The Spoils of Avalon

by Mary Burns

  The lawyer cleared his throat, and I returned my scrutiny from the office to the man. As he spoke, he re-aligned the already perfectly straightened stack of papers, patting both sides, and moving it about a quarter of an inch to his left. Yes, obsessive.

  “I was just this moment perusing some documents relative to this situation,” said Mr. Wattendall, “so you may imagine my astonishment to learn that the primary subject of one of these documents was at that moment waiting in my outer office.” He looked at all three of us speculatively over the rim of his eye-glasses, which were perched near the end of his long nose.

  Lord Parke was not slow-witted, and had caught the import of the lawyer’s words upon the instant. He forebore, however, in good taste and better manners, to say anything, although I could see that he, too, had a gleam of greater interest in his own eye. For myself, I imagined that, quite naturally, my name was mentioned in Uncle Chaffee’s will in connection with some small bequest—books perhaps, or one of the engravings of Arthurian subjects he owned that I had enjoyed so much as a child.

  “Well, I daresay you can count me out,” John said, smiling. “I’m just along for the ride.”

  Mr. Wattendall looked at John a trifle severely, his thin lips pressed together. “Quite so,” he said. He lifted a page from the pile of documents before him, and turned his attention to me and Lord Parke.

  “Mr. Crickley had very few living relations, and none of them close, either in blood or in geography,” he said, a glimmer of a smile at his modest jeu de mot. “Therefore, I am hopeful that you, Miss Paget”—nodding to me—“will graciously consent to the reading of the will in your presence and in the presence of these two gentlemen, as having perused it thoroughly—indeed, having assisted my late honored father in drawing it up on behalf of Mr. Crickley—I am able to propose such an undertaking as I am fully informed as to whom the testament bequeathes the substance of the Reverend’s estate.” He bestowed another simpering smile upon me, and inclined his head toward Lord Parke in what I’m sure the man thought was a gracious gesture, but made him look rather like a crane about to spear a fish.

  Such sententious long-windedness, though to be expected from a lawyer, made me want to rap the floor impatiently with my parasol and tell him to get on with it, like some ancient dowager in widow’s weeds. But patience is a virtue, and as I have relatively few of them, it is one which I can actually practice achieving, as it is called for so frequently.

  “I have no objection at all to hearing the will in the company of these gentlemen,” I said.

  After a little more throat-clearing, Mr. Wattendall commenced. His first words, nominally the voice of my dear departed friend, caused an emotion that caught me off guard, and tears sprang to my eyes. I felt a handkerchief pressed into my hand—Lord Parke’s! Dabbing at my eyes, I nodded my thanks to him, and tried to compose myself and listen to the will.

  After declaring the late Reverend’s soundness of mind, clearness of intent, and gratitude to his Maker, there followed several bequests to university libraries of special books and manuscripts from an apparently extensive collection. Local charities came in for small to middling amounts of money, and there was a sizeable sum for the housekeeper, Mrs. Barnstable. Three books, whose titles were not familiar to me, were a bequest to Lord James Parke. One paragraph in particular singled out Lord Parke’s cousin, George Howard, the Ninth Earl of Carlisle-to-be. It then expressed Mr. Crickley’s undying gratitude for the Eighth Earl’s gracious patronage and friendship, and bequeathed to him, albeit in his illness, to Mr. George Howard, his nephew, certain items of Mr. Crickley’s collection of saintly relics known to have once belonged to the famous and ancient Glastonbury Abbey, which had been scattered to the four winds upon its dissolution in 1539.

  Relics! Good heavens, I thought, I had no idea that Uncle Chaffee was so catholic in his tastes. But on second thought, I remembered that the title of the little book he had sent me referred to “Glaston Abbey” and its “relicks,” so my interest was quickened, though not by the religious connection. Having been brought up by a sometime-Quaker mother, and a cosmopolitan father who eschewed religion as strenuously as he did politics, I had no religious training other than what I gleaned from visiting churches throughout Europe and Great Britain—lugubrious Madonnas with often exceedingly ugly infants upon their laps (except of course Botticelli), and gruesome crucifixions and martyred saints proudly bearing the instruments of their martyrdom: arrows, fire, hot irons and the like.

  I glanced aside at John, who’d had much the same secular upbringing, and he raised an eyebrow very slightly to show his participation in my feelings. Of course, as an artist, he had different opinions about religious art than I, which often made for lively discussions. But to evince such an attachment to the putative remains of even truly holy persons, in these enlightened times…well, perhaps Uncle Chaffee had his own reasons for collecting such things.

  But I digress.

  Mr. Wattendall here addressed Lord Parke, indicating that he, Mr. Wattendall, would of course attend the Earl’s nephew, Mr. George Howard, at his earliest convenience to inform him of the “holy bequest” as he termed it. His Lordship thanked him for his care.

  Mr. Wattendall resumed reading.

  “My cottage at Brampton, and all its substance, with the exception of items and monetary amounts heretofore above mentioned for distribution and bequest, shall become the sole property of Miss Violet Paget, daughter of Henry Ferguson Paget and Matilda Lee-Hamilton (née Abadam), which above-named heiress shall also be named as my executrix.”

  I actually gasped in astonishment.

  “Furthermore,” Mr. Wattendall continued, paying no attention to my emotional interruption, “in consequence of the variety and indescribableness of the numerous articles, some of great antiquity and curiosity, and perhaps of value, within the house in Brampton where I reside, I am fully cognizant of the need to have them inventoried and appraised, which I direct shall be done under the careful eye of my solicitor, Mr. Henry Wattendall; and it is my further will that the executrix shall consult with my dear friend and patron, George Howard, nephew of the Eighth Earl of Carlisle, as to the disposition of any and all of these articles, even including the event that said George Howard might entrust them to his own care, if agreed upon by the executrix, and also that the executrix may wish to keep any or all items in her own possession.”

  Mr. Wattendall replaced the piece of paper precisely on top of the other documents, patting the edges to ensure they were all straight.

  “I would like to assure you, my dear Miss Paget,” he further intoned, “that although you have been named executrix of Mr. Crickley’s estate—an amendment I might add, in which my late honored father had the pleasure of attending to Mr. Crickley’s wishes in that matter—that I stand ready, willing and able to manage any and all details and duties in accordance with the strictures of this testament, and that you needn’t trouble yourself with perusing such a lengthy document, replete as it is with the language of the law, not easily interpreted by a … lay person.”

  “I was just going to say the same,” said Lord Parke, turning the full impact of his extraordinary green eyes and handsome face upon me, and laying a gentle hand on my arm. “Please do not feel that you need to take on the full burden of such a duty alone, Miss Paget.”

  “Why, thank you, my lord,” I said, and I turned away as if in embarrassment, but only to think a moment. I had the distinct impression that Mr. Wattendall was not exactly in favor of the executrix amendment. “I thank both of you gentlemen for your kind offers.” I discerned them to relax slightly, then I abruptly reversed their expectations and prejudices about the abilities of lay persons, for which read, women!

  “However, as it turns out, I am well versed in reading legal documents,” I said. “I have long been the sole manager of my parents’ estate and financial arrangements, and I have no trouble whatsoever with legal language—especially as I have been entrenched in legal matters with th
e Italian government recently—and if I can manage to make sense of that nightmare of bureaucratic incompetence, corruption and venality, I’m sure I can successfully manage a well-written document of the English variety.”

  John was grinning broadly, and I took it as encouragement to go on. Mr. Wattendall was staring at me as if I had just sprouted horns through my hat and was about to cast a spell on him—he fairly reared back in dismay. I pursued my advantage.

  “So therefore, Mr. Wattendall, if you would please make sure that I have a fair copy of Mr. Crickley’s will, and any other documents pertinent to the management of his estate—deeds for the house, for instance, bank statements, et cetera, anything that may be in your possession as his solicitor—that would be a great help to me. Other documents I’m sure I will find at his banker’s, or at his cottage, to which…” I paused to consult my watch; it was now a quarter to four o’clock. “I shall immediately repair to make an initial survey.” I assumed there would be no more protests from His Lordship about the “appropriateness” of my visiting the cottage.

  I stood up, preparing to depart. The gentlemen stood as well, and John holding out an arm for me to take, I bowed to Mr. Wattendall. That worthy gentleman had somewhat recovered from his surprise at hearing an intelligent woman speak intelligently—nay, dare to speak at all!—and bowed to me most civilly.

  “I shall do my utmost, I can assure you, Miss Paget, to attend to every—”

  I cut off the flow of his words before they became a torrent.

  “Thank you, sir, for your attentions and service to my dear friend,” I said smoothly, “whilst he was alive, and I expect I may thank you in advance for your continued service while I am carrying out my melancholy duties as executrix. We shall certainly meet again soon, and discuss what is to be done in the coming days.” He bowed again, though slightly, and his eyes seemed to narrow as he inclined his head.

  I then turned to His Lordship, who was staring at me with what I thought was a mixed sense of begrudging admiration and amusement.

  “My lord, I really believe we have taken up far too much of your time,” I said. “You have been most gracious, and I would dread to be even more in your debt by requiring you to accompany us to my Uncle Chaffee’s cottage—I am certain that I know the way from here.”

  It was practically a dismissal, to anyone with half a brain—but His Lordship was not to be out-maneuvered by mere politesse.

  “My dear Miss Paget,” he said. “I could no more leave you—and Mr. Sargent—to navigate the streets of Brampton alone than I would my own sister or brother—indeed, I would feel myself a churl and a knave to desert you at such a time. You must allow me, I insist.”

  He nodded to Mr. Wattendall, who hastily moved to open his office door to let us depart.

  “Besides,” said His Lordship to me, in a lower tone, as I passed directly in front of him, “you are becoming far too interesting a person for me to lose sight of you now, my dear Miss Paget.”

  I could only duck my head and wonder at this, feeling a slight blush creep up my neck. What on earth was the man up to?

  10

  Then, before a voice

  As dreadful as the shout of one who sees

  To one who sins, and deems himself alone

  And all the world asleep, they swerved and brake flying

  –Idylls of the King

   7 May 1539 

  Glastonbury Abbey

  The tap of the blind harper’s stick on the stone stairway alerted Arthur to the bard’s approach. The Abbot had awakened a little time before, and Arthur had helped him wash and dress, so he would be ready to receive company. A firm but quiet knock sounded on the door.

  “Praise be to the Lord, and enter,” called the Abbot.

  The door swung open, revealing only Gwillem Moor, whose blindness never seemed to keep him from finding his way unaided. His small travelling harp was tucked underneath one arm, hung in a simple leather bag from his shoulder.

  “My lord Abbot,” he said, and bent his head briefly. Because he had been part of the life of the great Abbeys for so long, everyone assumed he was an agéd man; but it was not possible to tell his age from his looks, for he stood straight and strong, with well-shaped limbs and a full head of dark hair. Folk said it was his Welsh blood—derived from Merlin’s own line, they said—that gave him his constant youthful look and canny ways. There were those who, now elderly themselves, swore they had heard him sing and play when they themselves were but toddlers. His eyes didn’t have the often cloudy look of other sightless men, but were clear and piercing blue.

  “You are most welcome, Gwillem, my son,” said the Abbot, and motioned with his hand to a chair by the fire, forgetting the man couldn’t see his courteous gesture—nonetheless, Gwillem strode to the chair and sat, placing his harp in its bag next to him on the floor.

  “A fire in these cold rooms is welcome even in May,” the Abbot continued, and pouring some ale in two cups, he set them upon a low table between the two chairs facing the fire, and sat himself down. “There’s a cup for you, my son, with which I will drink your health, aye, and mine also, praise Jesu and his Virgin Mother.”

  “And all the saints,” added Gwillem Moor, reaching unerringly for the cup, and taking a sip.

  Arthur was seated at the end of the room farthest from the hearth, watching curiously, and was disconcerted when the blind harper turned his sightless eyes in his direction and raised the cup to him. “And to your health as well, young brother.”

  The Abbot smiled, shaking his head at this uncanny man. “Arthur Joseph has become my guardian and help, praise be to the Lord,” he said. “You may trust him as you would trust me.”

  Gwillem Moor nodded, set the cup down, and picked up his harp, pulling it gently from its covering. He strummed it a few times, and then began to play and sing. The Abbot closed his weary eyes to listen, but Arthur fixed his gaze on the blind harper’s face.

  Ym mhalas Llwyn Onn gynt, fe drigai pendefig,…

  The ash grove, how graceful, how plainly ’tis speaking

  The harp through it playing has language for me

  Whenever the light through its branches is breaking

  A host of kind faces is gazing on me.

  The friends of my childhood again are before me

  Each step wakes a mem’ry, as freely I roam

  With soft whispers laden, its leaves rustle o’er me

  The ash grove, the ash grove alone is my home.

  My lips smile no more, my heart loses its lightness

  No dream of the future my spirit can cheer.

  I only can brood on the past and its brightness

  The dead I have mourned are again living here.

  From ev’ry dark nook they press forward to meet me

  I lift up my eyes to the broad leafy dome

  And others are there, looking downward to greet me

  The ash grove, the ash grove alone is my home.

  The final notes of harp and voice lingered in the mid-day air, joined after a moment by a burst of birdsong from the garden outside the Abbot’s windows. The Abbot wiped tears from his eyes, and leaning forward, gazed into the dying fire. Arthur found he’d been holding his breath at the end of the song, and now let it out softly.

  “So that’s how it is, and will be,” he heard the Abbot say softly. “I thank thee, Gwillem, for thy song, and the comfort it brings, however bleak in this life it may seem.” The Abbot leaned back into his chair again, and looked over at the harper. “I’ll have a song for you to travel with, ere long. In the meantime, gladden the hearts of my despondent brethren as best you can, and come to me again this evening, after the first Compline bell, I pray thee.”

  The harper nodded, finished his drink, and rose gracefully from his chair.

  “My lord Abbot,” he said, bowing slightly. He was a man of few words, except when singing, so when he spoke, it was a thing to be heard. “The Sacred alive in this world will endure.”

  Th
e Abbot nodded, and his right hand carved a blessing in the air for the harper. “Yes,” he said. “And even more, the souls of men who entrust themselves to God will find peace at last, beyond this mortal enmity.”

  The harper left the room without a sound, and the Abbot remained in his chair as the woodfire turned to ash. Arthur rose silently and walked over to stand at his side. The Abbot’s words about having a song to give to Gwillem Moor piqued his curiosity. And the harper’s final words, too, about the Sacred alive in the world were equally curious. What cryptic communications were these?

  The Abbot looked up at the young monk and took one of Arthur’s hands in his gnarled fingers.

  “The Lord has given our Abbey true friends to help in its hour of need,” he said. A spasm of worry gripped the Abbot’s face, and his fingers tightened around Arthur’s. “This may well be the last work I can do,” he said, and looking up at the boy, “You, my son and brother, must find the courage to do the Lord’s will, even unto death.”

  Then he fell silent, leaving Arthur more wondering than before.

  

  Later that same night, Arthur woke and found himself irresistibly drawn out into the still night. All was quiet on the Abbey grounds as he made his way to the sanctuary of the great church, to stand, then kneel, before the black marble slab that marked the tomb of King Arthur and his queen, Guenevere of Wales.

  The holy bones of the legendary monarch had been discovered buried in a hollow oak tree deep in the earth of the Abbey graveyard, south of the Lady Chapel, in 1191, and had been re-interred below the church floor with great pomp and celebration a hundred years later. As Arthur knelt before the tomb of the warrior and king whose name he had taken, he prayed he would be worthy of that name, and show true courage and loyalty to his Abbot and his God—he knew both would be needed in the battle which lay ahead.