The Spoils of Avalon

by Mary Burns

  The man stopped abruptly in his tracks, and recoiled with a gasp at the sight of Brother Thomas’s bleeding corpse. Arthur stepped out from behind the tree, his face partially hidden by the hood.

  “John Renynger, peace be with you.”

  The man started, and paled with fright.

  Arthur raised a hand, a gesture of peace. “It is Arthur Joseph, the Abbot’s companion,” he said.

  “But you went away,” Renynger said. “You went north, at the Abbot’s behest.”

  “And I am come back,” Arthur said.

  The other man was silent, but Arthur could hear his uneven, anxious breathing.

  “Old Gwillem Moor has been taken,” Renynger said abruptly. “They have treated him…very harshly.”

  “And so they would me,” Arthur said. “I must get away, John Renynger. Can you help me?”

  For answer, the man pointed to Brother Thomas. “He betrayed the Abbot, in the end—he and Brother Anselm.” He drew in a shuddering breath, then looked straight at Arthur. “I’m glad he’s dead.”

  “Then help me get away—I am doing the Abbot’s bidding,” Arthur said.

  Renynger crossed himself, and looked behind him, then stepped closer to whisper.

  “Go by the old maze path at the foot of the Tor,” he said. “There’s no one there at all tonight, I know.” He jerked his chin toward the monks’ refectory. “The soldiers—there’s only a dozen or so—are drinking it up before they cart everything away. So go and be gone before the dawn breaks, and may angels watch over you—and what you carry.” He looked down again at the dead man. “There’s a new grave at the far end of the cemetery—it will be easy to make it a resting place for this one—and with everything else happening, no one will know for days.”

  Arthur nodded, and walked swiftly to the gate, and was gone.

  Two nights later, in the forest near Tintern Abbey, on the wane of the Autumnal Equinox, Arthur lay in a clearing and looked up at the brilliant night sky. He said his prayers, and prayed again and again for the souls of the Abbot, and Gwillem Moor, and all the poor homeless monks and priests who were, even now, being turned out of the last Abbey in England, penniless and scorned, to make their way as best they could—some back to their family homes, some across the narrow sea to a friendlier France or Brittany, or perhaps all the way to Rome itself, where their life of prayer and scholarship might be taken up again.

  What lay ahead for him, he did not know. He felt shaken to his core, too deep for words to form even in his own mind to describe it, by the killing he had done with his own hand. He begged forgiveness of God and all the saints, unceasingly. Had it been cowardly to kill Brother Thomas, and not give himself up to capture, to torture and inevitable execution? The Magna Tabula—and whatever sacred secret it held—was safe, to be sure—but how would he ever know that its safety was worth the price of a man’s life, even an evil man? That it was worth the risk of his own immortal soul?

  He looked deep into the stars that wheeled over his head, and saw to his utter amazement, a slowly forming vision. A great golden sword, upright like a cross, with its hilt glowing with stars of various colors, turned and began to slide from the East to the West, as if finding its way back into its bejeweled sheath, or falling into the Lady’s Lake. In its wake, stars swirled to form letters in the sky:

  I – N – R – I

  Arthur’s tears flowed freely, and he was grateful to be so blessed. He felt he had been forgiven—but he did not feel absolved of his sin. The responsibility for it was his alone, and he must live with the decision he had made, there on the cemetery path. This quest was over, but whatever came next would begin in the shadow of a heavy obligation to atone.

  37

  There she that seemed the chief among them said,

  “In happy time behold our pilot-star!

  Youth, we are damsels-errant, and we ride,

  Armed as ye see, to tilt against the knights

  There at Caerleon, but have lost our way:

  To right? to left? straight forward? back again?

  Which? tell us quickly.”

  –Idylls of the King

   Naworth Castle 

  Wednesday Night

  Once in bed, tucked under a goose-down coverlet and sipping at a fragrant cup of soothing tea, I thought of nothing else than to studiously peruse that book of Uncle Chaffee’s from beginning to end. So I settled in, the book propped against the tea things on the bed tray, and scanned page after page until my eyes were drooping with weariness. I must have dozed off then for some time, and wakened to hear a variety of clocks in the castle chiming—as near as I could tell, having missed a chime or two, that it was well after midnight, as the number of the gongs I heard clearly were three. From the sound of the wind and rain outside, the storm seemed to have abated only a little since earlier the previous evening.

  I was restless now, and alert, so decided to apply myself to the little book once again. I trimmed the lamp, which held a sufficiency of oil, and gave me plentiful light to read by. I was at the chapter titled, “Legends of Arthur’s Great Sword ExCaliburn.” A tiny slip of paper was inserted in the gutter of the chapter’s first page. I carefully picked it out, and saw there was a word on it, written in ink: Eureka. I wondered if Uncle Chaffee had written this and put it there, but knowing its meaning—I have found it—my heart beat a little faster as I started to read.

  Time-honored legend tells us that Arthur’s sword was thrown into the Lake in Avalon by Gawain, one of the few Knights of the Round Table alive at the end of the great battle with Mordred, the King’s bastard and incestuously conceived son. This was done at the behest of Arthur, who lay dying; Gawain twice could not bring himself to dispose of the sword, but Arthur knew he was prevaricating, and sent him back a third time. Then it was that he saw, and was able to report to his King, that a Lady’s hand and arm, dressed in white samite, rose from out the Lake and caught Excaliburn by its hilt; then brandishing it three times, withdrew it beneath the waters, to be kept for the future time of Arthur’s return. And Gawain also saw, written in gold letters upon the blade of the sword, the words, “God’s Word is God in Man.”

  There is another legend of Glastonbury, that says that Arthur himself threw his great Sword from off the Perilous Bridge, just outside the (current) precincts of the town, and that it disappeared into the river and was washed out to sea. From this instance, there grew a story among the simple folk of the town, and even the monks at the Abbey, in the olden time, that a blind Welsh bard and prophet, from around the time just after Arthur’s death, recovered the sword, and carrying it to the Chapel Perilous on the Tor, thereafter named St. Michael’s Chapel, hid it there, for future generations to find in a time of need. It is also said that at the autumn equinox of the year, especially in times of war, unrest or natural upheaval, that the Sword Excaliburn may appear flashing across the night sky, and it can be seen to write upon the bowl of heaven these letters:

  “I N R I”.

  And thus we have the term, Magna Tabula, the Great Tablet, sometimes called the Great Writing, that was first used to reference the words written by Pontio Pilato and placed on the Cross of Our Savior: Iesus Nazarenus, Rex Iudaeorum– Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews, thus ineluctably linking the Sword of Arthur the first true King of England, to the Cross of Christ the one true King of all.

  I sat open-mouthed in my bed, entranced by what I was reading. Could it be? My mind was racing to draw connections where, rationally speaking, it was not likely they existed. Nonetheless, I couldn’t help but wonder if the Magna Tabula we had seen in old Sir William’s Tower held some secret information about the actual sword of King Arthur? That would, indeed, be a precious find—one for which someone, greedy or religious or merely deranged—might very well commit murder. A thrill of terror coursed through me, and my better sense told me to consult my friends, and especially Mr. Howard, who would know the most about his ancestor’s artifact. But I knew I could not rest any longer in
my warm bed.

  I would go to the Tower again, and search through the manuscripts mounted in that ancient wooden case. I just knew I would be able to find out its secret, and be led to the Sword.

  Recalling the dreadful chill of the Tower, I hastily dressed myself again in my warmest clothes, wrapped the shawl around me, and remembered at the last moment to pull on my gloves. I took the candle from beside my bed—and some extra matches as well, being well-versed in the ways of Gothic novels, with their heroines wandering about old castles in the middle of the night without a candle or a match to light it with. I stifled a giggle, thinking of Catherine Morland, the jejune naïf of Miss Austen’s parody of Gothic romances, Northanger Abbey… The storm abroad so dreadful, the sudden closing of a distant door…I shook myself. If I weren’t careful, I’d be talking myself into a proper fright. I’m just going to have a look, I told myself. There’s nothing dreadful in the room, we were there earlier, and all was quite ordinary.

  I crept down the hallway to the main staircase and, remembering the way with great clarity, I found myself at the head of the long gallery of armor and portraits. The tall, pointed arched windows along the outer wall showed how terribly the storm was despoiling the trees—in the occasional flash of lightning, I saw branches on the ground, and wet leaves were plastered against the glass panes. I shivered, despite my warm clothing, and walked swiftly to the entrance to the Tower.

  There I met my challenge, one that could not be overcome. Lord Parke had closed the massive door, and try as I might, I could not manage to shift the iron bolt from its position more than an inch, and that was far from what was needed to raise the latch and pull back the bolt. And then the door itself! How could I have forgotten that it took both John and His Lordship together to move its wood and iron hulk? Calling myself a fool and an idiot, I submitted to common sense, and turned back to retreat, humiliated, to my own room—thanking the gods as I went, that no one was privy to my nocturnal ramblings.

  I reached the hall that led to my room, when I was surprised to see my door slightly ajar, and a faint light emitting from the room—I hadn’t left a light, I knew this to a certainty! And I had definitely closed the door. My heart ceased beating for a moment as I gasped aloud. The book! I had left the book on the bed, open to the last page I had been reading, the legend of the Magna Tabula. More than fool and idiot, I chastised myself—imbecile! The very symbol of stupidity!

  I started forward in a rush, then realized that someone might very well be in my room at this precise moment. I took care, then, to approach the door stealthily. I blew out the candle I held, and placed it carefully on a small table in the hall. Creeping forward on my toes, to prevent the wood floor from creaking, I sidled up to the doorway, and peeked in, first to the left, then to the right. The light was very dim—someone had pulled back the draperies from the window, and it was the light that comes before the dawn that filtered into the room—but it was difficult to make out more than shapes and shadows. I heard no movement and saw no disturbance of the light.

  I stepped inside the door, holding my breath. I took a step, then two, closer to the bed, close enough to make out that my precious book was no longer there. I leaned forward to pat the counterpane, hoping perhaps it had slid from its place when I got up—and then I caught the scent of anise, and felt a movement behind me, and suddenly a burst of pain pierced through me, starting at the back of my head, and everything went black.

  38

   Monday, 22 September 1539 

  Glastonbury

  A Letter from Richard Layton to Thomas Cromwell

  Please it your lordship to be advertised, that we came to Glastonbury on Friday last past, about ten of the clock in the forenoon; and for that the abbot was then at Sharpham, a place of his, a mile and somewhat more from the abbey, we, without any delay, went unto the same place; and there, after communication declaring unto him the effect of our coming, examined him upon certain articles. And for that his answer was not then to our purpose, we advised him to call to his remembrance that which he had as then forgotten, and so declare the truth, and then came with him the same day to the abbey; and there of new proceeded that night to search his study for letters and books; and found in his study secretly laid, as well a written book of arguments against the divorce of his king’s majesty and the lady dowager, which we take to be a great matter, as also divers pardons, copies of bulls, and the counterfeit life of Thomas Becket in print; but we could not find any letter that was material, and so we proceeded again to his examination concerning the articles we received from your lordship, in the answers whereof, as we take it, shall appear his cankered and traitorous heart and mind against the king’s majesty and his succession; as by the same answers, signed with his hand, and sent to your lordship by this bearer, more plainly shall appear.

  And so, with as fair words as we could, we have conveyed him hence into the Tower, being but a very weak man and a sickly. And as yet we have neither discharged servant nor monk; but now the abbot being gone, we will, with as much celerity as we may, proceed to the dispatching of them.

  We have money £300 and above, but the uncertainty of plate and other stuff there as yet we know not, for we have not had opportunity for the same, but shortly we intend, God willing, to proceed to the same; whereof we shall ascertain your lordship so shortly as we may.

  This is also to advertise your lordship, that we have found a fair chalice of gold, and divers other parcels of plate, which the abbot had hid secretly from all such commissioners as have been there in times past; and as yet he knoweth not that we have found the same; whereby we think, that he thought to make his hand, by his untruth to his king’s majesty. We assure your lordship it is the goodliest house of that sort that ever we have seen. We would that your lordship did know it as we do; then we doubt not but your lordship would deem it a house meet for the king’s majesty, and for no man else; which is to our great comfort; and we trust verily that there shall never come any double hood within that house again. And thus our Lord preserve your good lordship.

  From Glastonbury, the 22nd day of September,

  Yours to command,

  Richard Pollard

  Thomas Moyle

  Richard Layton

  39

  Ay, ay, O ay—the winds that bend the brier!

  A star in heaven, a star within the mere!

  Ay, ay, O ay—a star was my desire,

  And one was far apart, and one was near:

  Ay, ay, O ay—the winds that bow the grass!

  And one was water and one star was fire,

  And one will ever shine and one will pass.

  Ay, ay, O ay—the winds that move the mere.

  –Idylls of the King

   Naworth Castle 

  Thursday at Dawn

  I awoke to find myself on the floor of my room, with my head pounding, parched with thirst, and a great feeling of self-loathing. How could I have been so stupid!

  I was just beginning to sit up, feeling quite dizzy, when the door opened and the under-maid came in, to light the fire, I supposed, so the room would be warm upon my waking up. Well, she received quite a shock, I must say, and dropped the small bag of kindling she carried with her.

  “Oh, Muss,” she cried, her hand to her mouth. “Are ye dead, Muss?”

  I had to laugh, which made my head hurt more, but I was able to reassure her that I was, however painfully, still quite alive.

  “Help me up, to the bed,” I told her, and that she did quite promptly.

  “Water, please,” was my next request, and she held the cup for me as I drank, my hand at the back of my head. I was highly displeased to see the streaks of red blood on my fingers when I took my hand away.

  “Please, my dear, please go wake up Mr. Sargent,” I whispered. “Just down the hall.”

  “Right away, Muss,” she said, and sped off. I managed to pull a handkerchief out of my jacket pocket, and dipping it in the cup of water, patted it over my face, then ap
plied it firmly to the back of my head, wincing at the effort. I heard her knocking at John’s chamber, and moments later, my friend appeared at my door, nightshirt awry, and barefoot, but he had happily thought to pull on trousers. What on earth, was my irrelevant thought, would Lord Parke and Mr. Howard think now of these two bohemian house guests, traipsing around in déshabillé at all hours?

  “Vi! What…what’s going on? Lord, you’re hurt!” He took the cloth from my hand and bending my head forward carefully, patted at the wounded spot, thick with dried blood and still seeping.

  “It’s not that bad,” he said, his voice sharp with relief. “Messy, but nothing cracked through—you’ve a solid skull, old man.”

  By this time Lord Parke had been roused, and he came to the door, slightly more dressed than John, though not by much—he was wearing shoes and stockings as well as trousers. He looked ever so much the dashing nobleman, his hair unruly and falling across his brow, his green eyes flashing with fury, his shirt open at the neck—all he needed was a rapier in his hand to complete the picture. Should I have swooned? It did occur to me, I admit.

  But then hard cold reality arose and glared in my face.

  “The book,” I said, pointing to the blank counterpane on the bed, as if that was telling enough. “I was reading it last night, and I believe I found a clue, about the Magna Tabula, so I went to look at it again, in the Tower, but couldn’t get through the door, so I came back and … this happened.” I gestured to the back of my head.