted by the dim gas lamps in the corridor, was a woman whom I instantly remembered as the hotel’s concierge, from seeing her busy at her desk when we arrived. I opened the door wider to address this respectable person, who immediately spoke in a low voice, apologizing for the intrusion.
“Pray excuse me, Miss Paget, for this untimely interruption of your sleep,” she said. I saw that her eyes were glancing into the room. “I had hoped…that is, I was wondering...” She stopped mid-phrase and furrowed her brow, obviously worried.
“Please step inside, …” I didn’t know her name, but she supplied it.
“Mrs. Brownley,” she said, and came further into the room.
“What is it I can do for you, Mrs
. Brownley?” I said, a distinct foreboding tightening my insides.
“It’s our girl, Annie, Miss Paget,” she said. “I was hoping she was, somehow, still up here with you, tending the fire or helping with your toilette.” She looked around the room and sighed. “But I see that is not the case.”
“Yes,” I said. “I had rather expected to see her when I returned from dinner—she had told me, earlier, that she would be here to help me and make up the fire.” We both stared at the cold grate, helplessly, and I felt ill as I considered the worst possibility.
“It’s just that she was due at home an hour ago,” Mrs. Brownley continued, “and her mother sent word asking after her.” She appeared to be suddenly reminded of her position, and that she was addressing a hotel guest. “But that’s not to trouble you anymore, Miss Paget,” she said, moving to leave. “I am so very sorry to disturb you at this time of night, and very sorry that Annie was not here to attend you as she was supposed to do. I’m sure Annie has showed up at home by now, and all is well.”
I wasn’t so sure. But I kept silent, not wanting to distress her further with idle speculation—and also not wanting to believe it myself. I nodded to Mrs. Brownley, and requested that I be informed immediately—no matter the time—if Annie turned up anywhere. I believe she caught the strength of my fear, and gave me such a look! But she left the room without another word.
I went and sat down on the sofa, thinking hard. If Annie had caught a glimpse of my intruder in the hallway—and the intruder had stayed around to notice that she had seen him—perhaps that was sufficient motive to ensure the girl wouldn’t somehow give him away.
Oh, poor Annie! I was miserable at the thought that she may have suffered injury—possibly death!—just for having been an innocent bystander.
Sleep was impossible now, as was continuing to read that blasted book and try to make sense of it. I had to get to John and discuss this new turn of events—perhaps there was something we could think of, to help find Annie.
John’s room was on the same floor as mine, just down the hall, so throwing caution to the winds, I wrapped myself up in my long day-coat, put on stockings and shoes, and slipped out the door. There seemed little chance that anyone would see me, but I had to stifle a momentary burst of hysterical giggling when I thought how the gossips of Brampton would interpret this late-night visit!
I knocked softly on John’s door and waited. Hearing nothing, I knocked again, more firmly, and called his name in a low voice. Still nothing. As I stood there nonplussed, I heard someone coming and felt myself growing red with the anticipated embarrassment I was about to experience. From around the far corner came a young lad—a bootblack—collecting shoes left at the room doors for cleaning and polishing overnight. He gave me a sly but merry look as he came closer, his sack heavy with boots and shoes. He glanced at the room number on John’s door.
“Beg pardin, Muss,” he said, his north country accent very thick. “Thy yong mun be out abot town, Muss.”
“I beg your pardon,” I said, looking at him with what I hoped was grandeur mixed with haughtiness. “He’s not my young man, he’s my friend—and how do you know anything about him?”
The boy grinned. “I knows ev’y mun, aye and wummun too, ’as rooms here, Muss,” he said. “Yon furner, as is artist, ’e give me tuppence to ’elp carry paints out, for to draw.”
Ah! John was out doing some sketching—but at night? Well, who was I to quibble with an artist’s inspiration. But it was very bad timing, given the urgency of Annie’s disappearance.
“What’s your name, my fine young lad?” I said.
“Arfer, Muss,” he said, doffing his cap with a wink. “But um friends as call me Dodger.”
“I’ll tell you what, Dodger,” I said. “If you can go out and find Mr. Sargent and tell him to come back here immediately, there’ll be another tuppence for you at the end of it.”
“Gor!” said the boy, grinning even more widely. He nearly dropped the bag of boots on the floor in his haste to run off, but instead stuffed it under a table in an alcove in the hallway. “Yes, Muss, I be findin yon gent, and brung ’em back, right off!”
I returned to my room to ponder the situation, and wait for John.
20
But when he spake and cheered his Table Round
With large, divine, and comfortable words,
Beyond my tongue to tell thee—I beheld
From eye to eye through all their Order flash
A momentary likeness of the King.
–Idylls of the King
12 July 1539
On the Way to Cumberland
Feast of St. Veronica
The longest days of the year unfolded as the travellers headed north and west to the high, rock-rimmed lakes of Cumberland. Gwillem Moor had judged it safe to travel by day as well as night, and the two slept a few hours here and there, when the road was too rough to tread in darkness, even for the donkey. But the nights were short and star-filled as the moon waned, and Arthur rejoiced again and again in the beauty that filled the land, and the holy quest that filled his heart with courage and devotion.
“It won’t be long now ’til we’ll be at home,” he said to the blind harper late one evening as they sat along the edge of a deep-blue lake. The sun was not done setting, and streaks of orange and pale green were splashed against a few clouds floating in the pale sky. Gwillem Moor sat with his harp in his hands—he had not played it out in the open during their journey, knowing full well how the sound travelled in the still air of large spaces. But here, so high above all mortal men and their dwellings, he could not resist the longing to play and sing.
“Will we go straight to Lanercost, then?” Arthur asked. “Do you think it will be safe? Or should we go to my father’s house?” When Gwillem did not answer, Arthur took it as a sign to stop asking questions, and just leaned back against a smooth rock as the bard took up his harp and strummed it softly, his left hand high for the higher notes, his right hand near the base to pluck the low-voiced strings.
A voice from time departed,
Yet floats thy hills among;
Oh, Cambria! thus the prophet bard,
Thy Taliesin sung.
The path of unborn ages,
Is traced upon my soul,
The clouds which mantle things unseen
Away before me roll.
A light the depths revealing,
Hath o’er my spirit pass’d.
A rushing sound from days to be,
Swells fitful on the blast
And tells me that forever
Shall live the lofty tongue,
To which the harp of Mona’s words,
By Freedom’s hand was strung.
The music, like magic, sent Arthur to sleep, leaving the bard alone in silence to commune with the spirits of the place, and draw strength to continue their journey through to its end. For him, he knew, it would take his life, and this he accepted as his fate and his glory. The Sight of his blind eyes also showed him Arthur’s path, and he was satisfied that the boy was worthy of the task set for him, though the cost for him too would be heavy. But none of this would he impart to Arthur, knowing full well that seeing what is to come is a crushing burden with little recompense, a sacred trust lightened only by the music, which he was blessed to dwell within.
21
So great bards of him will sing
Hereafter; and dark sayings from of old
Ranging and ringing through the minds of men,
And echoed by old folk beside their fires
For comfort after their wage-work is done,
Speak of the King.
–Idylls of the King
Brampton, Cumberland
Late Tuesday Night
My own artful Dodger was true to his word, and brought John up to my room, a little out of breath and anxious from the urgency of the message. Dodger claimed his tuppence, and happily returned to his nightly labors at the hotel, especially
as I gave him an extra penny to “keep his eyes open” for any person skulking about the halls who didn’t belong there—and also to come report to me the instant he might hear anything of Annie.
I quickly related to John the troubling disappearance of Annie, and my thoughts about her possibly being the victim of our trespasser and maybe murderer. I watched my friend as he paced around the room—I was seated again on the sofa—and he played absent-mindedly with a charcoal stick still in his hand from when the Dodger had found him in a pub in Brampton, sketching the locals and graciously handing over the results to the amazed villagers.
“How could someone spirit this girl away from the hotel?” he said after a period of deep thought. “There are plenty of people about to notice, or who would hear her, um, scream or whatever, right? And besides, she said she would return to your room to assist you, and no chambermaid throws over a good paying customer—and a friend of Lord Parke’s at that!—very easily. I mean, she wouldn’t have been just walking about outside, vulnerable to attack, now would she?”
I thought through his questions, and uneasily decided to propose an alternative.
“There is another possibility,” I said slowly. “I hadn’t mentioned it before, as not being relevant, but the other chambermaid, Maisie, told me something.” I stopped, really disliking the whole idea of gossiping about His Lordship.
“Told you what?” John said, looking both curious and wary.
There was nothing for it, I had to tell the tale.
“Maisie said that some of the girls hereabouts are, well, requested by His…by Lord Parke, from time to time,” I said, trying not to blush, and looking anywhere but at John. “Annie declared to me, quite openly, how they all were particularly happy to be chosen, only His Lordship was rather discriminating in his choices, and also, the owner of the hotel didn’t quite like the chambermaids going off like that, as Annie said, otherwise she would do it more often.”