by Mary Burns
35
But always in the quiet house I heard,
Clear as a lark, high o’er me as a lark,
A sweet voice singing in the topmost tower
To the eastward: up I climbed a thousand steps
With pain: as in a dream I seemed to climb
For ever: at the last I reached a door,
A light was in the crannies, and I heard,
“Glory and joy and honour to our Lord
And to the Holy Vessel of the Grail.”
–Idylls of the King
Naworth Castle
Wednesday Evening
Dinner was a fairly subdued affair, especially as Mr. Howard’s presence was required by his wife in her own chamber. I hoped that she wasn’t so nearly close to giving birth as to have it occur tonight, what with the awful violence of the storm still raging—and strangers in the house at such a time. I felt the awkwardness of it extremely, but was reluctant to say anything about a relatively delicate matter. After all, I was an unmarried young woman, and the Queen’s severe moral tone held such sway in this country, that even alluding to enceinture, as the French called it, in the most oblique terms, was considered unladylike in the extreme.
John, however, appeared to have no such scruples.
“I hope Mrs. Howard is well,” he said, pouring himself a little more of the excellent claret the butler had placed on the table. “Is she very near her time?”
Lord Parke seemed momentarily taken aback, but answered with good humor. “Oh, this is their fifth child, don’t you know, and she’s strong as a horse. I daresay if the baby does show up tonight, she’ll be joining us for breakfast.”
I almost choked on the bite of creamed fish I was just swallowing. Lord Parke, sitting next to me, turned to me in concern.
“Are you all right, Miss Paget? Here, let me pour you some more wine.”
“No, no, I thank you, just a bit of fish, down the wrong way,” I managed to say, holding my napkin to my lips. John sat across from us, and looked at me, amused.
“Sorry, Vi, old man,” he said. “I’m not supposed to bring up that sort of thing, am I?”
I glared at him for a moment, then smiled briefly. It was impossible to ever really be out of humour with John.
“Well, I doubt that we shall see my cousin any more this evening,” Lord Parke said.
A crash of thunder shook the room, and the gas lights flickered in their sconces.
I was disappointed, and spoke without thinking—not unusual for me.
“I had so hoped to see the famous Belted Willie’s Tower,” I said. “I understand there are a number of strange and august antiquities kept there, dating back to before the time of Elizabeth.”
“True, quite true,” said Lord Parke. He mused a moment. “However, even in my cousin’s absence, I feel sure that he wouldn’t object to my showing you around. Mind,” he added, “there’s no gas light in the Tower, so we shall be forced to explore by rush light or candles, which the wind no doubt will extinguish just at the very moment we step into the chamber—” He laughed at the look on my face.
“And then the ghost of Belted Willie will appear?” John laughed as well.
“Well, I should certainly hope so,” I said, with some spirit, to overcome the chill I had felt at Lord Parke’s description. “What a waste of a dark and stormy night, if no ghost appears on the scene.”
“Right, then,” said Lord Parke. “As it’s just we three, shall we forego the drawing room for the time being, and meet back here in fifteen minutes for our tower adventure?” He glanced at me. “You may wish to bring a shawl, Miss Paget, as the Tower will be quite cold; I don’t believe there’s been a fire in the hearth there all summer, and this storm will make it feel even more damp and chill than it ordinarily tends to be.”
I was elated that my wish was going to be granted. As long as all further detection on behalf of Uncle Chaffee was suspended for the time being, why not have a small adventure? I thanked His Lordship for his consideration, and we rose from the dining table to meet again shortly.
Lord Parke had donned a heavier coat himself, as had John, and I had wrapped myself up in a thick woolen shawl which I found in the bedchamber that had been prepared for me. Lord Parke held a lantern, which he handed to John to hold, and taking a three-pronged candelabra from the sideboard in the dining room, along with a packet of matches, we set off on our expedition.
“I did have the opportunity to speak with my cousin,” Lord Parke said, “and we have his blessing for our tour. Rosalind is, thankfully, resting well. He’s reading aloud to her from some romance or other.” I was amused at this example of domestic felicity, but said nothing.
The way to the Tower began by walking through a very long gallery, hung with paintings and decorated with pieces of ancient armor—helmets, swords, a Highland claymore, breast-plates, and a boar-spear among them. Lord Parke pointed out the military saddle, chest, gloves and famous broad metal belt of Sir William himself. Al-though the light was dim, I could make out the nameplates of some of the portraits as we passed—Charles I and II; James II, Queen Elizabeth, as well as various pieces of religious art, which John clearly wanted to linger before, especially one of Belshazzar’s Feast, sumptuous and a trifle bizarre.
“All of these things, the armor and the portraits,” Lord Parke explained as we walked along the highly polished, oaken plank floor, “were saved from the great fire of 1844, thankfully. Two women servants, living here at the time, were exceptionally heroic in their attempts to save as much as possible for the family.” He pointed to the end of the gallery where, though dark in shadow, we could see a massive door under a stone arch. “There, at the entrance to the tower, the fire was kept from spreading further—you’ll see why in a moment.”
The entrance to the tower was guarded by a huge, iron-grated door, secured with several enormous iron bolts, several inches in circumference, driven deep into the stone work. Stepping forward, and nodding to John for assistance, Lord Parke unfastened the shaft and placed his shoulder against the door. It took both men’s efforts to move the massive door on its thunderous hinges. I was quite impressed—the formers lords of Naworth had built a mighty fortress to keep themselves safe from marauding Scots.
Pausing at the entrance to light the lantern and the candles, we then walked through a short dark passage, and entered the bed-chamber of old Sir William Howard, some fourteen by eighteen feet in size. A simple four-poster bed was at the far end, with a large wooden chair and rather worn looking seat cushion next to the very deeply inset window, which had three steps leading up to it. The walls were some four feet thick, at least.
“It is exactly as Sir William lived in it,” Lord Parke said. “Nearly three hundred years ago.” The mantle-piece bore a sculpture of the shields of the Vaux, the Dacres and the Howards, with the motto inscribed Fort en Loialte. Lord Parke stepped over to a tapestry covering part of the wainscoted wall, and holding it aside, he pushed against a panel of the wainscot, which opened to reveal a small apartment, dark as pitch inside, vaulted with stone.
“A priest hole?” John asked. Lord Parke nodded.
“Fascinating,” I murmured.
Holding the lantern high, Lord Parke led us to the foot of a rough-hewn, stone staircase, that appeared circular in nature, dark and so narrow as to admit only one person to ascend at a time. Motioning for us to follow, he led the way.
“Up these stairs are Sir William’s library and private chapel,” he said. “Again, it has been left exactly as it was when old Belted Willie lived here, in the early 1600’s. Over the centuries, many hiding places were discovered in this tower and throughout the castle, in which curious old things had been hidden through the years.”
I was exceedingly glad that I had heeded Lord Parke’s advice and worn a heavier wrapping than just my dress and jacket. The chill of the stone tower was seeping through the soles of my shoes, and I wished I had thought to wear my gloves. The wavering light of the candl
es before me, and the steadier glow of the lantern that John carried behind me, sent our shadows dancing wildly onto the stone walls of the staircase. We halted after a climb that seemed to go on for some time, when Lord Parke opened yet another massive door.
The library was as big as the bed-chamber below it, but colder, more gloomy, and musty with ancient paper and mold. John turned the lantern light to its fullest point, and set it on a table near the center of the room. There was an old reading-desk on one side, and a large table with books on it. Plain wooden shelves were filled to the top with ancient books and manuscripts; through the narrow windows we could see nothing of the black night, but could hear the stormy wind howling around the tower, and the constant rain lashing the old glass.
“Look at the ceiling,” Lord Parke directed. It was richly carved, with the corbels and bosses embellished with armorial devices.
“This must have been a wonderful retreat, especially in the daytime, when there would be light through the windows,” John said.
My attention was caught by a large wooden case, standing by the fireplace, like a huge, open book with large, hinged pages.
“John, bring the lantern over here,” I said, and we drew nearer the artifact.
“Oh, that,” said Lord Parke. “A very interesting antiquity,” he said. “It apparently is something that came from the old Abbey at Glastonbury, shortly after the Dissolution.”
I carefully turned the partitions, and knelt down to look at them more closely.
“It’s all in Latin, of course,” I said, squinting at the inscribed text.
“The illuminated capitals are quite beautiful.” John knelt beside me, as entranced as I was by the ancient writing.
I turned to look up at Lord Parke. “Do you know what it says?”
“More or less,” he said. “It’s a recounting of the various legends and myths surrounding Glastonbury, you know, Joseph of Arimathea of course, and King Arthur, too, being buried there and all. And a list of the relics in the church. Sort of a medieval version of our modern-day pamphlets you pick up at the church door, that tells about the history of the church.”
“Ah,” I said. “Well, this is a very large sort of pamphlet.”
“It probably hung on the church wall,” John said, “where everyone could see it.”
“Exactly,” said Lord Parke. “Not sure how it came to be here, all those years ago, but old Sir William, you know, was a staunch Catholic—as all the Howards were—and are still.” He patted it, like an old friend. “When my uncle still lived here, he and Reverend Crickley would spend hours reading this and discussing the legends inscribed there.”
I was starting to shiver, and as John helped me up from where I knelt before the wooden case, a gust of wind set the glass windows rattling, and the three candles held by Lord Parke were blown out by a strong draft from somewhere in the Tower.
“Just as you predicted, Vi,” said John, laughing. “Thank goodness for modern equipment,” he said, holding the gas lantern high.
“Miss Paget, you are quite chilled through,” said Lord Parke, noticing that I was shivering under my shawl. “It was foolish of me to bring you up here in such weather, and at night. I’ll never forgive myself should you fall ill from the cold.” He moved closer, and picked up an end of my shawl to wrap it around me more firmly. “Come, we must leave this place and get you into a warm bed with a hot cup of tea.”
I couldn’t argue with that, and meekly submitted to being led down the staircase again. Lord Parke had stopped to re-light the candles, and our little nocturnal procession returned to the main house without further interruption.
36
“Let visions of the night or of the day
Come, as they will; and many a time they come,
Until this earth he walks on seems not earth,
This light that strikes his eyeball is not light,
This air that smites his forehead is not air
But vision—yea, his very hand and foot—
In moments when he feels he cannot die,
And knows himself no vision to himself,
Nor the high God a vision, nor that One
Who rose again: ye have seen what ye have seen.”
So spake the King: I knew not all he meant.
–Idylls of the King
Friday, 19 September 1539
Glastonbury
The Abbey was in an uproar until late that night, the Friday that Layton and the others had come for the Abbot. Monks and servants stood about in small groups, talking excitedly, some weeping, others loud and angry. Arthur stayed in hiding in Thomas the Martyr’s chapel all the evening, until darkness finally came, and the disturbing sounds of pending disaster quieted somewhat. No one was in the church, and he didn’t think anyone would be in the graveyard this late at night. It was now or never.
Holding the Magna Tabula carefully in his arms, his cloak draped over it, he crept to the side door, opened it a crack, and peered out, his heart beating so hard it pounded in his ears. The earlier fog and mist had quite dissipated, and there was a harvest moon high in the sky, which wasn’t the best luck for someone hoping to sneak through shadows and darkness and slip away. But he trusted in the holy quest, and Gwillem Moor’s final blessing—and the dagger hanging at his side. The thought of the blind harper, now a prisoner of the ruthless Visitors, caught at Arthur’s heart and seized up his throat, but he shook it down and willed himself to be steady and alert.
He slipped his hood over his head, and holding the awkward shape of the Magna Tabula pressed flat against his chest, he tried to assume a monk-like, meditative air, as if he were walking quietly among the honored dead, praying for their souls, and seeking peace under the branches of the cemetery trees. There appeared to be no one around to see him, though, and he was making his way unmolested to the back gate, when a figure in monk’s robes stepped in his path from behind a bush.
“Who walks through the graveyard at this time of night?” the figure demanded, though softly.
“A monk of God, and of Glaston Abbey,” Arthur answered, trying to keep his voice even and calm. “I pray for the souls of our dead, as the equinox comes near.”
The man held up his hand, as if to stop Arthur from proceeding. “What monk?” he said. He had pushed back his hood, and Arthur could see his face clearly—it was Brother Thomas, an evil grin on his pale face.
“I thought I might find you skulking here,” he said. “You went off with old Gwillem Moor, and it just seemed to me that you’d come back with him, too.”
Arthur’s mind raced as he fought down his fear and loathing of this traitorous monk.
“I am a monk of Glastonbury,” he said, schooling his voice to evenness. “Of course I would come back. My father is much better, so I have returned.”
Brother Thomas sniffed in derision. “Right. That’s the story.” He leaned in closer and sneered in Arthur’s face. “I believe it will be quite easy to get you to tell me what you were really doing in the north.” He laughed, a very unpleasant sound. “Old harper hasn’t been cooperating, no matter how much we…encourage him.”
Arthur felt sick with rage at the torture he knew Gwillem Moor was enduring. He couldn’t keep himself from lashing out.
“You’ll pay for this, you traitorous slag,” he said.
“Oh ho, a bit of spirit after all,” the older monk said. He gripped Arthur’s shoulder tightly, and in doing so, realized the young monk was holding something under his cloak, which the darkness had concealed.
“What’s this? Stealing from the Abbey?” he said, grasping Arthur’s cloak and pulling it aside. Arthur clutched the Magna Tabula closer to him.
Brother Thomas recognized what Arthur carried, and seemed puzzled by it.
“The Magna Tabula? What would anyone want with that old thing?” he said. Arthur felt a moment’s relief—perhaps Brother Thomas might just dismiss him as mad or childish.
But the monk wasn’t taking any chances. “Give it to
me,” he said. “If the blind harper wanted it, there must be something worth looking into.” He laughed his wicked laugh again. “More questions to ask him—and you as well! I can hardly wait.” He put both hands on the wooden box and tried to take it from Arthur; the two struggled for a few moments, then Arthur suddenly let go, causing Brother Thomas to tumble backward and fall heavily to the damp ground of the cemetery. The Magna Tabula fell with him, first on his chest, then it slid off.
In an instant, Arthur had drawn his dagger and had leaped upon the fallen man, the point of the dagger at the monk’s throat. Brother Thomas’s eyes gleamed in the moonlight with a fanatical excitement.
“Ah, a fiery youth under all that cloth,” he gasped out. “Go ahead, slit my throat, you’ll be a murderer, you’ll burn in hell.”
Arthur hesitated and Brother Thomas saw it. He opened his mouth and yelled out a strangled sort of cry that was sure to have carried on the night air. Then he opened his mouth to yell again.
And Arthur pushed the dagger into the man’s throat as hard as he could. The cry for help was cut short, and became a desperate gurgling as Brother Thomas fought against the knife, pushing his hands, bloodied now, against Arthur’s arms and face. A few moments, and it was over.
The man’s lifeless body lay sprawled across the path, the seeping blood black in the full light of the moon which broke from behind white clouds. Arthur stood up, wiping the blade on Brother Thomas’s habit. He was amazed that his hands were not shaking, but he looked at them as if they were not his own.
The sound of a cough alerted him to someone’s approach. He picked up the Magna Tabula and shifted behind a tree into shadow.
It was John Renynger, the Abbot’s singing man, walking carefully along the path. With a moment’s relief, Arthur remembered the Abbot had said the man could be trusted. But a second sense prickled at him, and he knew he must proceed cautiously.