The Secret of the Swan Page 2

  They retraced their steps and ran down the green slope. Megan found the stone first. She was bending over it. Danny and Rebecca peered at the stone.

  “Well!” said Rebecca, “are we going to look then? Or do you think we imagined it all?”

  Simultaneously, they knelt down and reverently folded back the grass around the edge of the stone. They all held their breath in suspense and gasped at the sight of the symbol, as they had yesterday.

  “So, we didn’t imagine it then!” Danny said, delightedly.

  “What do we do next? Should we see if we can find Mason?”

  The door of the custodian’s hut was still locked. Danny rattled it, just to check.

  “Well, what can we do now? We don’t have any clues,” interjected Danny. “How can you solve a puzzle without the clues?”

  “Should we buy a guide book, it might help?” asked Rebecca. “I don’t know how much money I’ve got with me.” She pulled her purse out of her pocket and opened it, tipping it out. They counted out £1.92 in small change.

  “I don’t think that’s enough. History books cost more than that!” said Rebecca.

  Megan added another £1.50.

  “Sorry, it’s not much, but I bought a comic,” she said apologetically.

  “Still not enough!” said Rebecca. They looked pointedly at Danny, who had not yet offered his contribution. He sighed and emptied out his pockets. He pulled out a variety of objects, the usual junk; stickers, chewing gum, string, football cards and coins.

  He managed to contribute £2.

  “Well, that’s £5.42 that should do it,” Rebecca said.

  They browsed in the museum shop. Eventually, Rebecca found an illustrated volume which held a lot of information. While the girls paid for the book, Danny looked at the museum exhibits, suddenly, he let out a cry.

  “Look! Quick!” He beckoned them to join him. There was an image of an illuminated manuscript, much enlarged and pressed between sheets of Perspex. The primitive picture depicted a monk, sitting at a writing slope, pen in hand, looking straight at them. His figure was bounded by a huge illuminated letter, the gold casting an eerie light onto his face. At his feet was a carefully drawn swan.

  “Oh my God!” exclaimed Rebecca “It’s like the swan on the grave stone! What does it say about it?”

  They turned to the black script which accompanied the manuscript. Rebecca read it out aloud.

  “This illuminated manuscript is taken from the Furness Coucher Book, which is now in the British Museum, the Coucher Book recorded the daily business in the Cistercian Abbey of St Mary of Furness, saved by the Abbot at the Reformation and is a unique history of the abbey. The picture of the monk is extremely unusual, as the scribe did not as a matter of course depict himself.

  His name is John Stell and he lived in the abbey during the 15th century, working in the Scriptorium. Nobody knows why he felt important enough to insert himself into such a significant work. Equally, there has been much scholarly controversy over the significance of the swan at the base of the letter.”

  The children were silent.

  “This is our first clue. The beginning of our quest!” said Danny excitedly.

  “Even if we don’t know what the “quest” is! And each time we find something out, a new question pops up!” added Rebecca.

  They began reading the screens and posters. The information was abundant. How much of it would be relevant was unsure.

  “This is no good,” said Megan, “We’ll never remember all this!”

  CHAPTER 3

  A PROMISE 1415

  John Stell had just woken, dawn was breaking and it was time to go to Prime, the first service of the day. Next would be the Chapter House, to hear a chapter read from the Rule of St Benedict. The abbey business would be discussed and he would be told his duties for the day.

  Daily, Brother John worked as a scribe and each day he thanked God for giving him work that he truly loved. The abbot had instructed the monks to copy all the charters and abbey documents and John found it interesting work. He loved to create beautiful illuminated letters and each day when he put down his quill, he surveyed his work with a warm glow of pleasure. Almost instantly, guilty thoughts overcame him for being so proud of his work. He knew pride was a sin, but he couldn’t help himself.

  The abbot, William of Dalton, the prior and the subprior who directed work in the Scriptorium, were standing in front of John Stell. The other monks had departed as the abbot had requested. Brother John was nervous, he was trying to think of anything he may have done to deserve this level of attention from the senior monks in the abbey. He hoped they had not discovered that he had sneaked into the warming room yesterday; there were strict times when the monks were allowed to take advantage of the only heated room in the abbey. Surely, that would not warrant such a reaction, he knew of others that had done the same thing without trouble. His worried thoughts were interrupted by the calm and measured voice of the abbot.

  “Brother John, you have worked in the Scriptorium for some years now. We have seen the careful way you have executed your work.”

  John cursed himself. He knew now, it must be his sin of pride, after all he had only yesterday congratulated himself on the work he had completed on the Coucher Book. Before he could speak and begin to ask for forgiveness, the abbot continued.

  “You are a skilled scribe and your illuminated lettering is unsurpassed in this abbey. You are devoted in your worship and your studies and we know you care about the ancient books in the library,” he paused, waiting for a response.

  John Stell, puzzled, yet at the same time relieved, silently agreed with what the abbot had just said.

  “We have a task for you of great importance. You are loyal and trusted, but to undertake this task you must promise to be loyal to the very end of your existence. It is a weight which will be hard to bear, as there are those who would try to prevent you from keeping your vow. You will have to protect a treasure against all manner of rogues and ensure its safety through many events. We have chosen you for your good heart and you in turn must entrust others with the burden of protecting the treasure. How say you?”

  Brother John gaped at them, hardly knowing what to think. He was flattered by their trust in him, yet baffled at what treasure they would entrust to his care.

  “I will do all I can to protect any abbey treasure, but I do not know of what you speak,” he replied.

  The men smiled and nodded to each other, pleased that their estimation of him had been true.

  “The treasure is hidden within the abbey and will be revealed to you in time. It is not abbey treasure, it belongs to all and its importance is so great that many with evil intentions wish to steal it,” remarked the prior.

  “You will be shown how to protect it and you will know those who can be trusted. There will be times in the future when it will be difficult to protect and when its true value will be disregarded in favour of greed and avarice. You will be its custodian and there will be others to help, if you are you willing to take on this task, no matter how long it takes?” added the abbot.

  “Well…yes, if you think me worthy, I will do it.”

  “Then Father Dominic will take you to the Scriptorium and advise you of the duties. You must on no account share this information with the other brothers, but we have a boy, who is under the abbey’s protection, who will help you in your task. You will find him at the Grange mill, he can be trusted. His name is Robert the Mason.”

  CHAPTER 4

  THE ERRAND BOY 1934

  It was always the same. Whenever he finished his usual deliveries in town, Mr Woods said, “Do you fancy going up to Abbot’s Wood, George?”

  George’s heart sank. He loathed the trail up to the big house, surrounded on all sides by overhanging trees and tangled undergrowth. Most of all he hated riding down the narrow lane past the abbey. It would be dusk by the time he got there and dark on the return journey. He knew Mr Woods was being kind, he always gave him an
extra sixpence in his wages and there would be a three penny tip at the big house. George knew every penny mattered to his mother and tipped up all his wages, because he knew it helped to supplement his Dad’s meagre railway porter’s wage. He didn’t mind, because his family was important and he knew how hard his Dad worked. He’d do anything for his Mam and Dad. But he sometimes wished they knew how hard it was to do his errands after school, especially this one.

  At this time of year, the dark crept in silently and quickly, like a sneak thief. Autumn was a strange time, caught between the memory of long, sultry, summer and bright, bitter winter days. It somehow made things a little mysterious and frightening. This feeling doubled as soon as George reached the abbey.

  “Right-o Mr Woods, I’ll go now before it gets dark. What have I to take?” George asked, hiding the nervous tremor in his voice.

  “Just the usual, son, joint o’ beef, bacon hank and Waberthwaite sausages. Good luck the sausages come in today from Ravenglass, else they’d have had to have pork!” He wrapped the meat in paper as he was speaking.

  George put on his bicycle clips again, did up his jacket and pulled his cap down over his ears. He walked out of the Butcher’s shop, scuffing his clogs through the remnants of sawdust on the floor. He jumped down the two steps and on to the pavement. As he landed heavily, his steel tips sparked. He suddenly felt a bit braver, he was proud of his clogs. They made him different. They were not usually popular with school boys and most people wore boots or shoes in town, although George could name some kids who were so poor, they had no shoes. His clogs gave him a certain presence and he loved it when he could produce the blue sparks from the metal tips. He felt like he had power, a little bit of magic! He put the heavy package in the basket at the front of his bike, mounted and rode off.

  There were a number of Victorian and Edwardian villas on the outskirts of Barrow and the long tree lined avenue of Abbey Road was fairly well lit by gas lamps. However, his resolve and bravery diminished by the time he reached Rating Lane. He was almost in the country now, the street lights became fewer and farther between, the traffic lessened and quietness descended. He whistled to keep his nerve, as he coasted round the corner into the lane past Manor Farm. The farm was not so bad, he could hear the cows and the clanking and hollering of the farm labourers and a warm orange glowed through the windows.

  He pedalled down the hill, rattling through the narrow opening between the remnants of the Western gateway. He shuddered as he flew past the 15th century cottage, it had a reputation for being haunted and it certainly lived up to it, in appearance. He travelled down to the bottom of the road, the abbey now visible. Its sandstone glowed pink in the final rays of the dying sun and rose up in front of him, powerful and majestic. The light was fading quickly now, he pedalled standing up, to give him more power as he rode up the hill past the amphitheatre.

  The trees leaned together over the road, branches touching and forming a natural tunnel. The boy rode on.

  “Nearly there, just a bit longer and then home!” he said to himself, gritting his teeth.

  He turned into the long drive to the big house, riding over the gravel, his wheels crunching and compressing the stones. Everything was in shadow and the night creatures were beginning to rouse. George could hear movements on either side of him and consoled himself that badgers and foxes would be stirring. He reached the big house and went straight round to the back door, where tradesmen were received. He knocked on the door and waited. A woman in a black dress and snow white apron came to the door. She smiled, acknowledging the parcel he held.

  “Thank you George, wait a minute, I’m sure there’ll be something for you.”

  She turned and went in. As much as George wanted the customary tip, he wished that she would return quickly. It was really getting dark now and he had to go all the way back.

  The maid returned. She pressed a silver sixpence into his cold hand. He looked at it and allowed himself to smile. “Cor! Thanks Miss.” It was more than usual.

  “It’s because you are always so reliable and quick. Cook sent you this, too. Hope you enjoy it.” She handed him a small package, wrapped in grease-proof paper. He peeped between the layers of paper and saw pieces of sticky, black treacle toffee.

  “Ta, Miss. See you tomorrow!” he turned to leave.

  He pushed the sixpence and the toffee deep into his coat pocket and got back on the bike. He pedalled fast down the drive to the gate, ignoring the blanket of dark covering the wood. As he reached the gate, a figure walked swiftly across his path and into the bushes. He hadn’t expected to see anyone and was taken aback. He skidded to a halt, gravel crunching and spattering across the drive. He looked into the bushes to see where the person had gone, but could see no sign.

  George rode out into the lane. He reassured himself that his eyes were playing tricks, when, to his left he saw a shadowy figure. It was standing beside the old sandstone wall, which rose behind the abbey ruins, further down the hill. The figure, although featureless, was solid enough. George stood transfixed. He could not tell who it was, but he knew one thing, he had on something very long and hooded.

  In fact, it almost looked like…

  The realisation that the figure was a monk shocked him into action. His skin turned to goose-flesh and he was visibly shaking.

  “Oh my God! Oh my God!” he muttered under his breath, “Why me? Why do I have to see a ghost?”

  He clambered on to his bike again but stared fixedly at the figure which had not moved. He tried to tear his gaze away from the monk but failed. The figure turned to face him. Although George could not see his face, he knew the monk was looking at him. The monk raised an arm and turned his body towards the abbey and pointed. He then pointed at George and beckoned.

  That was more than enough. Fascinated or not – he was off! He pedalled without looking back, skidding round corners and clipping the kerb stones. He didn’t stop or turn back until he reached his back door. He pushed the bike into the yard and took off his clips and his cap. He stood for a moment, summoning up the memory of the monk. It scared him too much and he pushed the thought back down again. He turned and walked into the house.

  CHAPTER 5

  THE QUEST BEGINS

  For the first time in weeks Rebecca felt excited and alive again. She didn’t know why, but the strange events of recent days held promise and intrigue. They tried to read the book, but it hadn’t helped much and so they had decided to go to the abbey instead. The sun was high in the sky and beat down ferociously. At one o’ clock promptly, they met and set off up the lane.

  They crossed the slow running trickle that had been the river and looked across the field. It was a long flat valley, bounded by a steep incline along its length. At the top of the hill was the lane which ran around the boundary of the abbey. They could see the old boundary wall, winding in and out of the trees like a rust coloured ribbon. There was a gatehouse, with black and white half-timbering, fronted by an immaculate topiary. At its side was the old gateway to a big house.

  “I wonder who that is?” asked Danny, peering up towards the road.

  Their gaze moved to where he was looking. A shadowy figure stood, motionless beside the sandstone wall. It was hard to make him out; his clothes blended in to the wall, obscured by the trees.

  “He’s watching us,” said Megan, jumping to her feet. She shielded her eyes against the sun, to try and get a better look.

  “Who is it, then?” asked Danny, standing up.

  They stood facing the road. The wall was higher than the road and further away. They gazed at the figure. Gradually, they edged closer, still keeping to the valley floor.

  “He’s got a long coat on! In this weather!” exclaimed Megan in disbelief.

  Suddenly, the colour drained from Rebecca’s face. The shock of recognition shuddered through her body. She stood as motionless as the figure and swallowed hard, feeling strangely cold on this hot, summer day.

  “It’s… it’s a monk…” she w
hispered.

  “What?” gasped Megan, “It’s a … what?”

  “A bloody monk!” hissed Danny.

  They fell silent, unable to tear their eyes away from the mysterious spectre. The figure slowly turned and faced them, lifting an arm and pointing towards the abbey.

  Then, as they watched, he disappeared. His disappearance was in the blink of an eye, not in a puff of smoke or a flash of light, just there one minute and then… gone!

  They ran until they reached the museum steps and collapsed in a heap. Rebecca gasped for breath and Megan’s heart pounded fast.

  “What’s this all about?” exclaimed Danny.

  Rebecca flicked through the pages of the guide book for inspiration. It seemed hopeless, but she wanted to find a definite clue. A movement in the grounds caught her eye. They turned to look at what she had seen. They knew instantly it was Mason and, with a common thought, leapt to their feet and ran down the gentle slope towards him.

  “Where’ve ya been?” shouted Danny. They rushed over to meet him.

  “Where did you go the other day?” asked Megan.

  “Hold on! Slow down a bit! What’s the rush?” he laughed as they reached him, “I set y’ thinkin’ a bit, did I?”

  “Course you did! You gave us a little taste of a mystery and then vanished!” cried Danny.

  “Oh I didn’t disappear!” he said, “Just because you can’t see a person… doesn’t mean they’re not there.”

  “How can you be there, if you’re not there?” said Megan puzzled.

  “Well, there are lots of things that we can’t explain. There are things that we know are there, but we can’t see – like electricity. You know, like gas…” Mason said smiling.

  “Yeah, but that’s not the same is it?” argued Danny, “That’s science!”

  “When this abbey was built, that would have been considered magic!” He turned away quietly.