The Hidden Treasure of Glaston

by Eleanore M Jewett

  “Then I will take it to Brother John,” the boy spoke eagerly, “and with what he has found, the pages written over, we’ll be able to piece together a good part of the whole thing. And then we’ll rebind, or maybe we’ll make a fresh copy, and it will be the loveliest book in the whole world! We’ll have blue enamel set in the binding, and maybe gems, and a clasp of gold. I know Brother John will want to make it beautiful.”

  The hermit grunted impatiently. “What matter the outside of the book, boy? But the inside, the story of the Grail, nobody in all the world knows that story from beginning to end! I did once, and the ancient bards of Wales who told me knew, but they are dead now, all of them, and my old memory has failed. Hugh, lad—”

  He laid his large hands on Hugh’s shoulders and held him, gazing passionately down from his great height into the boy’s eyes. “Hugh, lad, whatever comes to pass, let nothing destroy that book. It must be given, dedicated here upon this altar, and then be handed on, not only to Glaston but to generations still unborn. And no one can do that now but you, no one!”

  The winter months came on apace. The cloister walks grew bitter cold, the abbey church struck chill to the very bones in the early morning services; dorter, chapter house, refectory, all felt damp and cheerless as the low sun shone more palely through the shortening days. Only in the warming room, the calefactorium, where the monastic family gathered between Vespers and Compline, did a comfortably blazing brazier take the chill from the atmosphere. And the kitchen, of course, with its huge open fireplaces, felt heavenly warm by comparison with the other buildings. Hugh was glad indeed when Brother John’s work kept them both busy in the kitchen.

  There were, apparently, no more parchment sheets with the precious old writing of The Book of the Seynt Graal under the more modern script. Brother John sighed with disappointment whenever he commented on the very few they had recovered, and Hugh’s heart warmed with secret satisfaction, thinking of the surprise he was going to give the good armarian as soon as he had completed deciphering his cache of pages from the chest in the underground vault. He had gone back to his original idea of keeping his discovery of them to himself until his work on them should be done. It would seem then like his very own gift to Glaston and, anyway, no fitting opportunity to talk to Brother John about it seemed to present itself. There was always so much to be done. They made their own glue by boiling down scraps of old vellum with oil and wax. A little cinnabar ground upon a stone with water, mixed with the pure, brilliant red dye called minium, and then beaten up with white of egg, made a base in constant demand for the backgrounds of capital letters. The rubricators added a very little liquid glue to their gold when they were ready to apply it, and after it was quite dry, burnished it with an agate or a dog’s tooth. Hugh and Brother John must also keep on hand a supply of clear blue made from boiled down cornflowers gathered in the summer, and other colors from vegetable roots and powdered stone such as lapis lazuli and cinnabar. The work of the scriptorium seemed to increase daily and the two found almost more than they could do to keep the writers, illuminators, and book binders supplied with the materials they needed. But in spite of long hours over his prescribed tasks, Hugh managed to work by himself at odd times, hidden away in a corner behind the Painted Aumbry in the north cloister walk, and his pile of deciphered manuscript pages grew steadily larger. Although the cloisters were practically out of doors, his chosen nook was more sheltered as well as more secluded than any other spot he could find, so he continued to bring a handful of pages to work on there, and then return them to their hiding place behind the loose board in St. Joseph’s Chapel. It was too dark inside the little Old Church to see the pale, half-obliterated script, so he only stayed there long enough to fetch a fresh supply of parchment sheets and put his completed ones at the bottom of the fast growing pile. If he had thought to look again at the chancel, half hidden by the ancient wall, and at the odd square shaped altar, he would have been astonished beyond measure, but it did not occur to him; nor did he ever notice the footsteps that, even while he was in the building, moved occasionally with soft tread over the uneven flooring, back there in the dim light at the east end of the building.

  Hugh had grown taller and filled out. He limped still, but held himself so well that one was scarcely conscious of it. He never mentioned his infirmity, of course, but once in a while, when he grew weary because of it, or watched Dickon with his two sturdy legs and his immense activity, he sighed a little to himself. It would be good to be free of handicap, to be able to walk and ride, wrestle and climb, without thought of pain or incapacity, like other lads. But he was happy enough, far happier, as a matter of fact, than he had ever been. He had often heard that life in a monastery was monotonous and dull, but he found it not so at all. He loved his work with Brother John, and each day brought its variety and interest in the tasks he had to do. And whenever he was free to roam about, there was usually Dickon to keep him company.

  The oblate still served in the almonry with Brother Symon, work at the grange being definitely lighter through the winter season. He had more time to himself now, and loved to tramp through woods and meadows with Hugh; or the two boys would amuse themselves with the various artisans or workers connected with the abbey, for the monastery was a whole and self-sufficient community in itself, with plenty of activity going on all the time. Dickon never seemed to mind the cold. The one extra woolen garment given to every member of the conventual family sufficed him, and his red cheerful face under its customary borel cap always looked pleased, contented, and interested in everybody.

  The search for the Holy Cup was, of necessity, laid by for the time being. There seemed to be nothing more to find in the passages underground and the increasing cold made further visits there unappealing. Every now and then Hugh would wrap his cloak tightly about him and face the winds that swept icily over the salt marshes to visit Master Bleheris at Beckery. But he no longer went to seek information, only out of friendliness and concern for the lonely old man in his self-imposed exile, and because of the strong bond of congeniality and genuine friendship between them. Hugh liked to sit with him beside his smoky peat fire in his dingy little hut. He liked to tell of the small daily events of the monastic community, and the hermit liked to listen, often making astonishingly shrewd or wise observations. Sometimes he seemed completely sane and would talk long and interestingly about his minstrel days, or his boyhood in Wales; sometimes he would drop into a knightly tale which would hold Hugh in fascinated attention. And once in a great while some story would come forth out of the depths of the old man’s clouded memory, that had to do with the solemn, adventurous days of the Holy Grail. Then, indeed, Hugh would hang upon each word, scarcely daring to breathe lest he break the spell and stop the telling. As for the actual search, however, Bleheris said nothing at all, and when the boy tried to egg him on by hints and questions, he only looked at him with a strange light in his face. “Not yet,” he would say, “the sacrifice is not complete, the hour has not struck, we are not ready—thou art not, Hugh, lad, nor yet am I.”

  The long cold weeks of midwinter passed at last. Lent was early that year and gave little promise of spring in spite of its name. Forty days seemed a long stretch for meager fare, much actual fasting, and the cold stormy days of late February and March. Tempers became edgy among the brothers and an air of gloom and depression settled down upon the whole monastic community, except for Dickon who kept his buoyant good spirits as unchanged and unsuppressed as the wide and always ready grin on his round, cheerful countenance. Perhaps working with Brother Symon was partly responsible for his continual happiness, for the good almoner went about his daily tasks among the poor with a tranquillity and radiance in his face that never seemed to leave him and was quite contagious.

  The gloom of Lent was temporarily lifted on Palm Sunday when all the villagers poured into the monastic grounds for the ceremony of the blessing of the palms. Then the abbey church was bright with candle lights again, the music was glad and triu
mphant and, after the long service of High Mass, dinner was plentiful and satisfying!

  But Monday morning plunged the conventual community into an even deeper heaviness and gloom. And on Thursday the altar was stripped of its beautiful carved and gilded frontal, and nothing was left upon it save the cross, still heavily veiled in purple. A plain wooden cross, painted red and with no figure upon it, was used in the processionals. Twenty-four lights set in a triangular candlestick in the sanctuary gave forth the only light in the huge dark church; and when Matins and Lauds were sung, they were put out one by one at the end of each of the psalms, making the atmosphere darker than before. Bells were muted and the hours for the offices were struck by a wooden mallet beaten on a board by one of the novices. The Still Days, people called the period between Thursday of Holy Week, and Easter Sunday.

  Very early on Good Friday morning a strange ceremony began, a kind of liturgical drama which did not end until Easter morning. Before the entire monastic body, assembled in the abbey, Father Robert, clad only in the simple black robe of his order, unwound the altar cross from its veils of purple silk and laid it in a fine linen cloth, swathing it carefully as if it were a dead human body. Then he carried it to a wooden sepulcher which had been set up in the chancel and covered with rich palls of samite embroidered in gold. In an opening made for the purpose he placed the crucifix, closed the small door and knelt before it. Two tall candles were lighted at the head and foot of this symbolic tomb, and then all other lights were extinguished and the monks filed out in almost total darkness. Not a sound broke the stillness save the soft padding of furred boots, and the abbot was left alone, his tall figure motionless and bowed in prayer. Others would come to relieve his watch, and there would be no moment without its praying soul there beside the cross as long as it was buried in its wooden sepulcher.

  The Lord’s Day of Joy, the monks called Easter. It began in the chill of earliest dawn, but even as Hugh, with the brothers, in the big dorter, hurried into their boots and drew on their winter wraps over their habits in the shivering cresset lights, they seemed to expand with a feeling of inner joy. Down to the church they marched as usual and found a thousand candles burning. The oldest brother among them all went, with feeble, tottering steps, to the sepulcher wherein the cross had been placed, took it out, laid aside its linen shroud and bore it triumphantly to the altar. Then he went to the door of the south transept where Abbot Robert met him with two choristers bearing lighted candles.

  “Whom do you seek?” intoned the old man in a quavering voice, and clear and strong rang out the three voices in reply, representing the three Marys at the tomb of Our Lord.

  “We seek Jesus of Nazareth.”

  And then the choir in the chancel, the great company of monks behind them, and all the lay people and village folk who filled the nave, took up the exultant, triumphant song, singing until the high rafters of the roof re-echoed.

  “He is not here! The Lord has risen! He is not dead, He is alive and will live forevermore! Alleluia! Alleluia!”

  13. Royal Guests

  AFTER EASTER THE whole universe changed, or so it seemed to Hugh. The dreamy quietness, the sense of the closeness of the world of the spirit which had so pervaded the very air of the monastery, especially through the happenings of Holy Week, vanished suddenly and completely, and material matters became important again. It began when a richly caparisoned horse and messenger came clattering up to the main gate and announced that King Henry, his queen, and his court were even then upon their way to Glaston and would spend two days as guests of the abbot. His Majesty wished at that time to witness and take part in the shriving of the bones of King Arthur and Queen Guenevere, and to discuss many and sundry matters concerning the abbey with Father Robert.

  The whole place was at once thrown into a state of preparation and confusion. It was like King Henry to give them so little warning! People who knew his ways said he frequently went to bed giving no hint of any intention of moving elsewhere and then, in the early dawn, would suddenly issue orders for his court and servitors to wake up and prepare instantly to move to another spot, even to another country! Hugh remembered more than one occasion when his father had left home with barely an hour’s notice, because the king had suddenly taken a notion to go off somewhere, north, east, south, or west, and desired Sir Hugh de Morville to accompany him. The boy smiled rather grimly when Dickon fell upon him, all excitement and anticipation at the news that the king and his court would be riding into the grounds of Glastonbury within two short days.

  “It will be like a plague of locusts!” said he. “They came to our house once, our castle of Knaresborough. Such a stir-about and hullabaloo, such a clatter and fuss, and then when they were gone, there was nothing left—nothing in the larders, nothing in the wine cellars, nothing, literally, that wasn’t too heavy to carry off! What we had not given away was just taken by the king’s servants and hangers-on. I can’t see why anybody should get so excited about His Majesty, Henry the Second!”

  Dickon looked thoughtful for a moment. “Why, he’s king, that’s why it’s so exciting. He isn’t just a man, he stands for things—knighthood and deeds of honor and courage and—Oh, just everything adventurous.”

  Hugh grunted, but made no further comment. At the moment he had more sympathy with Brother John who was restless and irritable because his orderly routine was all upset by the confusion in the kitchen. His special corner, where he stretched his parchment skins and mixed his dyes and boiled his herbs and roots and made his glue, was swept over by cooks and stewards who paid no more attention to him and his work than if he had been a fly. After being scolded by pastry cooks, dripped on by syrup makers and bumped into wherever he went, he gave it up and retired to the cloisters, where he walked up and down, as uneasy as a duck out of water.

  The guest house must be got in order for the most unusual presence of ladies, the wine cellars must be inspected carefully and replenished where necessary, tons of meat, fowl, game, and fish must be got in, and as much pastry as could be cooked beforehand must be prepared and set aside for the great days.

  At last they came; outriders and heralds first, in gay clothing, with plumed caps, waving pennons and sounding trumpets. Then the knights, with the king and queen in their midst, their helmets shining in the sun, their chain armor glinting, their horses splendid in trappings of blues and greens, reds and yellows, with bridles jangling as they tossed their spirited heads. Queen Eleanor rode beside her lord on a snow white palfrey. She sat tall and easily on her red Spanish leather saddle, looking older than the king and much more regal and commanding, her scarlet, fur-edged cloak falling gracefully about her shoulders, her hands gloved in jeweled gauntlets which rested with firm grace on the slender bridle. Behind this noble company rode damsels and ladies-in-waiting, and many pages, squires, and lesser knights, and then servants, a long retinue.

  Hugh and Dickon stood with a crowd of monastery folk and villagers just inside the gate, and watched them ride by. Everybody doffed his cap and gave a little ducking bow as the king and queen passed. Dickon’s sharp eyes missed nothing; the strong, stocky build of the king, his thick neck, wide shoulders, and the vigor with which he rode his powerful steed; the pride in the queen’s beautiful face, the long hair braided with strands of scarlet ribbon, the fillet of gold that held her white coif in place, and the smile which was both condescending and coldly gracious, as she looked out over the crowds gathered on both sides of the road to watch her pass. He noted the curled locks of pages, the rich brocaded and fur trimmed tunics and cloaks of squires and courtiers, and all the dazzle, pomp, and splendor of the whole cavalcade.

  “That is Maurice, the king’s minstrel,” whispered Hugh, nudging his companion as an especially gaily appareled gentleman rode by, with a page close at his heels, bearing a lute and a leather book satchel. “And there goes Walter Mape, the archdeacon, the one in scarlet cloak and black cap. He is a great friend of the king’s and he writes clever verses—and chronicles, a
nd stories, too, so they say.”

  “That page boy looks too proud to notice his own belly button,” commented Dickon rather vulgarly as a curled and gorgeous youth rode by, his nose in the air. “And there are some girls, quite little girls! That one on the dappled pony with the long brown hair looks younger than we are. Looks saucy, too. Know who she is?”

  “No,” said Hugh, following the other’s unabashed and pointing finger. “Must be one of the queen’s wards. Why she’s got a dog under her arm, a little white dog—see him?”

  They were all in through the gates at last, and such a chattering and laughing, such a stamping and neighing of horses, such issuing of orders and such bowings and courtly greetings! Hugh and Dickon promptly got themselves into the middle of it all. The abbot was there at the king’s bridle and His Majesty dismounted and kissed him on either cheek, a formality permitted only to the great. A courtier in a blue and white tunic, fur-edged, was assisting the queen to dismount and now Father Abbot approached her and she bent gracefully to receive his blessing and kiss his hand. Lay brothers were leading horses toward the stables and squires followed with their masters’ mounts. Brother Arnolf, his cowl bobbing on his shoulders and his black habit winding itself about his ankles, ran hither and yon, bowing a greeting here, issuing directions there, apportioning this group to the guest house, that to the abbot’s quarters, and the servants and retainers to a little-used dormitory over the infirmary. It was all delightful, colorful, and exciting. Hugh helped the guest master in telling folk where to go. Dickon hung about the horses, fascinated by the splendid steeds, the bright trappings and gay saddle leather. He also managed to keep within sight of the young damsel with the dog and when, in the confusion and crowd of dismounting and being greeted, the small beast slipped from his mistress’s arms and ran off, barking and yapping, it was Dickon who recovered him and bore him back to his owner.