The Hidden Treasure of Glaston

by Eleanore M Jewett

  “What do you know of the fellow yourself?” asked Hugh, anger and resentment still hot in him.

  “Naught whatever,” replied the old gaffer, “save that he be a man running. When folk raise the hue and cry I would be after whatsoever they hunt and harry. ’Tis wonderful pleasant to give chase, and I would cast my stones with as good an aim and a better will than any, saving only that age hinders the speed in me.”

  “And does no thought come to you as to whether there be justice in the case, or that the poor hunted creature might be innocent?”

  “Justice and innocence be questions beyond simple peasant folk like me.” Then he grinned. “Except where it toucheth our own skin! But what is it to you, and who are you anyway?”

  “I am of the monastery folk,” said Hugh.

  “Oh, so you be of Glaston?” The man looked at him with a new expression. “They be good folk—yonder.”

  By this time they had reached the main gate of the abbey grounds and pushed in with the others. They passed the almonry and the guest house and ran on to the church; in the northwest corner was an entrance with a paved court in front of it, the Galilee Porch. It was there that the crowd had gathered and halted. Their prey had escaped; the man had reached the great north door and was clinging to the bronze knocker. Sanctuary! Hugh, peering over the shoulders and under the arms of the pursuers milling around the grounds, breathed a great sigh of relief as he caught sight of him. They were still muttering angrily but dared not approach closer. Sanctuary! Thank God for sanctuary! Jacques was safe for the present, at least. The bell in the tower began to ring, clamorously, insistently. That would tell the abbot and the brothers that a hunted creature claimed the protection of the Church. Just what they would do with him or what would happen next, Hugh was not certain.

  He squirmed and elbowed his way through the press of folk until he had got to the front and could see better. Jacques stood close to the door, his tall, slight figure drooping with weariness, his clothes freshly torn and stained with blood, sweat, and mire. He had lost his cap and his heavy shock of brown curling hair, matted and clotted with blood from his cut, fell straggling over his forehead and cheeks. After a few moments he braced himself, controlled his laboring breath with an effort, turned and faced his pursuers with squared shoulders and head held high.

  “What hath the fellow done?” asked someone near Hugh. The question was passed back and forth among the crowd. None seemed to know any more about the matter than the peasant with whom Hugh had talked, though several held ugly rocks in their hands, which they had been about to throw, doubtless following after many another which had been thrown already.

  A sudden squirming and displacement among those beside Hugh resulted in the eruption of a round borel cap and a familiar face under it. The boy Dickon emerged, apparently from beneath the feet of the men towering above him, and took his place shoulder to shoulder with Hugh, where he could see without hindrance everything that went on. He gave Hugh an odd look which held in it something of admiration, and the lad smiled back, eager to be friendly. But Dickon merely nodded, making no remark.

  “Who started the hue and cry?” asked a voice in the crowd.

  “The manor beadle,” answered someone.

  “And said he what ’twas all about?”

  “Aye,” cried a new voice from the outskirts of the group. “’Tis said the creature is of the household of one of them that slew the good Archbishop—Thomas à Becket.”

  There was a murmur of horror, then an awed silence. Hugh’s eyes never left the figure standing so tragically at bay before the door of the Galilee Porch. His lips were shut in a thin, tight line, as if words might leap out in spite of himself, and his eyes burned defiantly in his white face. Dickon turned from staring at the fugitive and watched Hugh curiously.

  By now the bell had ceased ringing and the abbot and some of the monks had come forth upon the church porch. Hugh saw Brother John among them and the sacristan, and Brother Symon, the almoner, an old man with a quiet, pitying face, and many others whom he had already come to know, or at least recognize.

  Abbot Robert addressed the fugitive who still stood close to the protecting door of the church, but had turned from the menacing villagers to face him.

  “Young sir,” he said gravely, “are you here to claim sanctuary of Holy Church?”

  The man nodded, the expression on his face a mixture of hunted fear, entreaty, and the defiance of despair.

  “Of what are you accused?” continued Father Robert. “Or are they present who would bear witness against you?”

  Before Jacques could answer, a voice from the edge of the crowd called out, “There should no sanctuary be granted him, Father Abbot; he is of the devil’s own brew, he is one of the party who slew our Archbishop, Thomas à Becket!”

  Exclamations of astonishment broke from the group of monks behind the abbot and some of them involuntarily drew back, gazing at the fugitive with a new expression in which hostility took the place of friendly or indifferent curiosity.

  “Aye,” cried another voice and the beadle of a neighboring manor village stood out from among the crowd. “Aye, ’tis known to us that the Archbishop, God rest his soul, was hacked to pieces before the High Altar itself, over Canterbury way. And this fellow saw the deed done and stayed it not—nay, took part in it himself, no doubt. Give him no sanctuary!”

  A stone flung from somewhere in the crowd struck against the doorjamb and fell clattering to the floor, barely missing the head of the fugitive. Snarls of hatred, curses, and yells from the crowd were mingled with the more subdued mutterings of the monks.

  The abbot stept directly in front of the young man so that if another stone were thrown it would find its target in him, and raised his hand with an imperious gesture.

  “Silence!” he commanded. “Know you not that every man must be accounted innocent until he be proved guilty? And you know the law of sanctuary, all of you—and some of you have used it to your own profit ere this!” A short laugh interrupted him and the humor of the crowd grew lighter. The abbot continued, “No matter what his deed or crime this young man can claim sanctuary in the name of the Church and of English Law here in Glastonbury Abbey for the space of forty days. And after that,” the abbot turned from the crowd and addressed himself more directly to Jacques, “after that time, if you be indeed fleeing from justice you must adjure the realm, betake yourself to the nearest port, and go into exile in some foreign land.”

  The fugitive bowed his head and the abbot went on. And now, my son, speak up, declare boldly for yourself in the presence of these people, what you have in truth done that you should be thus harried and hunted; what you are accused of, both justly and unjustly.”

  The man tried to still the trembling of his hands by clenching them. “Father Abbot,” said he, “I will tell all, nor hide anything. Only let me not fall into the hands of yon frenzied mob! I am—or was—of the household of my Lord Hugh de Morville, he who with three others sought to prove their loyalty to our liege, King Henry, by siding with him in his quarrel against the Archbishop Thomas à Becket. Thou knowest, Lord Abbot, far better than I, who was but a dutiful follower of those above me, what were the causes of their bickerings. I only know that on an evil day we stood, the four lords and their attendants, in the presence of the king and he thundered forth those ill begotten words: ‘Becket! that accursed Becket! Is there no friend of mine loyal enough to rid me of the fellow?’ And then—”

  “Ah, yes, I know!” interrupted the abbot quietly. “And then the hot-blooded young fools, your masters, rode away to Canterbury and slew the Archbishop before the very altar.”

  Again an ominous snarl broke from the crowd, but the abbot held up his hand imperiously.

  “But you,” said he, still addressing the fugitive, “what part did you play in this dastardly deed?”

  “Good Father Abbot, by my soul I swear no hand or weapon of mine nor of my master’s touched the Archbishop! True, we held back the crowd and suf
fered the deed to be accomplished and, in the riot that followed, I fought and slew innocent folk—God forgive me—to protect my master. Our souls are thus much stained with blood in this dread matter, but we are like to suffer all the punishment falling upon the other three, who themselves did the actual deed. And yet, good Father, none of it was of our intention and I, for my part, am most truly penitent.”

  There was a moment of intense silence in the crowd. Hands still clutching stones were lowered, faces lined with hatred relaxed.

  “God forgive us all, for we be sinners, too, every one of us,” muttered someone.

  Heads nodded in agreement and again attention centered on the abbot who was speaking in a voice gentler and less stern:

  “What did you then, young sir, after the murder and the riot?”

  “We fled away, all of us, and harbored ourselves in Hugh de Morville’s castle fortress of Knaresborough. The king would have protected us, but he could do nothing to stem the anger of the people and the greed and ill will of our enemies at court, who took this opportunity to ruin and despoil us utterly. We were attacked, besieged by a frenzied mob, driven out, and the lands and castle of Sir Hugh ravaged, burnt, and destroyed before our eyes.”

  Dickon who had been alternately watching the scene on the Galilee Porch and noting the expression on Hugh’s white face, slipped an arm through his; a friendly gesture, but Hugh seemed too absorbed in the conversation that had been going on, and in his own bitter thoughts, to be conscious of it.

  “We scattered,” the man Jacques continued. “Since then we have lived like hunted beasts in forest or lonely field or byway. My few companions have been killed or separated from me, so that I know naught of them, and I have wandered alone these many weeks, subsisting as I could, hoping the storm against us would die down at last and that I might find some peaceful harborage, or else take ship to France. Surely, Father Abbot, you will not deny me sanctuary? I be all but spent and fore-done!”

  He knelt upon the stone pavement of the porch, his hands upraised in supplication.

  “Nay, indeed nay,” said Abbot Robert laying a kindly hand on the bent shoulder. “There is nothing to fear in the House of God. Thou shalt rest in peace within these walls. And now, thy name, my son?”

  “Jacques de Raoul.” The man rose, an expression of immense relief on his face.

  “Of Norman birth?”

  “Not I but my father’s father. We come of a Norman line and followed William of Normandy.”

  “Then exile means home in France?”

  “Nay,” said the young man sturdily. “No land but England can be home to me.” He sighed as he spoke and looked out over the monastic grounds, the green velvety lawns between the ancient wooden buildings, the gray stone of the newer ones and, farther away, the conical shaped hill of Glastonbury Tor.

  “So,” said the abbot watching him sympathetically, “another son of England will be driven from our land because of the quarrels of kings and barons. Alas, how many they are! And we can ill spare sons who love their England, be their blood Norman or Saxon. But come, we must see to your present needs.

  “Our almoner will give you the fugitive’s cloak, our monks will furnish you food and tend your injuries, and I myself, my son, will hear your personal confession and absolve you in good time. Then get you to the high road and, in the protecting garb of the sanctuary seeker, hasten to some port and escape to France.”

  As they were talking Brother Symon had fetched a black robe with a yellow cross on the left shoulder of it. This he handed to Jacques, thereby signifying to the world that he was a fugitive from justice, but under the direct protection of the Church.

  The abbot bade the crowd of people disperse, which they did quietly enough. The monks, too, followed by the abbot, turned away and went back to the cloisters, all save Brother Symon, the almoner, and Brother Cuthbert, the infirmarian, who busied themselves tending the cuts on the young man’s face and head, and bringing him food and wine. He must stay near the Galilee Porch both night and day, they told him, lest some fanatic attack him; or else go forth soon to the nearest port while folk remembered that the sanctuary law protected him.

  Only Hugh and Dickon heard these words of warning. When the rest of the crowd had departed they had still lingered on, watching; Hugh eager to have another word alone with Jacques, Dickon unable to keep his eyes from Hugh’s face.

  At last the two monks finished their kindly ministry and left Jacques to himself. He drew the black robe around his shoulders, never raising his head from its dejected drooping and, without a word or sign of recognition to Hugh, stept inside the door of the church.

  “So that is it,” said Dickon quietly, nodding his head.

  Hugh had been staring at the closed door and now brought himself to with a start. “What is it?” he questioned, giving Dickon his full attention for the first time. “What do you mean?”

  “So thou art of his household, the great lord, Hugh de Morville—one of those four—”

  Hugh nodded silently, his face tense and tragic.

  “But why didst thou not tell? It is not anything against thee who had naught to do with that murder?”

  “Thou seest how it is!” cried the other bitterly. “The whole world will hate my father and all his house because of that deed forever and ever!”

  “But not our Glaston!” interrupted Dickon. “We would have welcomed thee hadst thou been the wickedest man alive. We hate nobody here in Glaston; we couldn’t! Brother Symon says our Glaston is so sacred a spot that Christ Himself may come here some day. He is always expecting one of the beggars in the almonry to turn out to be Christ in disguise. And you should see him tend them himself, all sorts of filthy beggars. And many be thieves and cutthroats, no doubt. But it makes no difference to Brother Symon whether they be good or bad, clean or leprous, they be all, all come as the children of God and brothers of our Saviour. I cannot tell thee as he does—but surely there could be no hatred at all toward anyone here in our Glaston.”

  The boy spoke with a warmth and assurance that touched Hugh to the heart and for a moment he could scarce keep the tears back. At length he said, “I—I would like to have told everything to Brother John—and the abbot—he is kind and friendly—and you, too, Dickon. But my father made me vow I would say naught to anyone and would start new as if I had never had even the name of De Morville. But I can’t do that—I just can’t be as if I hadn’t any name or past or anything!”

  “Of course you can’t, and of course you could not break your vow either, but now I have guessed about it. Your vow is all whole and unbroken, yet we know about each other through and through, and we can be sworn brothers after all. You would like to be, wouldn’t you?”

  “I would more than anything! And I am glad you have guessed my secret! It was a heavy burden to carry alone.”

  The two boys looked at each other in silent understanding for a moment and then, both feeling suddenly awkward after such an unusual display of sentiment, Dickon seized his cap and made a thrust at a streak of sunlight slanting in a long line between the trees of the grounds.

  “Not yet!” said Hugh laughing. “You’re no saint yet! The sunbeam won’t hold, and that is the last sunlight of the day. ’Twill soon be time for Vespers. By my faith, I had forgot the horse and cart we took in the village! I wonder—”

  “The owner has no doubt got them home by now,” Dickon assured him. “I saw the horse and the overturned cart by the side of the road before I joined you here. Jehan was in a great to-do about them; he is the peasant who owns them, you know. I told him you were one of us, one of the abbey folk, and must needs help any sanctuary seeker in any way you could. That soon pacified him. They all love our Glaston, the peasant folk—and they’d better, with all the brothers do for them!”

  Hugh looked relieved. “I feared they would want to be after me in a mob when they had finished with Jacques,” said he. “All I thought of at the time was to get him here safe, and the horse and cart were handy�
�”

  “You were fine!” said Dickon approvingly. “Finer than I would have been with two whole legs to me.” He turned red and embarrassed, thinking Hugh might be hurt at the allusion to his infirmity, but the boy was only pleased with the praise.

  “’Twas nothing,” said he modestly; “the least I could do for a friend of my father’s, for anyone of my father’s house.”

  “That is the way I feel about Glaston folk, all of them. I would risk my life for Glaston any day—may the saints so help me! But come, we must seal our pact of undying friendship! We must draw blood on it and swear that hereafter there shall be naught hid between us, either good or bad!” Dickon thrust his hand under his tunic and drew forth a knife knotted clumsily with a hempen cord tied around his waist.

  “But no!” A new thought occurred to him and he returned the knife to its somewhat dangerous place of concealment. “I’ve a better idea! We’ll make a ceremony of it in my secret cave. We’ll swear brotherhood over my treasure of hidden hallows. What time art like to be free on the morrow, Hugh?”

  “Maybe Brother John will let me have the afternoon off; we have a good supply of scriptorium materials on hand. Otherwise I would only have the hour after the noon meal when the brothers are resting.”

  “We’d need more time than that,” said Dickon. “I have something very special to show you. I’d be free anytime. I just go off when I’ve a mind to; Brother Guthlac sometimes thrashes me when I get’ back, but usually he’s too lazy.”

  Hugh did not quite like the thought of running out on Brother John; he had been so friendly. “Let’s leave it that I will be here on the Galilee Porch tomorrow at two,” he said. “If I am not here you will know I just couldn’t get away.”

  “Agreed,” said Dickon. “Two by the sundial. I’ll be there—my brother!”

  4. Hidden Hallows

  THE NEXT DAY, having got leave easily enough from Brother John, Hugh stood on the Galilee Porch at two o’clock. Jacques de Raoul was nowhere to be seen. Hugh had hoped to speak to him again; he had gone back early that morning when the brothers left the building after the service of Prime to look for him, but had found the place empty. Evidently he had thought it wise to set forth at once instead of waiting the allotted days of sanctuary. Times were troublous and even the protecting black cloak with the yellow cross of the fugitive might not insure his safety on the high road. Better get himself clear out of the country as soon as he could.