by Mary Burns
“Mr. Gravely,” I said, deferring his question to ask one of my own. “What was the ‘treasure’ my uncle spoke of recently, that he hoped to gain and keep for the rest of his life?”
John looked at me, surprised, but said nothing.
“Treasure?” said Mr. Gravely. He looked thoughtful. “What makes you ask that, Miss Paget?”
“I have been told that Reverend Crickley said he was only looking for the right words, and he would secure the treasure.” I pointed to the book in his hands. “I believe it has something to do with that book.”
“I am very familiar with this particular work,” said Mr. Gravely, avoiding my question for the moment, and with a faint smile. “You know, of course, that it was written by an ancestor of the Reverend’s, one who was a vicar here in Brampton nearly two centuries ago?”
“Yes,” I said, a trifle impatiently. “I deduced as much from the author’s name.”
“Well,” he said. “It may indeed have something to do with his death, but it has nothing to do with his treasure.”
“Why, whatever do you mean?” I was staring openly at the man, and my looks urged him to make haste.
“It is a rather delicate matter,” he said. “But you should know of it.” He set the book down on the table, and folded his hands across his stomach. “Your uncle was intending to take a wife, and his reference to his ‘treasure’—I recall that conversation very well, it took place a few weeks ago—was his way of alluding to the lady in question, whose presence in his life had made a decidedly positive difference. But how could you possibly know that he had spoken to me of it?”
I was astonished at this news, and waved away his last question with an impatient gesture. “Not important, how I know … but who is this lady? Had he come to the point of proposing marriage to her?”
“Yes, he had, and been accepted,” said Mr. Gravely. He paused, to great effect. “It is Mrs. Barnstable.”
“Mrs. Barnstable!” I practically shouted it out.
“I thought as much!” said John at the same moment, immediately adding, “Poor woman!”
I looked at him in surprise and no small measure of chagrin. “How on earth could you have thought such a thing?” I demanded. When I did not!
“Oh, just observations,” he said, smiling.
I turned back to Mr. Gravely. “When were they going to be married?”
He shook his head. “I’m not at all sure they had gotten so far as to make those arrangements. However,” he said, frowning, “more to the point, the Reverend told me that he intended to change his will, naturally, to include Mrs. Barnstable in the appropriate manner—and to make other changes.” He frowned even more intensely.
I caught at it immediately. “What other changes?”
“He had lately been dissatisfied with Mr. Wattendall as an attorney,” Mr. Gravely said. “The elder Mr. Wattendall passed on about a year ago, and while it seemed appropriate to have the son replace the father, there was something—unexpressed to me in any detail by my old friend—that he didn’t care for in the son. I believe that both he and Mr. George Howard had been concerned about the younger Mr. Wattendall’s … abilities, shall we say? The Reverend was thinking of removing him from the will as the person to be in charge of the inventory of his valuable collections.”
“But that is precisely what it says in the will which Mr. Wattendall read to us yesterday, that he is to conduct the inventory,” I said. “And there is no special mention of Mrs. Barnstable, other than a generous bequest.” I looked at John, and then again at Mr. Gravely. “Do you know whether this new will was ever completed, and executed?”
Mr. Gravely sighed and shook his head. “I do not know,” he said. “Although if it had been, no doubt one could find it here, or a copy of it, among his papers.”
“Then we shall look for it now,” I said with grim determination, and made as if to arise from the sofa.
“But wait,” John said, then addressing Mr. Gravely, “you say you are familiar with that book, that the Reverend sent to Vi— and you agreed that it might have something to do with his death. Have you any idea what’s in it that could be so compelling as to cause murder to be done?”
Mr. Gravely nodded. “Just a speculation,” he said. “I know that the Reverend had been very excited when he came across this book, which was rather recently, among some old things in a trunk that had been stored in the attics—things inherited and set aside from various branches of his family who have lived hereabouts for some four centuries—going back to the time before Belted Willie, and the estimable Lord Thomas Dacre, who fought off many a Scots invasion here himself, in the early part of the sixteenth century.” He sighed, and looked at the book again. “I believe it had something to do with Arthur the King, and events that occurred a very long time ago.” He handed the book back to me. “But I daresay Mr. Howard can enlighten you on this matter much more knowledgeably and completely than I can.”
I held the book tightly in my hands, once again vowing I would read it through carefully at the first opportunity. “Then ask him we shall, over dinner this evening. In the meantime, let us look for a copy of the more recent will—and pursue these matters further over luncheon.”
Later that afternoon, I sat alone in my room at Cottage Perilous, presumably resting, but actually methodically thinking through what we had learned. Mr. Gravely had returned to his duties as coroner shortly after luncheon, and we promised to meet with him the next day, to retail our meeting with Mr. Howard this evening. John and I had looked through the very tidy papers in Uncle Chaffee’s library desk and found nothing pertinent to any will more recent than the copy Mr. Wattendall had brought to me in the morning. I also searched the Reverend’s private chamber, but again, nothing.
We had decided not to say anything further to Mrs. Barnstable, John agreeing with me that it was such a delicate matter, I would want to take a little time to reflect on what was appropriate to say, and even more, to possibly do. My previous reflections on my inheritance from Uncle Chaffee, as being undeserved and myself undeserving, certainly suggested one direction—and I wanted to give it its full due of thoughtfulness and consideration. Any great delay would be unconscionable, it seemed to me, and I thought I would be able to come to some conclusion on the morrow, after a night’s sleep. All would be talked over and settled then.
How little I suspected that a restful night was the last thing that I was going to encounter.
30
Taliessin is our fullest throat of song,
And one hath sung and all the dumb will sing.
Lancelot is Lancelot, and hath overborne
Five knights at once, and every younger knight,
Unproven, holds himself as Lancelot,
Till overborne by one, he learns.
–Idylls of the King
23 July 1539
Naworth Castle
The Feast of St. Bridget
A fire crackled and spit in the large hearth, warming the private meeting chamber of Naworth’s lord and lady. The three guests were welcomed by Lady Elizabeth with graciousness and discretion. She watched over the servants during dinner as they served a savory, piquant lemon-flavored broth with potatoes and leeks, followed by succulent fish from the Irthing, then fat, roasted capons glistening with butter and sprinkled with coarse salt. Dishes and platters of hearty summer vegetables and stewed fruits were served up as well. Cups of wine or ale were plentiful. Arthur and Gwillem Moor drank and ate sparingly, neither used to such rich fare, but Wil helped himself to seconds of everything, much to Lady Elizabeth’s satisfaction.
When all was finished, and a final flagon of wine had been placed upon the table, she motioned for the servants to withdraw. She remained, for Lord William knew that his wife’s opinion of all matters before them would be insightful as well as practical.
“Shall I play a song for you, my lord?” said Gwillem Moor. “T’was penned by the hand of Abbot Richard Whiting, not long past.”
&nb
sp; “I hope it will be an aid to digestion,” said Sir William, “and not such as to roil my guts with worry and woe.”
“It is what it is, my lord,” said the blind harper, and standing from the table, he retrieved his harp and went to sit a little distance away. A log fell away in the fireplace, producing a flare of orange flame and a scattering of sparks across the stone, then all was silent. The bard’s voice, soft at first, grew in strength and emotion as he sang.
Holl amrantau'r sêr ddywedant
Sleep, my child, and peace attend thee
All through the night
Guardian angels God will send thee
All through the night
Soft the drowsy hours are creeping
Hill and dale in slumber steeping
I my loving vigil keeping
All through the night.
While the moon her watch is keeping
All through the night
While the weary world is sleeping
All through the night
O’er thy spirit gently stealing
Visions of delight revealing
Breathes a pure and holy feeling
All through the night.
Though I roam a minstrel lonely
All through the night
My true harp shall praise sing only
All through the night
Love’s young dream, alas, is over
Yet my strains of love shall hover
Near the presence of my lover
All through the night.
Lady Elizabeth wiped a tear from her cheek, and Sir William looked grim and sad. Arthur was impressed with the beauty of the song; he hadn’t realized the old Abbot had such a talent—and yet, it seemed one born of necessity, to carry a sad message north to this Catholic Lord whose help he needed.
“Now tell me, my good men and true, what it is you want of me,” said Sir William.
Wil looked at Arthur, and nodded encouragement. Arthur had not expected to play a prominent role in this scene, but after a moment and a quick prayer, found his voice.
“My lord,” he said. “Abbot Whiting sent us north with a sacred trust—to find a better home for some of the most precious relics and holy things that were venerated in Glaston Abbey. We had thought to lodge them safe in Lanercost Priory, but—” he broke off, as there was no need to say more than that. “The Abbot fears that the Abbey will not long withstand the King’s desire, or the Visitors’ reforming of it.” He spoke the words without inflection, but all present knew the exact meaning of the words.
“The Abbot does well to fear it,” said Sir William. Then, lowering his voice, so that everyone leaned in to hear better, he said, “I have lately had word that Cromwell intends to move upon the last great monasteries left in the South—Reading, Colchester, and Glastonbury. They will all be dissolved, beginning in September, and there won’t even be any pious pretence about their ‘voluntarily’ handing everything over to the king.”
“William,” said Lady Elizabeth, a warning in her tone. He waved a hand at her.
“Yes, yes, I know, ’tis treason to even put a true name to these bare-faced robberies, but I’ll be damned if I can’t speak my mind in my own home.” He looked around the room, and smiled a grim smile. “There’s no man here—aye, nor woman too—but would fight to the death for Naworth.”
“But where are these things you speak of, now?” said Lady Elizabeth, addressing both Wil and Arthur. “Are they safe?”
Wil spoke up. “We hid them in the Priory cellar, in the undercroft, my lady,” he said. “There’s not a speck of grain on the floor for anyone to come after, anymore, and we thought they’d be safe until we could consult with you and his Lordship.”
“And what manner of things are they?” she asked.
“There are relics, mostly, my lady,” said Arthur. “Joseph of Arimathea, John the Baptist, Saint Brigid, Patrick, many others—also, some things relating to Arthur the King, and his lady Guenevere. There are books, too, scrolls and bound—a volume of Augustine, in his own hand, and Gospels with commentary by St. Jerome, some fifteen or twenty in all.” He looked down at his half-filled cup. “If you think it good, I can inscribe a list of them for you.”
She nodded. “Yes,” she said. “A list would be good, and I’m glad to hear you are a scholar, and able to read and write.” She turned to look at Sir William.
He nodded at her unspoken question.
“We can put them in the Tower,” he said. “There are hidden places inside of hidden places there, and an eight-foot thick wall around it—and a four-foot door of iron and wood at the foot of the Tower. Unless we all die and the castle burns down, they will be safe.”
Gwillem Moor spoke up for the first time. “September, you say, my lord?” When Sir William verified it, the blind harper put a heavy hand on the table. “Then, Arthur, my lad, our journey’s but half done. There’s more to do in Glaston, Avalon that was and will be again.”
“Surely you don’t intend to go back to the Abbey, Gwillem Moor,” said Lady Elizabeth. “With the King’s men about to descend upon it? You’ve seen what they’ve done to Lanercost, and believe me, it didn’t take them very long. You will be taken.”
“Then we must make haste, and leave all the sooner for it, and trust to God and the King for the rest,” said Gwillem Moor. All present knew he was not referring to the present king. He turned his sightless eyes to Arthur, who sat on his right. “Are you willing to continue the quest, lad?”
“With all my heart,” said Arthur, and saw his father nod, his eyes moist.
Sir William watched Arthur’s face carefully, and nodded briefly, as if having come to a decision. Rising from his place, he strode over to a large chest near the fireplace, opened it, and took something out. He motioned for Arthur to come near, and held before him a dagger sheathed in worked leather.
“My father gave this to me when I was about your age,” Sir William said, unsheathing the knife and holding it up to catch the firelight on its gleaming surfaces. The hilt was hard wood inset with pieces of white bone. “He told me the white pieces were carved from a unicorn’s horn that his own grandfather had hunted and caught, off in the forests of Breton.”
Arthur’s eyes widened as Sir William held out the dagger, re-sheathed in its case, for him to take.
“My lord, I am no fighter,” he started to say, but Sir William waved him to silence.
“You will be facing an enemy like no other,” he said, his face grim. “Religious zealots will turn every commandment to their own purposes, and have no scruples about killing in God’s name.”
He took Arthur’s hand and placed the knife in his palm, closing the boy’s fingers around it. “We are all warriors in this battle, young Wil Crooklay,” he said. “May it serve you well.”
Arthur took the knife in both hands, and bowed his head in thanks for this formidable gift. His heart shook to think that he might ever have to use it—could he, if he had to, kill his fellow man?
31
O brother, had you known our Camelot,
Built by old kings, age after age, so old
The King himself had fears that it would fall,
So strange, and rich, and dim; for where the roofs
Tottered toward each other in the sky,
Met foreheads all along the street of those
Who watched us pass.
–Idylls of the King
Naworth Castle
Wednesday Evening
Lord Parke’s carriage still being at our disposal, John and I rode in splendid style some two miles or so out of the town of Brampton into the loveliness of a late afternoon countryside. Verdant fields rolled back from the arcade of sycamore and oak trees that lined the well-kept road, and a flock of sheep caused only a few minutes’ delay, crossing from one meadow to the next under the guiding hand of a tall shepherd lad.
I kept peering through the hedges and trees along the narrow road, hoping to catch an early glimpse of the crenell
ated fortress of Naworth, with its four immense towers. I felt a curious flutter at my stomach—on Lord Parke’s account? Nonsense.
The driver slowed the carriage, preparing to turn into a long avenue, when John called to him to stop altogether.
“Isn’t there some old church or abbey nearby?” he asked.
“That’d be Lanercost Priory, sir,” he said. “Or what’s left of it.”
“Ruins?” John was pleased. “Even better!”
“And how old are these ruins?” I asked.
“Oh, back to old fat Harry, Miss, he with the seven wives.”
“Ah,” I said, “the Dissolution of the Monasteries.”
“As you say, Miss.”
“May we stop there a moment, Vi?” John asked. I could see that look in his eye—that artist’s hunger for a scene to paint.
I glanced at my timepiece, and frowned. “We certainly do not want to be late,” I said, but the driver, hearing John’s request, had already slapped the reins and put the horse in motion.
“Well, for a few minutes,” I said.
“Priory be no more’n two minutes, just over the bridge, Miss,” said the driver, grinning encouragingly at John. The barouche rattled over the rough stones of a humpbacked bridge, below which ran the Irthing River, its rushing water breaking and gurgling on the rock. We pulled up before a truncated stone arch that led to the priory grounds, and as soon as we stopped, John jumped from the carriage and started off at a trot to look at the ruins.
“Vi, aren’t you coming to see?” he called, looking back and waving me on.
“I’d rather not drag my gown through the dust, thank you very much,” I said. I glanced at the sky, which was beginning to fill up with dark clouds from the west. The wind, also, was rising. However, after a few moments, I decided to join him after all—the ruins were so picturesque. I climbed out of the carriage before the driver even noticed I was preparing to do so, and picked my way through a narrow path beaten through a foot or so of fresh grass of some sort.