by Mary Burns
He began what was likely a long and tortured speech of acceptance but I rose and cut him off with a smile. “Yes, very well, of course,” I said, not with much meaning but mostly to my purpose of sending him on his way. “John, I shall join you two in the library in short order.”
I waited until the gentlemen departed for the library, then went to find Mrs. Barnstable. She was standing in the middle of the pantry, her back to me, her arms full of produce, and her head bent. She was weeping, silently, but I could see her shoulders shaking with the effort to hold back. I had made no noise as I entered, the door being opened, and her sorrow struck me poignantly. Luckily, I was able to retreat without detection, and went back to the kitchen, feeling sad, but also troubled.
The maid Delia just then entered from the servants’ stairwell, dustcloth and feather duster in her hands.
“Oh, Delia,” I said, instantly recalling my intention to speak to her, “have you a moment, my dear?”
“Of course, Miss Paget,” she said, smiling and looking around the kitchen. “Is Mrs. Barnstable about?”
“She’s in the pantry,” I said, and inspired by a glance out the window, I continued, “would you like to take me for a brief tour of the gardens in the back? I have some things I’d like to discuss with you in private.”
In a clear state of wonderment, Delia placed her cleaning implements in a kitchen drawer and walked out with me to the back garden.
26
“Thou hast ever spoken truth;
Thy too fierce manhood would not let thee lie.
Rise, my true knight. As children learn, be thou
Wiser for falling! walk with me, and move
To music with thine Order and the King.”
–Idylls of the King
23 July 1539
Naworth Farm
Feast of St. Bridget
“We shall go to his lordship then, and consult with him about what is to be done.”
Wil Crooklay spoke with a heavy finality, but all realized it was their only option. Their lord, William Thomas Dacre, had been arraigned for treason four years earlier—for signing of a letter, along with other nobles of the North, sent to the Pope to relay the dire effects that were visiting upon the Church in England and Wales because His Holiness would not grant the King’s request for a divorce from Catherine of Aragon. He was, however, judged not guilty, due partly to the eminence of his heroic father, as well as to his own courage and service to the king. He had since then stayed fast in the north, at Naworth Castle.
“He didnae join in the Pilgrimage of Grace,” Gweneth said, scowling. “All the men of the North had some part in’t, but not he.” The four adults were seated again at the broad oak table, after lunch had been eaten and necessary chores seen to.
“True, lass,” said Wil, “but t’was not so long after the trial, and sure he’d have been snatched up and hanged on the spot, don’t you know, if Crumwell knew of it?” He shook his head. “T’was a fool’s revolt, in any event, though done in the best of heart.” He looked sideways at his wife. “Besides, it was all over in less than a month—and his lordship was ill at that time.”
Gweneth scowled again, though with a touch of indulgence. “You are loyal to him, anyone can see—and that’s nae a bad thing in a man.” She pecked her husband on his cheek, and turned to see her boy, Gareth, hovering at the door of the house, out of breath and an anxious look on his face.
“What is it, lad?” she said, alarmed.
“There’s men up at Priory,” he said. “Men on horses.”
“How many?” Wil asked, starting up from the bench. “King’s men?”
Gareth shook his head. “I saw three only,” he said. “They wear the Dacre arms.”
Wil puffed out a breath, somewhat relieved. “Is Sir William with them?”
“I don’t know,” said the boy. “I couldn’t be sure.”
Wil nodded to Arthur, and motioned toward the door. “Let’s you and I go have a look,” he said.
“Me, too!” Gareth cried. He darted to stand at Arthur’s side, holding fast to his arm.
“No, boy,” Gweneth said before Arthur could even answer, and tugging him away. “You’ll stay out of the way, and out of trouble.” Gareth knew that tone of his mother’s voice, and forebore to ask again. Arthur felt the boy’s disappointment, and bent down to whisper encouragement.
“You did well in running here to let us know, Gareth,” he said. “You’re an excellent scout.” The lad’s face showed his gratitude for Arthur’s words.
“Come then,” said Wil. He laid a hand on Gwillem Moor’s shoulder. “Will ye go with us, harper, or rest ye here?”
“I have a message for Lord Dacre,” Gwillem Moor said, rising from his bench. “We may be able to meet with him alone, and I can pass it on.”
Arthur breathed a little easier, now that the blind harper was going with them. He tousled Gareth’s hair quickly, and gave Gweneth a hug and a smile. “We’ll be back before long,” he reassured her.
The three men set off for the Priory grounds. Gareth stood in the doorway, watching them for as long as they were in his sight.
The three horsemen had alighted some time before Wil, Arthur and Gwillem Moor arrived at the Priory grounds. They had held back to make sure these were indeed Dacre men, and Wil easily recognized the tall, lean figure of Sir William at once. He wore no hat, and his hair was cut short, barely reaching his collar; he was clean-shaven, and had at one time looked younger than his years—but the lengthy and uncertain trial for treason, after several months in the Tower, had grizzled his hair and etched deep lines around his mouth. Now he looked ten years older than the thirty-five or so he owned.
Arthur saw one of the men-at-arms spot them and then turn to mutter to Sir William. Looking up, the nobleman called out in a loud voice, “Wil! Wil Crooklay! Come nearer, man.”
The three walked swiftly to where Sir William stood, near the broken entrance door to the Prior’s house. It was then that the nobleman saw who it was that accompanied Wil—he didn’t pay much attention to Arthur at first.
“Gwillem Moor,” he said, in a tone of warmth and respect. “Old friend, it is good indeed to see you.” He stretched forth his arm to clasp the blind harper by the shoulder, and Gwillem Moor did the same by him.
“Sir William, it is my honor to be here,” he said.
“I would imagine you have a new song or two to play for me?” It was lightly said, but Arthur, knowing as he did the meaning of such songs, caught the undertone of seriousness in his lordship’s voice. Gwillem Moor merely bowed his head in acquiescence.
“My lord,” said Wil, “you will not recall my son, William—now Arthur Joseph—a monk of Glastonbury, come home to stay.”
“Indeed and I do recall a young scamp,” said Sir William heartily, “but this grown man is as different from my memory as an oak tree is to an acorn.” He nodded at Arthur. “Welcome home, young Wil.” He paused a moment, searching Arthur’s face. “Am I to hear that Glaston, too, is torn and desecrate, as our Priory here has suffered?” He waved a hand at the desolation around him.
“Not yet, my lord,” Arthur said. “But we fear it is only a matter of time.”
One of the men-at-arms cleared his throat softly, and Sir William took the hint.
“Well, some matters are best spoken of indoors, over a cup of good beer and dinner. I hope you will be able to join me at Naworth later today? There is much to be said, I’ll warrant. Come at dusk, for dinner,” he said. “Lady Elizabeth will be happy to see you.”
Wil spoke their thanks, and prepared to depart, only Sir William again gestured to the Priory’s guest building on the west side of the cloister and garden, before which they stood. “The King, you see,” he said, without preamble, “has given Lanercost into the charge of Sir William Pennyson.” His voice was harsh with bitterness. “My lord Pennyson hasn’t deigned to come visit his new domain, but has sent his deputy—my half-brother, Thomas the bastard.”
/> “Is he in the county now, my lord?” Wil asked, worried.
Sir William shook his head. “Nae, he’s gone back down South, to lick the king’s arse.”
He turned abruptly to his men, gesturing them to await him at a distance. His countenance was dark with anger and sorrow. “My bastard brother intends to have Lanercost for himself,” he says. “He hasn’t got it yet, but it will happen.” He heaved a huge sigh. “Naworth is safe, for now—perhaps we’ll turn our allegiance to Carlisle, where Canon John has gone and shepherds the faithful as best he can.” He nodded farewell, and turned away to join his men without another word.
Wil and Arthur exchanged anxious looks—Lanercost, then, was not going to be safe.
27
The cup, the cup itself, from which our Lord
Drank at the last sad supper with his own.
This, from the blessed land of Aromat—
After the day of darkness, when the dead
Went wandering o’er Moriah—the good saint
Arimathaean Joseph, journeying brought
To Glastonbury, where the winter thorn
Blossoms at Christmas, mindful of our Lord.
–Idylls of the King
Brampton, Cumberland
Wednesday Noon
I chattered idly with Delia until we were far enough from the house to ensure our not being overheard. She was a funny little sprite, quite in a different style from Maisie and Annie, being short and plump, with jet-black curls and brown eyes. Still, country-fed and raised, she had a look of glowing health about her that spoke well of the general condition of life in the North Counties.
“Have you been in Reverend Crickley’s employ long, Delia?” I asked, hoping to lead her into pertinent revelations. We were on a smooth gravel path nearing the bottom of the garden, past which ran a narrow stream. Rose bushes bloomed gloriously all around us, and their scent filled the air—a bit too much, perhaps, but pleasant nonetheless.
“These last two years only, Miss,” she said. “My older sister, Jane, was a’fore me, but she’s married now, and has babe to keep herself busy, she do.”
“That would keep her busy indeed,” I said. “And lucky for you, to be able to take her place.” We turned at the end of the path, and started back up toward the house. “Was Reverend Crickley an easy man to work for?”
“Oh, yes, Miss, he warn’t no trouble at all, kept everthink nice and proper-like, very neat for old gentleman.” She giggled a little, and I asked her what had made her laugh.
“Oh, begging your pardon, Miss, but he was funny about his little bones and things, you know, in the cabinets—all those saints’ fingers and toes and such like.” She looked at me cautiously, as if fearing she had offended.
“Yes,” I said mildly. “It makes for rather an odd collection, I think. One wonders what he saw in them, and why they were important to him.” I paused, and made a deliberate push to see if Delia would respond. “I gather he thought of them as his special treasures?”
“Oh, yes, Miss, that he did,” Delia said earnestly. “He was allwas talking about those things, and about King Arthur and Lady Guenevere, you know, and—what did he call it—the cup that Our Lord Jesus drank from?”
“The Holy Grail,” I said.
“Yes, that’s it, Miss, and also the great magic sword of King Arthur, ex—ex—something.”
“Excalibur,” I said. “It means, ‘from out of the stone’.”
Delia looked at me in awe.
“You’re just as he was, Miss, if you don’t mind me saying, knowing all those fancy words and all.”
Yes, yes, I thought, but this isn’t getting us anywhere. Hiding my exasperation, I decided to just go right to it.
“Delia, did you ever hear Reverend Crickley say something about finding a treasure, or being about to find a treasure?” I watched her face carefully, and saw a bit of red creep up above the starched white neck of her dress. We were nearing the back terrace of the house, so I stopped to admire a display of carnations and lilies near a small rock pool.
“It wasn’t as if I was delibretly listening, Miss,” she started to say, looking very guilty.
“Oh! Of course not, my dear, I wouldn’t think that,” I said soothingly. “It’s just that it’s very important to me to know the kinds of things the Reverend was thinking about, and doing, in his last days, so anything you can remember would be very helpful to me.”
This assisted greatly in relieving the girl’s scruples.
“Well, I did hear him say once, to that Mr. Gravely it was, that he’d found a treasure, those were his very words, and that he meant to have it with him the rest of his life, could he just find the right words, with the right meaning, that would unlock it all for him.”
Very interesting indeed, I thought. Looking up from the flowers, I caught sight of Mrs. Barnstable looking out the kitchen door, and preparing to come down to us. I hastened to ask a last question or two.
“And when was this, when did you hear him say this?”
“It was a girt long time gone, Miss, may be ’most a month now?” Delia said.
So long ago as that!
“Did you … happen to hear anything, or see anything, on the day before the Reverend died, Delia?”
The girl screwed up her face, thinking hard, then brightened. “Mr. Howard, he come by in’s carriage, and I was in front, coming back from market. T’was powerful serious, what they were going on about, I thought.”
“Serious? Such as, something bad had happened, or…?” I hung fire, hoping the girl could fill in the blank.
She shook her head. “I think as there was something said about not trusting something, but I didnae hear more.”
Looking up, Delia too saw Mrs. Barnstable heading in our direction, and with a slightly scared look, bounded off to resume her duties in the house. I prepared myself to meet with Mrs. Barnstable’s disapproval for wasting the maid’s time, but was relieved when she simply asked me whether I thought Mr. Wattendall would be staying for luncheon.
“Lord, I hope not,” I said before I thought about it, but receiving a slight smile in return from Mrs. Barnstable, I knew we felt alike about that gentleman. However, it did remind me of another guest who was expected.
“Actually, though,” I said, as we turned to walk back into the house—I needed to get to the library and see how John was coming along with the oily attorney—“there will be another person for luncheon—Mr. Gravely, I’m sure you know him, he should be here certainly before one, and will join me and Mr. Sargent.”
“Very well, Miss Paget,” she said. There were few signs of her recent grief in her face, but her manner was very subdued. I remembered I needed to speak with her about the Reverend’s will, but this was not the time. Perhaps after luncheon. We parted in the kitchen, and I went up to the main floor. It occurred to me as I walked through the house that this was, in fact, my own property. I hadn’t really thought about it that way, and I have to say that it struck me as odd, very odd, that a person of my relative youth and especially in an unmarried state, should own a house like this. Moreover, I certainly didn’t want to live in Brampton! But even more, I felt that I did not deserve this house. I put the thought aside for another time.
I was favored with a meaningful look from John the instant I entered the library, but I couldn’t decipher what he was trying to convey, other than that he had learned something significant. He and Mr. Wattendall were standing by the display cabinet that was the site of the missing object.
“Violet, you’ll never guess!” John said, sounding both amused and excited. I walked over to where they stood and looked my inquiry.
“Mr. Wattendall here has told me the nature of the object that appears to be missing from this cabinet,” John said.
“It is missing in fact, my dear John,” I said, “not just in appearance.” I looked at Mr. Wattendall, who had an unpleasant smirk on his sallow face. I waited for him to speak.
He took the hint.
>
“The object that was in this place, Miss Paget,” he said, solemnly and with a slow sort of bluster, holding the lapels of his coat with both hands, like an orator, “is purportedly the right index finger bone of none other than Arthur, once High King of Britain, whose bones were found buried in a giant oak tree, hollowed out to fit the body, in the cemetery of Glastonbury Abbey, in Somerset, in 1183 or so.”
Need I say I was skeptical?
“Was it indeed, Mr. Wattendall?” I said, nodding judiciously, as if taking it all in. John was grinning with glee. I continued, in measured tones.
“And do you also happen to know, Mr. Wattendall, where this royal finger bone is at the present moment?”
Mr. Wattendall hemmed a little, and looked down, as if for a show of modesty. “I was honored, and it is such an honor, to be presented with this magnificent relic by the Reverend Crickley not two days ago,” he said, and added in a lower tone, as if in sadness, “which I shall now treasure all the more, it being in a way, a last gift from the dear departed.” I swear I saw him glance out of the corner of his eye at me and John, to see our reaction. At the same time, he had reached into his vest pocket, and extracted what I assumed was an anise pastille, and surreptitiously placed it in his mouth.
“Did that event occur when you came to see the Reverend late that day—the day before his death that night?”
“Why, yes, as I said, just two days ago, on Monday,” he said, beginning to sound a bit defensive.
“May I ask, Mr. Wattendall,” I said, trying to sound nonchalant, “what was the purpose of your visit to Reverend Crickley that day? Surely it was not just to receive the relic as a gift.”
He pulled back his shoulders in righteous lawyerliness. “Matters between an attorney and his client are private, Miss Paget, surely you are aware of that,” he said with a sniff, “with your extensive knowledge of the law.”