As many as could get inside the doors did so. The king and queen and a few other important personages stood near the chancel with the abbot and priests who would perform the ceremony. To the left, just where the north transept began, stood a large tomb of shining black marble, freshly built. After the sprinkling of holy water, much censing, and the intoning of suitable prayers, the great oak coffin was lowered into this, a slab of exquisitely veined stone was closed upon it, and the shrining drew to an end.
Hugh and Dickon had craned their necks and squirmed their way through the crowd until they could see and hear without difficulty.
In the middle of the service Hugh suddenly became conscious of Dickon’s fingers digging him in the ribs.
“Do you know what?” said the boy in a whisper, after he had gotten his friend’s attention. “There’s something else that ought to be in that tomb—King Arthur’s sword!”
“Excalibur!” exclaimed Hugh, so loud that several turned and frowningly bade the boys be quiet. “That’s so!” he whispered in a lower tone. “I’d forgotten about the sword. It ought to have been here—you are right. But I don’t suppose Bleheris would ever have consented to give it up.”
“Well, he left the sword on the altar steps of the Old Church that last time we saw him there. Remember?”
Hugh nodded.
“I’m going to see if it’s still there!” Dickon began at once to wriggle through the crowd toward one of the doors, but Hugh seized his sleeve and detained him.
“You can’t get it now,” he whispered decidedly. “And even if you did, who would believe it was King Arthur’s sword without stopping to examine it?—and anyway it belongs to Bleheris—he—” But Dickon had worked himself free and was lost in the crowd.
Hugh turned back to the ceremony of the shrining, feeling somewhat uneasy.
When at last it was all over he moved with the crowd out of the church building and began looking around for Dickon. Suddenly he appeared at his elbow and Hugh was relieved to see that he was not carrying the huge iron-hilted sword. Appearing with it at that particular moment would have been as awkward as it would have been spectacular.
“Oh, so it wasn’t there?” said he. “Doubtless Bleheris has taken it off again. Well, come on, let’s go over to the guest house; maybe we can catch a glimpse of Eileen.”
“Hugh,” said Dickon, and his voice sounded so strange that the boy stopt dead and stared at him. “It was there, on the altar steps, and a lot more things, too; the crystal cross and my sapphire altar, and the very best and most precious of the old hermit’s treasures, all there, laid out on the steps and floor. What on earth do you think is going on?”
“I can’t imagine! Do you suppose Bleheris himself brought them there? Or somebody else?—And what for? I want to see them!”
Hugh started to turn back, but just at that moment they both spied the little Lady Eileen walking across the greensward toward them. She had her dog, Kenny, under her arm but her face looked so sad and woebegone as she drew closer that all thought save concern for her promptly left their minds.
They greeted her courteously, Dickon pulling off his cap and making a quick, ducking bow as if he were in a hurry to get it over with.
“Fair damsel,” said Hugh with his accustomed ease, “is there aught amiss? We would fain help you if it be possible.”
“By all the saints!” Dickon broke in emphatically. “If anyone hath done thee wrong or made thee sorrowful I’ll—I’ll—” He left his sentence unfinished, there being no adequate threat to offer in his present state of ignorance.
“It’s about Kenny,” said the girl miserably. “They say I have got to give him up. He chewed my Lady Imogene’s slipper last night, and he is always getting underfoot, and he yapped at one of the page boys, too, and sometimes he runs away. But I love him—and I can’t just leave him anywhere. He would starve or be killed by wild beasts.” The tears were flowing fast now
Dickon looked questioningly at Hugh, who nodded back.
“Could you now—would you leave him with us?” he said. “He could live at the grange with Brother Guthlac, and we, Hugh and I, would take care of him ourselves and—”
“And he wouldn’t be the first homeless creature to find refuge in Glaston!” Hugh added with a wry little smile, thinking of his own desolate state when he was brought to the abbey more than a year ago.
“That is most kind and gracious of you.” The damsel dried her tears but still regarded them questioningly. “You—you would be very gentle and good to him? And the grange—would he be happy and comfortable there? I can’t bear to part with him, but it would be good to know he—he was with friends who loved him!” A trembling little sigh which was half a sob made the boys more eager than ever to do her a service.
“After dinner we will take you to the grange and show you; it is a good place, and Brother Guthlac has a way with little beasts, big ones, too, for that matter, and whenever Kenny was not with us, he would be with him.”
Dickon wondered as he talked, whether Guthlac would indeed allow them to keep a pet at the grange but—well, he would just have to!
At that moment the bell rang for the noon meal and after it, when court and monastery folk were all settling down for an hour or two of afternoon quiet, the two boys went again to the guest house, to wait until Eileen could slip away unnoticed from the ladies and tire women and join them.
Brother Guthlac smiled good-humoredly enough when the three appeared at the grange and made their request. Then they sought out a warm, comfortable corner in an unused stall, fixed a bed and let the little dog play about and sniff his new surroundings.
“It won’t be like living at court!” declared Dickon.
Eileen made a face indicative of her extreme distaste. “I am glad of that!” said she, “and he will be glad; I know he will! Deary me, but I am weary of all the curtsyings and mouthings and mannerings, all the stiff clothes and stiff ways! Often and often I wish I were a simple village maid in a borel frock, and could sit at ease or play all the day long. It is not easy to be a lady!”
“Nor to be a knight,” added Hugh sympathetically.
“But I would like to be a knight,” said Dickon. “And if I were, would you be my lady?” He blushed to the roots of his hair as the words came tumbling out. He had not meant to say that at all. And now maybe she would be offended and not leave her dog with him.
She was not, however, for she smiled in the friendliest fashion and, taking the two yellow ribbons that bound her thick braids of brown hair, she gave one to Dickon and then handed the other to Hugh.
“You shall both be my knights,” said she generously. “I give you each a token of my favor. If ever I am in danger or distress, I will send for one of you, if I can; and if ever you have need of a friend at court, send me my yellow ribbon that I may know, and then I will do for you whatsoever I can.” She spoke graciously and gravely, and the boys gave heed to her words, pleased and touched by them.
Then she picked up Kenny, kissed him on his soft white ear and placed him in Dickon’s arms.
“We shall be going early in the morning,” said she. “Take him now and get better acquainted so I can think of him being happy with you.”
The little beast was friendly enough. He was a young dog and he licked Dickon’s ear and romped and played with both boys in eager, impartial puppy fashion. It was agreed between the three that Dickon should stay at the grange and keep Kenny amused while Hugh escorted the Lady Eileen back to the guest house, a mark of really unselfish devotion on Dickon’s part for he would have dearly loved the few extra moments of the young damsel’s society.
“You are courtly born, are you not?” Eileen said to Hugh as they walked across the greensward together.
“Aye, that I am,” said Hugh, but added nothing further.
“Then you will surely be a knight some day. Remember my favor—I am truly in earnest in giving it to thee.”
“I will indeed remember,” said Hugh, “whether I
be a knight or no.”
They said little more and, when they had reached the guest house gate, Hugh had barely time to bid the little lady a courteous farewell before she was whisked away by one of the queen’s ladies who had evidently been looking for her.
Dickon spent the whole night in the grange barn in order to make sure that Kenny should not be lonely. He rolled himself up in a blanket on a pile of hay and slept so soundly that, even if the little beast had howled in despair and friendlessness, he never would have known it! But in the morning he found his small charge contentedly hunting rats in a cobwebby corner, apparently very willing to change the luxuries of court life for a much more exciting if simpler one in the monastic grange.
King Henry and his court were ready betimes, and the abbot and chief monastery folk were already gathered around the guest house and the south gate to bid them farewell and Godspeed. Hugh and Dickon soon spied the Lady Eileen in the chattering crowd of women who surrounded the queen. Dickon managed to get her ear and attention sufficiently to signal that Kenny was well and flourishing, but what with all the stamping horses, lurching litters, and servants rushing madly about, they could not approach her close enough to do more than wave to her as she mounted her small, restless palfrey and went clattering by.
At last all the visitors had got off and away, the outer gate was shut, the porter went wearily back to his post beside it, and the rest of the brothers prepared to take up their routine wherever they had left it.
Hugh felt Brother John’s hand upon his shoulder as he turned rather listlessly toward the cloisters.
“Come, boy,” said he, “there is much to be done. Thou dost handle the script passing well by now and I would set thee to copying a breviary. We have need of many more.”
He sounded as if there had been no break in the monastic days, and Hugh felt the security of customary tasks slipping over him again, not unhappily.
When they came to the Painted Aumbry, Brother John opened the top of it and took out fresh quill pens, lead rules, a medium-sized frame on which to stretch a sheet of parchment, and various other bookmaking implements, and handed them to Hugh who took them to a writing desk set against the wall a little further along. The hours of the morning passed, quietly, steadily, punctuated by the regular offices, then dinner.
Hugh was glad, to stretch his cramped body and aching fingers as he rose from his desk and stept from the shade of the north cloister into the sunny garth. He hoped he would have the afternoon free and could go out into the orchards and marsh lands, for buds were bursting on bushes and trees, the willows by the Brue would be a golden yellow and the air was alive with the promise of growing things.
He also wanted to look in at the Old Church and see that odd collection of things Dickon had told him about. But no such good fortune. Brother John bade him return to his work after the noontide meal.
“So much precious time hath been lost,” he grumbled. “What with all this pother about kings and queens, dead and alive! Books are far more important, at least beautiful ones are, and that is what we should be making!”
They went again to the north cloister while the rest of the monastic family betook itself to its hour of reading or rest. There was no relaxing in Brother John. After Hugh had settled himself to his copying again, the armarian, flourishing a dust cloth, applied himself to the Painted Aumbry. Evidently he was suffering from an attack of house cleaning. The two worked on, near each other but not speaking. Hugh became absorbed in his parchment. He liked to make the black letters clear and straight so that a written page was as lovely to the eye as to the mind.
Suddenly he was startled by a hoarse cry. He jumped, his pen making an ugly scrawl on the good fresh sheepskin, and turned to Brother John. The monk was standing motionless, his body bent slightly, his eyes fixed upon the lower part of the aumbry.
“What is it, Brother John?” cried Hugh, hastening to him. “What is the matter?”
The little monk straightened up and looked at the boy with white face and an expression of utter desolation.
“It’s gone!” he said, scarcely above a whisper. “Our treasure! The Book of the Seynt Graal!”
Hugh caught his breath. For a moment the cloister walls seemed to reel about him. He thrust Brother John aside that he might look for himself and see the hidden, secret cupboard, unwilling to believe what his ears and eyes told him. It was empty. The broken book had vanished.
Speechless, he looked back at Brother John. His mind registered only one scene, one thought, Maurice, the king’s minstrel, and the cynical face of the clever archdeacon, Walter Mape, peering over his shoulder as he, Hugh, displayed the treasure of Glaston; the look of unmistakable greed in their faces as they gazed at the soiled and worn old pages.
“The king should own that book,” Maurice had said.
“There is none other in all the world,” Walter Mape had added.
Could it be that those two had taken it, “borrowed” it, ostensibly for the king’s library, really for themselves, that they might pore over it and learn the age-old stories and traditions that were the loveliest in the world, and which could not be found in any other place?
Still Hugh gazed mutely and despairingly into the face of Brother John. If they had taken it, those two, then it was his fault, he was responsible. He should have known enough, he who had seen so many examples of the unscrupulousness of courtiers and hangers-on around the king!
“Gone!” Brother John was repeating. “Gone! But who could have taken it? Not a brother in the whole of Glaston would have laid hands upon it; few know that it is here; only one or two know what it is. Hugh, how could it have gone, and where?”
Then Hugh poured forth the whole story, not only how he had shown the book to Maurice and Walter Mape, but why he had done so; how he had recognized the story of the loathely lady which the minstrel had told as the same tale that was incomplete in the broken book.
“And, you see, Brother John, I had found a lot of those missing pages that told other Grail stories, but not the very end of the adventure, so I asked Maurice where he had got it and—”
“You had found some missing pages! Where? What do you mean?” Brother John laid a shaking hand on the boy’s arm. “By all the saints, boy, tell me quickly—you say you had found—?” He left his sentence unfinished in his excitement.
Then it all came out, of course. Hugh told of Dickon’s underground treasure vault, of the chest with the loose pages in it, and how he had been working over them for months now, and kept them hidden behind a loose board inside the door of the Old Church.
“I wanted to wait until they were all done,” he said, tears of distress coming into his eyes. “Then I—we—Dickon and I—were going to present them to you as our find, our work, a sort of gift to Glaston. And—and it would have meant so much to me, particularly, because—because, Glaston has been so good to me—in spite of my father—and everything.” His voice trembled and for a moment he could not go on. Brother John continued to stare at him without a word.
“And now the book has been taken—and it is all my fault! What good will the loose pages be without the book they belong to?” the boy finished miserably.
At last Brother John roused himself. “The minstrel and Sir Walter Mape,” said he, returning to the subject of the theft. “If they have taken our book they must return it, and that right speedily! The king shall make them give it up! Come, boy, we must see the abbot. Thou and I shall mount nags and ride after the king’s train.”
They started across the garth, Brother John almost running. Hugh caught at his sleeve as he hurried after him.
“Brother John,” said he, “I pray you, Brother John; it is my fault that the book is gone. Let me ride alone and recover it. You are—” He was about to say too old, but thought in time to stop himself. “I can ride fast, I have ridden since I was a babe in arms, except when my lameness got worse, and you can see how much better that is! I can ride on a swift horse, and—Brother John—I will bring bac
k our book myself, no matter what I have to do to get it!”
The monk stopped so short that Hugh actually bumped into him, and stared at the boy for a long moment as if he had never seen him before.
“Perhaps thou art right,” said he at length. “Thou art young and thou knowest the ways of courts and kings. I will get thee a horse now, this moment, without waiting for my Lord Abbot’s permission. Canst go at once?”
Hugh nodded, his heart pounding. They turned their steps toward the grange and the boy did some reckoning on his fingers. The king’s party had been gone since shortly after dawn. From the look of the sun it must be around four o’clock now. They had eleven hours start of him, at least, but with ladies in the party they must perforce move slowly. Perhaps he could catch up with them before black night set in, if he made the best of every moment. But if night came on and caught him on the lonely country roads, would he have the courage to ride on, alone and without weapons of any kind? Would he be able to ask his way sufficiently, learn which direction the cavalcade had taken, and follow along with the least possible loss of time? He wished Dickon could ride with him, but that would delay him, for the boy was no horseman. Well, he must not think of difficulties, only ride, ride with all possible speed, overtake the king and his court and recover the book!
It did not take long to find a stable man and get him a horse. Hugh looked around the big barn eagerly, hoping to catch sight of Dickon. He would like to have told him where he was going and why, but the boy was nowhere to be seen. He took time to make sure of a comfortable saddle, then forced a hopeful smile for Brother John, who was looking as if the foundations of his life had collapsed beneath him.
“The loose leaves thou didst find—” called the monk after him as he mounted and rode out through the great door, “didst say they were in the Old Church?”
The Hidden Treasure of Glaston Page 19