The Hidden Treasure of Glaston Read online

  “It was then that that our troubles came upon us. But I pray, Lord Abbot, ask me not about myself further, for my father hath forbidden me to say aught save—” he paused, his voice shaking and again the look of haunting tragedy in his face.

  “Save what, lad? I will not ask thee more than thy father would have thee tell.”

  “Save that my name is Hugh; I am twelve years of age; my mother is dead, and my father gone—I know not where. That I have no longer home or family or anything out of the past.” He had spoken as if repeating a lesson learned, but ended with a bitterness that was his own.

  At that moment Brother John, the librarian of the monastery, or armarian as he was called, appeared at the door. When his eyes fell upon the books, his thin face flushed, his hands flew up to his chest and he could scarce mumble his dutiful greeting to his superior before falling on his knees in front of them.

  The abbot laid a hand upon Hugh’s sleeve and gently pushed him forward. “Brother John,” said he, “we must thank the lad here, and his father, for this princely gift; it is because of the coming of Hugh that our aumbry shelves shall receive such goodly store.”

  Brother John cast a keen glance at Hugh, rose up and, to the boy’s great confusion, kissed him on one cheek, then on the other, then without a word, returned to his knees and an eager examination of the books.

  “Oh, my Lord Abbot, praise be to all the saints, here are the Dialogues of St. Gregory! And two Bibles and a goodly gloss! And homilies and—and—by my faith! the Roman pagans! Virgil, Horace, Ovid—one, two, four of them! Father, you will not deny us the reading of these? Some are noble, truly, and the Abbey of Croyland has, so they say, a fair collection of them, and the brothers read them in recreation hours.”

  His tongue rattled on, he paused not either for answers to the questions he threw out, nor for comments to match his own. His fingers trembled with eagerness, his cheeks were pink and his eyes shone with delight as he lifted them from some fair parchment to the smiling face of the abbot seated above him. At last he sat back on his heels sighing with satisfaction.

  “Boy,” said he, “these books will find some fair and worthy companions upon the shelves of our aumbries. You shall see for yourself on the morrow.” He turned toward the abbot again. “Father,” said he, “is the lad to sleep in the guest house or in the common dorter? There is an empty bed beside mine among the brothers—”

  “Mine?” corrected the abbot. “How often, Brother John, must you do penance for that little word forbidden upon the tongue of any Benedictine?”

  The monk stammered in confusion. “Father, I—in sooth, the richness of the books has muddled my poor brain! I had but thought to say that the little brother—I have already forgot the name mine aumbry, my own living aumbry, who has brought this precious gift—the lad here—”

  “My? Mine?” the abbot was laughing in spite of himself. “’Tis late, Brother, and thy wits are most certainly addled! Take the boy and between the two of you, take the books. Place them in the cloister niche which is nearest the church, ready for dedication on the morrow. Then betake you both to the common dormitory and sleep on the beds Holy Church has most graciously provided for you!”

  He arose; Brother John and Hugh gathered up the books carefully, and the three moved toward the door. As Hugh paused to pick up his cloak and a small bundle of clothing which the servant had left on a bench near the brazier, he heard the abbot speak again to Brother John.

  “Were you not asking for a novice,” said he, “to help in your work for the scriptorium? The novices can ill be spared from their studies, and there are all too few of them. This lad is over young, yet he has had the beginnings of a clerkly training. Under your teaching he can at least mix colors and pound gold for the illuminating of parchments and in time he may be taught to copy. We will make a scribe of him.”

  Brother John’s reply was spoken too low for Hugh to hear, but evidently he had agreed. The boy stifled a sigh as he approached the two men again. So his life would be given to books, to reed pens and crackly parchments, to lead rules and colors and long hours over a desk. The life of a monkish scribe; he knew what it was, and one part of him warmed at the thought, but another part of him suffered in disappointment and humiliation. He wanted to be a knight, gay, proud, brave, successful, whom all the world would look up to with shouts and admiration as he rode abroad on a matchless steed! And his father! How his father would despise him even more than he did now, if he grew stooped and thin-chested bending over a desk, with all his interests centered on written pages. No, that must not happen. . . . But his father was gone, gone clean out of his life, no doubt, for in all probability he would never see him again. And here was he, a boy with a limping foot, cast out of the active world into a monastery. He sighed deeply, then lifted his chin and threw back his head. Well, what of it? There was no room in life for despair. His mother had taught him that. Sometimes he had thought his mother more truly brave than his warrior father; that time when there was plague in the village, for instance; she had gone about among the poor, helping and nursing with her own hands. And other times, horrible times of siege. Hugh was glad for her sake that she had died before this last bitter experience had come upon the family. Yes, glad, though he missed her cruelly. His mother loved books and here in the monastery at least one might love them openly and without fear of ridicule.

  The abbot and Brother John had passed through the hall of the guest house and out through a side door to a path that led into the midst of the conventual buildings. Hugh quickened his step as best he could to catch up with them. It was dark and still cold without, though the wind and rain had abated somewhat. Soon they came to the cloisters built around an open square or garth, with the walls of the abbey church towering up on the north side and the great dorter nearer them on the east side. In the cloisters they paused to place the precious books in the aumbry nearest the church. A flare was burning in a stone bowl which cast a dim, uncertain light over the press, the little alcove in which it stood and, more dimly yet, over the walks and pillars of the cloister which lost themselves in blackness not far beyond. They climbed a flight of outside stairs so dark that Hugh must feel his way with his hands before each step, yet seemingly so familiar to the two men that they never hesitated.

  At the door of the great sleeping room the abbot left them. Evidently his quarters were apart from the others. Brother John reached for Hugh’s arm and guided him between rows of beds wherein he could faintly discern the monks sleeping. A pale ray of moonlight suddenly streamed in from the glassless window high up at the end of the room.

  “Ah!” whispered Brother John, “the moon has come out of her clouds to welcome thee! Here are pallet and blanket; thanks be to the moonlight, thou canst see them and look about a little. Lie down now, lad, and sleep, for I doubt not that thou art very weary.”

  Weary! he had not thought of it, but as he laid aside his outer garments and sank down upon the straw-filled mattress and drew the rough blanket over him, it seemed to him that never in his life before had he been so utterly exhausted. His muscles twitched, his head swam with colored images; he tossed about, wide-eyed and restless and wondered if sleep would ever come to him. And then, heavily, dreamlessly, he fell into the depths of slumber.

  2. Brother John and Dickon the Oblate

  HUGH WAS AROUSED from his exhausted sleep by a din of bells. He opened heavy eyes to find the big dormitory room full of dim, flickering light and moving figures. Brother John, in a whisper, bade him lie still. It was the midnight service, he said; Matins were for the monks and novices, not for weary half-grown lads, and the halls and walks were bitter cold. He finished with a great sneeze and hurried into his soft, furred boots, shivering the while but making no complaint.

  The boy leaned on his elbow and watched. Stone bowls stood at the ends of the long room with burning wicks in them which cast a wavering, uncertain light over the brothers as they hastily donned their cowls and habits. Novices appeared, with dripping fl
ares making the room seem quite bright, and when the bell at last ceased its importunate clanging, each monk stood with bowed head and folded hands at the foot of his bed. Then, in companies of six, led by a novice, they marched out, padding softly in their furred winter shoes. Hugh, left alone in the dim light from the bowls, strained his ears to listen and soon heard the rhythmic intoning of the service from the abbey church beyond the cloisters.

  He lay back, closing his eyes, but sleep did not come again immediately. He could not seem to shut out the mental pictures he so wished to forget; the cold angry faces of a mob, flames licking along the floor of the room in which he slept, his father’s bitter, tragic face as he looked back at the ruins of his home, the long weary ride on the stormy roads to Glaston; and then his father, kneeling before the abbot in the guest house hall, asking for the blessing that he must feel in his heart he had no right to claim. His father—Hugh loved his father, yet always with the memory of him, even from his babyhood days, came pictures of broils and combat, sudden anger that often as not resulted in bloodshed, fear, hatred, intrigues. The boy sighed heavily. His father was a hot, impulsive man of action, but he had his quiet, lovable side too. If only the king had let him alone! If only the people had not been so swift to rise against him! Again the memory of that frenzied, ill-smelling mob and his own stark terror in the face of it. He shivered and drew the rough woolen blanket closer about him. Below, the chanting of the psalms rose clearer. He listened, marking the antiphonal rhythmic beat of them. Gradually his tense body relaxed and he breathed evenly and quietly again. A sense of security and peace stole over him. Here no bloodthirsting brutal mob could break in, here no desperate deeds could be done and then as desperately and futilely repented. Here one might love music and books and quiet, and not be ashamed. He turned on his side with a sigh, not of unhappiness and fear this time, but of relief.

  How long the service lasted he did not know for he soon fell asleep, with the soft Gregorian chant still in his ears, and did not wake when the brothers filed back to the dorter and into their beds again. Indeed, before long he learned to sleep through the night office and only stir and dream when the midnight bell broke the dark quiet.

  The next day the books which his father had brought with him were duly dedicated at the High Altar, Hugh himself taking a small part in the ceremony as Abbot Robert requested, knowing that it would ease the lad somewhat of his hurt and sorrow. Then they were taken to a little alcove off the north cloister walk where stood the Painted Aumbry. A large press or wardrobe this was, adorned on the panels, inside as well as out, with pictures of saints and angels in vivid reds, blues, greens, and yellows. The drawings were uncouth but the coloring strong and bright and, in Hugh’s eyes at least, delightfully cheerful. It pleased him that the treasury of books from the home that was lost to him should here be housed so nobly, and he watched with pride as Brother John laid each volume carefully upon a shelf where it would not be crowded or injured.

  There were two or three other cupboards for manuscripts in recesses off the cloister walk, but these were unadorned and in them were kept mostly the novices’ lesson books, the monastic records, and some few service books in constant use. The Painted Aumbry contained the real library of the community and it was the pride and joy of Brother John’s life. Every morning after chapter meeting he would confer importantly with the abbot, then go at once to the Painted Aumbry, take out such books and writing materials as were needed for the day’s task of copying and illuminating, and also deal out books for those who did no copying, for all the monks were expected to read a little, daily, in the cloisters at certain hours.

  Hugh accompanied Brother John every day and helped him, being familiar enough with books and script to know at least how to find what was called for.

  But one day, shortly after his arrival, Brother John beckoned to him and, leaving the cloisters, set forth across the abbey lawns, slowing his quick, nervous step that Hugh’s limping foot might keep up with him.

  “Where are we going?” the boy asked.

  “To the kitchen,” answered Brother John. “I would boil up my ink and show thee how the Byzantine gold must be powdered and the root juices treated.”

  The big kitchen stood apart from the other monastic buildings and none save those who had business there was permitted to enter. It was clean and spacious, with shining copper pots, kettles, and big caldrons ranged round the sides, and several huge fireplaces; a warm, good smelling, delightful place, truly. Brother John had a bench and table to himself in one corner and there he could mix his gallic acid, sulphate of iron, and gum for the good durable ink, boil down his roots for stains, stretch and dry or scrape his parchments, and melt the precious gold leaf which the rubricators used for their most choicely illuminated pages. The place was quite deserted when Brother John and Hugh entered, letting themselves in with a huge key.

  “I like well to work here at this hour,” said the brother bustling about, laying out copper and iron pots and taking small packages of various materials from a cupboard near his table. “The lay brothers and the cellarer are all out in the garden, field, market, or elsewhere, and I need not fear sullying dust or grease for my fair, clear colors. Here, boy, mix this gum with a little water; there is a bucket yonder, fresh from the well. When it is soft, add the soot—I will give it thee—and mix until thou hast a good black, and the right consistency. The novices are so wasteful of their practice ink, I seem to be ever in need of more.”

  Hugh set to work and did as he was told, pounding and mixing in a large, mortar-like bowl, while Brother John began boiling down roots for dyes. He talked incessantly. So many hours during a monk’s day must be spent in silence that it was a relief, no doubt, to let his tongue run on, even if his listener were nothing more than a young lad. And Hugh, as the days went on and he became more accustomed to the busy brother, began to talk more freely also.

  “The fairest book we had,” said he one time, “was one fetched from Iona where St. Colum once lived. It was very old, and the pages were all stained and the script faded and strange and hard to read. We kept it wrapt in fine linen in the bottom of the aumbry, but Alleyn, our clerk, let me look at it now and then, and once he read to me out of it a little.”

  “What became of it?” asked Brother John, full of interest.

  “It was burned,” said Hugh in a hard, bitter voice. “When they came, the enemies of my father, they made a great fire and flung into it much, much that we loved. Those that my father brought here were all the books we could save, and that was through the quick wit of Alleyn. How I hate those men! And the king! I hate him! I hate him!”

  “Tut, tut, boy,” said Brother John, pausing and looking up from the parchment he was stretching. “You must not hate the king—that savors of treason. Indeed, ’tis not well to hate at all. Doubtless you have reason, but there is no comfort in hating, be the reason ever so good. Give over hating, child, while you are young and loving is easy.”

  “I loved Alleyn,” said the boy in a low tone from which the bitterness had not gone. “And I loved my lady mother who is dead and gone, and my sisters—aye, and my father too, though I’m thinking he cared not at all for me. They are all gone because of the king—and I shall never see them again. How can I help but hate him?”

  “Never is a long word,” Brother John continued with his work, talking the while. “Maybe they are not all gone forever; and what is sure at any rate, is that you will learn to love others. The world is not so bad a place—if you let not hate poison it. Look up, lad, and forget thy troubled past, whatever it may be. Books will help thee and I see right well thy liking for those!”

  “Books are goodly,” agreed Hugh, “but I would be a knight and ride abroad adventuring. ’Tis not enough to sit in the cloister walk and read about great deeds; I want to be doing them!”

  Brother John’s glance at the boy was full of understanding but for the moment he said naught. His attention seemed entirely absorbed in a pile of old and broken parchment
sheets.

  “Go stir that vermilion powder in the kettle,” said he at length. “Small wonder if it be not burned with all our tongue wagging. Nay? Well, then, set it on the table to cool and now fetch me two knives and the pumice and we will scrape parchment. It is so costly these days, the good white parchment, and old sheets of accounts can be scraped clean and used over again. Adventuring did you say, lad? Nay, adventure ofttimes may spring up like the grass under our feet—’tis not always needful to ride after it.”

  Hugh brought the knives and pumice and settled himself again beside the monk, to work on an old cracked sheet covered with figures and ancient reckonings. Nothing could be duller, less adventurous, he thought, than this scraping, soaking, rubbing of worn yellow parchments to make them usable again. Yet there under his very finger tips, little though he knew it at the time, lay the makings of an adventure that was to color the pattern of his whole life.

  But before he had got into it came an important happening without which the adventure could not have been, or if it had, would have proved dull and lonely. Though at first he had thought he might not see a lad his own age again as long as he stayed in Glaston, quite unexpectedly, Hugh found a friend.

  Perhaps Brother John was aware of a lonely restlessness in the boy for, as the spring weather came on and deepened into summer, he frequently pushed him good-naturedly away from his parchments, saying:

  “Lad, thou hast done enough for the nonce. Go out into the fields and to the grange. Bring me back some new sheepskins if the lay brothers have got any cured. And, Hugh, there be eels in the stream back yonder, and a dish of fried eels for Friday, should you happen to catch any—!”

  His sentence would trail off as he hurried back to his ink and parchments. Good old Brother John, thought Hugh, he wouldn’t know, himself, whether he were eating eels or angleworms! He is only thinking that fishing would be rare sport for me—and ’twould indeed be, if I could find another fellow to fish with me!