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The Treasures of Glaston 13

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xiii. 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 that 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 shrining 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 honour 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 armour 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 jewelled 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 vigour 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 splendour of the whole cavalcade.

"That is Maurice, the king's minstrel," whispered Hugh, nudging his companion as an especially gaily apparelled 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, and 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, colourful, 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.

The little lady's blue eyes were large with tears when Dickon bashfully approached her, but She broke into a radiant smile at sight of her pet.

"Oh, thank you!" she exclaimed, "thank you a~ thousand times! My Kenny must have been so frightened! He might have got away entirely if you had not caught him, and then my heart would have been broken, I verily believe."

Dickon, finding nothing to say, stood awkwardly on one foot, then on the other. Luckily, at this moment Hugh came up to them.

"Greeting, fair lady," said he with a sweeping, courtly bow, "and welcome to our Glaston."

The girl smiled and curtsied in return. Dickon, suddenly realising that his manners lacked something in the way of knightly courtesy, snatched off his round cap and imitated Hugh's bow, albeit he was ill at ease in the process. Then the three stood looking at each other, unable to get started in con­versation.

It was Hugh who saved the situation by saying with courte­ous formality, "It is a great honour to us of Glaston to receive Her Majesty, Queen Eleanor, and all her fair ladies, of whom you are surely the fairest." (Not for nothing had Hugh been instructed in troubadour ways and manners of speech!)

The young lady thus addressed coloured and then giggled.

"Faith!" said she, "I be not so fine as all that! I be just Eileen, ward to the queen. I come from a castle in the north and am sent to my lady, Queen Eleanor, to be nurtured and taught man­ners." Suddenly her blue eyes clouded and the tears started. "I be mortal tired of being stiff and proper all day long, and sore homesick. If it were not for Kenny that I brought with me from home, I think I should die!"

All the courtly, artificial manner slipped out of Hugh like starch from wet linen. "I know what it feels like to be home­sick!" said he in quick sympathy.

"And I'm—I'm so glad I found Kenny for you," Dickon added heartily. "If you lose him again, just tell some one to find Dickon the oblate, and I'll get him for you, if it's the last thing I do in this world!"

"So you're Dickon—and I'm Eileen—and you—?"

"Hugh," said the other, then after a moment's hesitation he added, "Hugh de Morville—you—you probably know of my father?"

The girl shook her head. She was smiling again now, a wide friendly smile that showed her even, white young teeth and brought a dimple into one cheek. "No, but I don't know many people yet, even by reputation. I'm new at court, you see."

At that moment a large scolding woman bore down upon them and whisked the Lady Eileen away.

"Watch for me after dinner," said she over her shoulder; "if I can, I will talk to you. Good-by, Dickon and Hugh; see, Kenny is waving to you!" She waggled the dog's paw in their direction and then hurried on, in the train of the large woman, toward the guesthouse.

The two boys watched her out of sight. "By the bones of St. Crispin," declared Dickon emphatically, "if I were a knight, I should not rest until yon damsel were my lady! One does not realise, mewed up in a monastery as you and I are, that ladies are good to look at and to be with, does one?"

"One does not!" agreed Hugh, "and one forgets. I thought my sisters were silly, with their troubadours making big eyes at them, and always laughing and giggling and fiddling with their hair, but the Lady Eileen—" he left his sentence un­finished.

"Let's show her around the place," suggested Dickon. "We might even take her down to the treasure vault and let her see the sapphire altar."

Hugh shook his head dubiously. "She would not be per­mitted to go—and besides, she would probably be afraid. Girls are not very brave, you know."

"I guess Eileen would be!" Dickon defended loyally. "Well, come on, let's see what else is new and exciting. The shrining begins well!"

The rule of silence at the dinner table was laid aside because of the important visitors, but the guests were so distributed that they seemed to stand out less conspicuously among the monas­tery folk than when they had arrived in a body. The king and queen and their immediate followers were entertained in Father Abbot's own quarters. The rest of the women folk ate in the guesthouse, and the men went to the monks' refectory, where they mingled familiarly enough with the brothers.

Neither Hugh nor Dickon caught sight of the Lady Eileen after dinner nor yet during the long afternoon, though they kept bobbing around in the vicinity of the guest house between their various tasks, always hoping they would meet her. After supper most of the guests and all the brothers gathered together on the lawn hard by the abbot's quarters, to chat together and, perhaps, be entertained by a song or minstrel's tale, for this was the time of day and the place where such things were custom­arily permitted.

King Henry, Queen Eleanor, and the abbot sat on carved wooden chairs that had been dragged out from the chapter house for them, and the knights and ladies stood or strolled about, talking to one another or, occasionally, to some of the brothers, though most of the monks were so unaccustomed to small talk, especially with ladies, that they held back modestly, content to watch the unusual picture of the gay world disport­ing itself pleasantly in their domain. The twilight seemed long and the air mild for the season, though it was cool enough for the ladies to don their cloaks which fell so gracefully from shoulders to ankles and displayed edging or lining of vair, mar­ten, or, in the case of the queen at least, soft white ermine. The king fidgeted incessantly, crossing and uncrossing his stocky, scarlet-clad legs. Father Robert, sitting beside him, seemed by contrast to hold himself unusually still. The queen sat in languid ease, not talking much, although several courtiers, in gay cloaks and tunics and modish pointed shoes, hovered about her. Among the ladies gathered together a little apart from the queen, stood the young maid, Eileen. Dickon and Hugh noted her as soon as she appeared and both stared at her in unconcealed admiration as much as they dared. She was a small person but she made the most of the inches she had, standing straight with head held high. Her hair, the boys noticed, had a touch of red in the brown of it, and the long green cloak falling from her shoulders and caught at the throat with a clasp of gold, became her well. They wondered what she had done with her dog; perhaps she had left some servant to care for it. She looked tran­quil enough and smiled in frank pleasure when her eyes rested on their eager faces. They managed to work their way around through the crowd until they were near enough to speak to her.

"Where's Kenny?" said Dickon, by way of starting the conversation.

"In the guest house, shut in. I only hope nobody will let him out!"

Dickon privately hoped he would get out and run away so that he could have the pleasure of finding him and returning him again.

Before Hugh could say anything there was a sudden hushing and quieting of voices and the faces of all turned toward the centre of the terrace whereon the king and queen sat.

"Maurice, the king's minstrel, is going to tell a story," whis­pered Eileen, "and it will be so long—and I would rather go about and see the grounds and talk to you two, the way the other ladies have been talking to the knights and courtiers."

"The ladies are talking to one knight each," Dickon whis­pered back significantly. "Why don't you slip away with me a little while and we can walk and talk in the cloisters back yonder, while Hugh listens to the story."

Hugh grinned. "Go to it," said he good-naturedly. "The cloisters have plenty walking about in them already, folk who like talk better than a story! I prefer a story!" And he stuck his nose in the air in very uncourtly fashion, though he would have much preferred to join them.

But in a few moments nothing could have dragged Hugh out of the sound of Maurice's voice. The minstrel had plunged at once into a knightly tale, an odd story of Sir Gawain the Cour­teous and his encounter with a misshapen, "loathely" lady, who asked him to be her knight. The tale was interesting enough in itself, but what caught Hugh and caused him to hold his breath and gaze in fixed absorption on the teller, was the fact that it was a story told almost word for word in the broken Book of the Seynt Graal. Indeed, it was in the middle of that very story that the break came, that pages had been torn out and lost. Hugh had wondered how the tale came out; now he would hear. But what was more important to him was the realisation that here, standing before him, was a minstrel who knew one of the collection of Grail stories. Perhaps he knew more, perhaps he knew the end of the whole and could tell what happened to the Grail finally, where it had been hidden, or if it had really been snatched away into heaven to be seen no more by sinful men. He could scarcely wait for Maurice to come to a close, and when he did, the king summoned him to his side to talk to him, and then others gathered around him. Hugh hung about, waiting his chance, and at last it came. Maurice strolled off in the direction of the cloisters with only the archdeacon, Walter Mape, beside him. The boy followed, hurrying to overtake him, then gently touched his arm. The minstrel paused in the middle of whatever he had been saying to Walter Mape, and the two turned and looked at Hugh questioningly.

"Good Master Minstrel," said the boy with a courteous bow, "that was indeed a goodly tale about the loathely lady. May I—sir, pray be not offended if I ask thee—I would fain know where it came from?"

For a moment Maurice did not answer and the boy wondered whether he had committed an unpardonable fault in courtesy by asking such a question. Then the minstrel spoke, graciously enough.

"It is a goodly tale and I am glad it liketh thee. I had it out of Wales, long since. Why do you ask?"

"The story is the same as one I read in a book," Hugh an­swered hesitantly, "a broken book. Half of the tale is torn away and it was right pleasant to hear the ending of it."

"What book was that?" broke in Walter Mape abruptly.

"It is a very old book, sir, The Book of the Seynt Graal."

Maurice and Sir Walter exchanged meaningful glances. "And where saw you that book, boy?" continued the former.

Hugh began to feel uneasy. How much should he tell these men of the hidden treasure in the Painted Aumbry? They seemed extraordinarily interested. "It is a volume we have here in Glaston, noble sirs," said he, not knowing how else to answer them.

"The Book of the Seynt Graal," repeated the minstrel thoughtfully. "Surely it could not be the book—the lost volume of which we have heard! Boy," he continued after a moment, "we must see that book. By my faith, I would rather set these two eyes upon it than on anything else in the world—if indeed it is the book!"

"It may be Brother John, our armarian—" began Hugh, but Sir Walter interrupted him.

"Nay, we would not bother the good brother with our idle curiosity. You must know, lad, that in Wales there is a tradition of a book long lost and mostly forgotten, containing the whole history of the Sacred Cup which men called, in the days of King Arthur, the Holy Grail."

Hugh nodded his understanding.

"Now and then an ancient minstrel tells a tale concerning it, such as this our Maurice has just repeated, but the sense and source of them all is not to be found either there or, so they of Wales would have us believe, in any spot on God's earth."

"Saving it might be in Avalon," added Maurice.

Hugh started. Avalon! The misty meadows between the ab­bey and Tor Hill, the place of his vision of the funeral barge of Arthur, and of strange tales and uncanny traditions of which Bleheris had told him.

"And so," the archdeacon was continuing, "to see that an­cient book would mightily please us, being minstrels both, of a fashion, for I too create verse," he smiled wryly, "and like­wise tell tales, though of an order quite different from the ro­mances of King Arthur!"

Hugh smiled back, for he knew the reputation of the clever Walter Mape for cutting personal satire and gossipy tales of court scandal!

"But some day," the other went on, "I, too, intend to write a tale that is lovely, perhaps a story culled from the history of the Grail and its seekers. Who can tell? Come, boy, if thou knowest where the book lies, let us look upon it now, this very moment. By tomorrow we shall all be busy with the shrining and after that it will be too late."

Surely there could be no harm in merely showing them the book, thought Hugh. He felt a sudden pride that Glaston should possess a manuscript that these two men, so world­ travelled and important, desired greatly to see. And yet, he felt uneasy. If Brother John were only there. He looked hastily around at the thinning crowd. The twilight was deepening.

"It will soon be too dark," urged Maurice.

"Over in the north cloister walk," said Hugh. "But if you would wait until tomorrow Brother John could show you—"

"We will ask the good armarian more about it on the mor­row, if it be indeed the real thing," said Sir Walter. "A glance should tell us."

They had walked on while they were speaking and now, led by Hugh, they stood in the alcove before the Painted Aumbry. Deftly and swiftly Hugh drew out the books that covered the secret panel, opened it and, with the reverent and careful han­dling that he always used for it, lifted out the broken volume of The Seynt Graal.

Walter Mape took it in his hand while Maurice looked over his shoulder. He examined the title page, scrutinised the script, felt with practised fingers the fine grain of the parchment and turned the volume over to its torn and mutilated back.

For several moments not one of the three spoke. Then a long, slow sigh came from Sir Walter's lips.

"It is the book," breathed Maurice, "there can be no doubt of it! But what of the missing pages? Sure and it would be worth a king's ransom to find them!"

Hugh's heart was beating high with excitement and pride. He opened his mouth to tell them of his long guarded secret, of the pages he and Dickon had found in the underground treasure vault and how he had been working over them, hours upon hours, to fit them together and make of the book a more nearly perfect whole. But something restrained him and he said nothing, merely let the two look their fill and then reclaimed the volume and put it carefully back in its place.

"That is indeed a treasure," said Walter Mape as they turned away. "It is without doubt one of the most precious books in the world, even in its broken and imperfect state."

"It should be the property of the king," said Maurice. "No one but His Majesty should own such a priceless volume. There is no other place in all the world where one may read those stories of the Holy Grail; they would be lost forever if any­thing should happen to that book." He sighed. "I would I might borrow it and con the tales. Think you the Glaston folk would lend it to me?"

Hugh went cold at the thought. He had not realised how precious to him, personally, was the knowledge that The Book of the Seynt Graal was there safely in the Painted Aumbry in his Glaston. If it should be lent to anybody in the trail of the restless King Henry, nobody could guess what might happen to it.

"It may be Brother John will have it copied," said he hastily; "especially if—if more pages of it should ever be discovered."

"It should be in the king's possession now," insisted Maurice. Dusk had almost slipped into night. As they left the shadowy cloisters Hugh thought for a moment that he had seen the tall form of Master Bleheris, but he must have been mistaken, for the walks and the terrace were empty. The abbot and the king and his party had all gone into the califactorium to warm them­selves around the brazier, lighted for their comfort, though ordinarily the brothers made no such concessions to the chill damp of nights so late in spring. The bell for Compline rang clamorously. Hugh went in to the vast, dim, candle-lighted church with the brothers, and listened to the familiar service. He felt vaguely troubled; he wished he had not told those two men anything about the precious treasure in the aumbry.

Tomorrow he must tell Brother John all about it. Perhaps he would be angry, but no matter, he must tell him without any more delay. He would also share his long kept secret about the recovered pages he had been working over. That had been kept from him much too long. Suppose something should happen to them!

He had scarcely paid any attention to the words and singing of the service of Compline. Now they broke in upon him, claiming his ear and mind. He sighed and something in him relaxed. The old familiar intoned words, the deep rich voices of the men quieted him, gave him the sense of peace they had so often given him before.

"Into thy hands, 0 Lord, we commend our spirits;
Guard us while waking,
Watch over us while sleeping
That, awake, we may watch with Christ,
And asleep, we may rest in thy peace."
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:excited:I'm loving this...:love: