by Mary Burns
“Oh,” I said, mustering up a light tone to match his, “I expect, upon my return to London, that my mother will have recovered from her malaise, and we will be off to some cooler August retreat, Baden-Baden, perhaps, or possibly the hills above Firenze.” I looked down at my hands, thinking how idle I had been. “I am, I admit, eager to return to our modern world, and I long to be writing again,” I said. “I have quite a collection of essays I have been composing for some years now, and I think it is time to perhaps turn them into something more substantial, a whole volume, perhaps, about the Eighteenth Century in Italy—no one else has approached that subject at all, and I am eager to make my views known about the aesthetic sense in that century.”
“I am impressed at the depth and range of your scholarship,” said Lord Parke. “And I have no doubt whatsoever that you will write such a book as will astound the literary world.”
“Thank you, my lord,” I said. “I shall do my best.”
“Well, I fear I must be off,” he said, rising from his chair. John rose also, and the two men shook hands most heartily. His Lordship then reached to take my hand, and bowing low over it, brushed his lips on the back of my hand, and smiled with great cordiality.
“Miss Paget,” he said. “This has been the experience of a lifetime, and I cannot tell you how much I have enjoyed your company. I daresay but we shall meet again?”
I nodded my acquiescence, but it seemed to me unlikely that the hallowed halls and upper-crust dining tables he would frequent in future would scarcely welcome yours truly.
But one never knows!
44
And slowly answered Arthur from the barge:
“The old order changeth, yielding place to new,
And God fulfils himself in many ways,
Lest one good custom should corrupt the world.
Comfort thyself: what comfort is in me?
I have lived my life, and that which I have done
May He within himself make pure! but thou,
If thou shouldst never see my face again,
Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer
Than this world dreams of.”
–Idylls of the King
21 December 1539
Lanercost, Cumberland
Winter Solstice – The Feast of St. Digain of Cornwall
Arthur walked in the frosted fields north of his father’s house, his body wrapped in a warm cloak but his soul set a-shiver with cold thoughts. Word had reached them a week before of the Abbot’s execution, and Gwillem Moor’s, and the other monks who were caught up in the treacherous net of the King’s greed and vengeance.
Glastonbury was no more. The lead from the roofs had been pried out and carted away. The window glass was taken, the altars desecrated and broken, the monks and servants dispersed through the land, the very stones taken to make fences and stables. It was reported that the only building left whole was the Abbot’s kitchen, for some reason, and the Abbey’s demesnes had been sold to one or more of Henry’s minions, local minor nobles eager to increase their holdings.
Looking up at the cold diamond stars in the black sky, Arthur tried to picture the vision of the Sword and the Cross he had seen—in truth, it was rarely out of his mind—but it seemed so far away now, and so very long ago, that he had felt the searing joy of its beauty in his heart.
His father and Gweneth, and little Gareth, were more than kind and sympathetic, and indulgent of his need for solitude and prayer. He had not told them the whole truth of his escape from Glastonbury—none but he would bear that burden—but every moment of it burned in him like an everlasting flame. It was both torture and relief to him to feed that flame, and warm himself by it as in a kind of longed-for penance, and for this he sought constant solitude.
But he knew it wouldn’t last—that it shouldn’t last—neither the solitude or the looking inward. He’d be needed for the work of the farm, come spring, and it almost felt to him that it would be a good thing for him to do such work. Could he not pray as he sowed the seed? Could he not derive blessing from plain work, and perhaps still find time to read and pray? Sir William allowed him the use of the library at Castle Naworth—he could go there any time. And yet, there was so much uncertainty in the world, even Sir William acknowledged that it was possible there would be more changes, more retaliations—who was safe with such a king, and such a counselor as Cromwell by his side?
“Thy will be done,” he murmured aloud, and though it was like the touch of a soothing hand, the words of his faith did not have the power to still the grief in his heart. Not yet.
“Your holy quest has been fulfilled.” A voice, like the Abbot’s but also like Gwillem Moor’s, seemed to speak aloud to him as he stood in the frost-silvered meadow, looking up at the stars. Like the longest night of the year, his pain would pass, and the sun would come again.
The Son will come again, repeated his heart. The King will return, and all will be well, most well.
45
He passes to be King among the dead,
And after healing of his grievous wound
He comes again.
–Idylls of the King
Brampton
Friday
I sat between John and Lord Parke in the first row of pews at St. Martin’s Church as my uncle’s coffin was carried up the aisle by some of his friends and colleagues. Mrs. Barnstable sat next to John, who linked his arm in hers and paid her every kind attention.
The coffin reached the foot of the sanctuary; the black-robed priest stepped forward, the congregation rose, and the funeral service began. We sang the lovely hymn “Jerusalem,” the words from a poem by William Blake, which alluded to the legend of Jesus visiting England—actually, visiting Glastonbury—in the company of his reputed uncle, Joseph of Arimathea.
And did those feet in ancient time
Walk upon England’s mountains green:
And was the holy Lamb of God,
On England’s pleasant pastures seen?
And did the Countenance Divine,
Shine forth upon our clouded hills?
And was Jerusalem builded here,
Among these dark Satanic Mills?
Bring me my Bow of burning gold;
Bring me my Arrows of desire:
Bring me my Spear: O clouds unfold!
Bring me my Chariot of fire!
I will not cease from Mental Fight,
Nor shall my Sword sleep in my hand:
Till we have built Jerusalem,
In England’s green & pleasant Land
A stirring hymn, indeed, but though its lovely verses and heroic music were delightful to hear, I did not feel tempted toward faith in the God it invoked. Tempted? Toward Faith? What strange terms to use in such a context. I felt my mind wandering through fields arcane and linguistic, far from the heavenly pastures Blake envisioned. I shook my head slightly, and applied my mind to the scene before me—my uncle’s coffin. He could rest now, I supposed, we having found out his murderer, as well as discovered the secret of the Magna Tabula. And his almost wife, Mrs. Barnstable, she would be well provided for from now on, even if he were not there to share a life with her.
I looked up at the gorgeous stained glass window, recently installed, that Edward Burne-Jones had designed for this church. It reminded me of how John had described the scene of our Apparition of the Sword—deeply brilliant colors, flashing light and shadow, men and women in postures of awe and enchantment. It felt very interesting to me, to think of myself, and John and Lord Parke, as characters in a book—or a medieval morality play.
What was the moral of what we had just gone through? Faith and science, past and present, reason and madness, belief and delusion—these ideas but skimmed the surface of the depths of mankind’s nature that I, as a writer, and John, as an artist, felt drawn—compelled—to explore and depict to our fellow creatures. Our lives were before us, and there was much to be known. The endless human tragicomedy of life and d
eath, birth and growth, played before me in its infinite variety, infinite sadness, infinite joy.
The hymn came to an end, we were invited to be seated, and with a burst of emotion I did not believe I had known before, I took a hand of each of my companions in my own, and felt secure and happy in the presence of my friends.
E p I l o g u e
When I took up my pen to write this tale of The Spoils of Avalon, I had no thought or expectation of how it would affect me. Remembrances of nearly forty years ago bring along with them various feelings of pain and joy, softened by time and the wisdom of aging. It amuses me to think of my younger self, so confident, so brash and yet—before the years subsequent to that time—so innocent and idealistic. And John, too, so full of life and the love of art, always ready for fun but always serious about his work. I miss him so very much.
Thus it ever was—the young explore, and the old reflect.
Oh, pish and tosh! Whilst that aphorism may be true, I am not ready for the rocking chair, the woolen shawl, and the mob cap just yet! There are plenty of adventures to be had still—and there are many to recall and write about—such as the time that Scamps and I were in Venice, and there was this dear friend of his, a painter, accused of murder, and who was in possession of a palazzo once occupied by a playwright of the 18th century—with not only murder and burglary, but a ghost haunting the palazzo as well! I’m thinking of calling it, The Love for Three Oranges, for reasons which become clear when you read the story.
Author’s Notes
Readers always want to know which characters are real and which are fiction, and how much of the story was real—and as an avid reader of historical fiction myself, I am happy to respond to that curiosity and interest. Here follows a compendium of fact and imagination in The Spoils of Avalon:
Real-Life Characters
From 1877
Violet Paget (aka Vernon Lee) (and her relatives who are mentioned)
John Singer Sargent (and the people he names as friends, teachers, etc.)
Mr. George Howard (who became the 9th Earl of Carlisle within a few years after the date of this story) and his wife Rosalind, who bore eleven children.
N.B. There was an actual Lord Parke, Baron of Wensleydale, who was a cousin to George Howard, but I did not base this character on anything known about the man at that time; Lord Parke in the novel is completely a character of my imagination.
From 1539
Sir Richard Whiting, Abbot of Glastonbury (and other Abbots mentioned by name)
Gwillem Moor, Welsh bard and secret messenger between the Abbeys
Richard Layton (and other named commissioners of the king and Cromwell)
John Reynyger, the ‘singing man’ at Glastonbury Abbey. An interesting note I found about him: he was given a pension of 10 pounds a year after the Abbey was dissolved, which he collected for some fifteen years.
Fictional Characters: All minor characters (maids, footmen, etc.) are fictional; all secondary characters (Mrs. Barnstable, Mr. Gravely, Mr. Wattendall, Rev. Crickley) are fictional; and even young Arthur Joseph and his whole family are fictional characters. I have attempted to re-create the language, sentiments and views of the world that would be appropriate to these characters at their distinct periods of time, and I hope the reader will recognize the sincerity of my attempts to get things right.
Places: All the places named in the book (except for the Cottage Perilous) are real, and all can be seen or visited today: the town and church of Brampton, Castle Naworth, the ruins of Lanercost Priory and of Glastonbury Abbey. One small liberty I took: St. Martin’s Church in Brampton was still being built in 1877, the date of this story, and was consecrated in November, 1878, but I wanted to include it as finished here.
Books, Letters and Artifacts: The little book that is the “MacGuffin” of this story, sent by Reverend Crickley to Violet, is completely fictional. The relics and church items mentioned are all actual, including the inventory of gold, plate, etc., found at Glastonbury and sent to the King. All the letters toward the end of the story, from the King’s Commissioners to Cromwell, are absolutely real, word for word, in the original language as written. Chilling, aren’t they? Most especially, the Magna Tabula—definitely real, and now resident in the Bodleian Library at Oxford, since the mid 1930’s when the Howard family took it from Belted Willy’s Tower, where it had sat quietly since the Dissolution, and gave it to the library.
If you enjoyed The Spoils of Avalon, we hope you will review it on Amazon or Goodreads!
Other books by Mary F. Burns
Portraits of an Artist: A Novel
about John Singer Sargent
Isaac and Ishmael
J—The Woman Who Wrote the Bible
Ember Days
The Love for Three Oranges
The Second Sargent/Paget Mystery
The Unicorn in the Mirror
The Third Sargent/Paget Mystery
At Chalk Farm
(A Henry James Sequel)
Visit the author’s website
at maryfburns.com.