As Rome’s frontiers demanded a more flexible army, Roman legions were reorganized into smaller units of 1,000 men per legion while the cavalry became a separate arm of the service. Mobility was essential, so the troops could fight where they were needed most.
The situation in Britain also demanded mobility, and it has been suggested that Arthur served in some capacity resembling a count, deploying a small force of cavalry, which may or may not have been armored, but was disciplined and effective in dealing with Saxon foes who had no horses and little organization.
As commander in chief of his band of knights, Arthur would have been directing a campaign that determined Britain’s freedom and future. He was the only leader capable of organizing the island’s defense against its invaders; the one leader able to inspire his people to fight to the death. But if this were the reason Nennius called him dux bellorum, it calls the incidental details in the historian’s account into question. Neither his going into battle with an image of the Virgin Mary on his shoulder nor his singlehandedly killing 960 men is easy to accept as fact. But it could be that Nennius misread an old text. The Welsh word for “shoulder,” ysgwydd, is almost identical with the word for “shield,” ysgwyd. It seems more probable that Arthur went into battle carrying a shield bearing a badge proclaiming his faith in the Blessed Mother.
As for the number of victims slain by Arthur at Mount Badon, the distinction might be simply that Arthur and his men were fighting this battle alone against the Saxons and that Nennius was describing an overwhelming defeat inflicted by Arthur’s cavalry.
The next references to a historical Arthur occur in the Annales Cambriae, a Latin list of events and the years in which they took place. These probably were compiled in the north of Britain about the middle of the tenth century, but they come from sources at least as early as those used by Nennius. These “Annals of Wales,” which cover the years 453 to 954, mention only the last of Arthur’s battles under the date 516: “The battle of Badon in which Arthur carried the cross of Our Lord Jesus Christ, for three days and three nights on his shoulders, and the Britons were victorious.” (Again, the reference to Arthur carrying the cross on his shoulders may reflect a Welsh confusion between shoulders and shields.) Under the date 537, there is a second reference to Arthur, this time to the battle fought between him and his illegitimate son Mordred that forms the climax of Le Morte d’Arthur: “The battle of Camlann in which Arthur and Medraut were slain; and there was death in England.”
At this point, there is no evidence in the record that Arthur was a king. But his name, which in its Latin form is Artorius, suggests that he may have come from a distinguished family in some way connected with Rome. More than one Roman named Artorius lived in Britain during the empire’s occupation, and one, Lucius Artorius Castus, led the sixth legion on an expedition to Armorica in the middle of the second century. Some scholars have proposed that an ancestor of the British Arthur may have served under him and that, proud of this service, he gave his son his leader’s name, which was handed down from generation to generation. But such a conjecture is not necessary. The name Artorius implies that Arthur was of Roman descent, and the fact that he succeeded Ambrosius as leader implies that Arthur may well have been related to Ambrosius. According to Geoffrey of Monmouth, Ambrosius was Uther Pendragon’s brother and therefore Arthur’s uncle - although Uther is probably a product of Geoffrey’s imagination. Another possibility: that after his triumph over the Saxons, Arthur’s men might have named their leader king, following the example of the Roman legions in fourth-century Britain who proclaimed their general, Maximus, emperor.
It is not until the late eleventh century that records show Arthur regularly and unequivocally as a king. Several biographies of Celtic priests and monks, upon whom the Welsh and Britons rely, describe him as a monarch, although they also somewhat freely bestowed the title of saint. In more than one of the biographies, however, Arthur is called a tyrant king and presented as a ruler with little respect for the church, or as a rex rebellus, who remains committed to evil until converted by some miracle worked by a saint whose holy career is presented for the reader’s admiration. Although few of these tales about Arthur are credible, they show that the monks who wrote them realized any connection with him, however fanciful, would lend credibility to their forgotten, saintly heroes. Their unflattering portrayal of Arthur also may provide a clue to a mysterious omission in the earliest surviving chronicle of the period, implying that the king had in some way offended the church in his fight for Britain’s freedom.
This chronicle, De Excidio et Conquestu Britanniae, is the work of the sixth-century monk Gildas. He was likely writing a few years after Arthur’s death and may have known Arthur – yet he never mentions his name.
Gildas was the son of a minor British chieftain whose small domain in Scotland was overrun by Picts. He and several of his several brothers abandoned their homeland and fled to Wales, where they were given the protection of King Cadwallon ap Cadfan of Gwynedd. Gildas married in Wales, but his wife soon passed away, and he turned to a religious life. At times, he seems to have resided in Ireland, on a remote island in the Bristol Channel, where he lived as a hermit and subsisted on fish and gulls’ eggs; in Brittany; and at Glastonbury in Somerset. On his death, he was deemed worthy of canonization.
He wrote his most significant work, the De Excidio et Conquestu Britanniae, circa 540 and refers to it as a book of complaints. In it, he castigates his contemporaries for their lack of foresight and their blindness to the lessons of the past and attacks the local kings of Britain for immorality and tyranny. “They have many wives and all of them adulteresses and prostitutes. They often take oaths and always break them. They wage wars, and the wars are unjust on their own countrymen. They hunt down thieves in the countryside, but they have thieves at their own tables, whom they love and load with gifts.”
Gildas briefly summarizes the historical events that led up to this state of affairs, and ends his chronicle with the story of a great victory over the Saxons in a battle that was fought in or about 500. This victory, siege of Mount Badon, put an end to foreign wars, though not to civil wars. This decisive battle is the last of the twelve victories attributed to Arthur by Nennius and the bloody conflict in which, according to the Annales Cambriae, Arthur carried the cross of Christ for three days and nights. But Gildas says nothing of Arthur, referring merely to “gallows-birds,” the Saxons, who “dipped [their] red and savage tongue in the western ocean.” Gildas credits Ambrosius Aurelianus with organizing the British resistance at Badon, after which an unexpected recovery of the island led kings, nobles, priests and commoners to “live orderly according to their several vocations.”
This omission led some later historians to believe Arthur never existed. Some suggested that the Arthurian epic was a fabrication, a result of wishful thinking at a time when a national hero was desperately needed. They argued that Gildas did not mention many names in his text, but he did take note of Ambrosius. Why not Arthur, then, if Arthur had won a victory so complete that Britain had been granted peace for almost half a century?
The question has at least two answers, both of which are credible. One is that Gildas may have had good reason for not naming Arthur directly and that he instead mentioned him in an oblique way that his contemporaries would have understood.
In his attacks on the corrupt rulers of his time, Gildas refers to one Welsh king, Cuneglas, as a “despiser of God, an adulterer, and an oppressor of monks.” Yet as a youth, Cuneglas had driven “the chariot which carried The Bear.” Who was this great man, known as The Bear, who should have a prince drive his chariot? Gildas does not say. But the Celtic word for “bear” is arth or artos.
It is also possible that Gildas did not mention Arthur by name because Arthur, like so many of his contemporaries, had fallen short of the monk’s strict ideals in religion and morals.
Like Cuneglas, Arthur might have earned a reputation as an “oppressor of monks.” Fighting the Saxon
s was a costly enterprise, and a war leader presumably must have had to call upon monasteries for money and food for his men and horses. He likely seized what was not given freely. Such impositions could account for the unsympathetic figure Arthur cuts in the stories of later saints’ lives.
But the quarrel – if there, indeed, was a quarrel - between Gildas and Arthur may have been personal. According to a biography of Gildas, written in the twelfth century in Llancarfan Abbey, where Gildas once lived, Arthur had killed Hueil, Gildas’ eldest brother. Hueil had not gone to Wales, like the rest of his family, but remained in Scotland to inherit his father’s lands. He had come, it seems, to some traitorous understanding with the Picts to secure possession of his kingdom. Consequently, Arthur made war on Hueil and killed him, causing Gildas, who had “diligently loved Arthur,” to turn against him. A similar account appears in another eleventh-century Welsh tale, which lends credence to the story. If Gildas and Arthur did find themselves on opposite sides in the civil wars that followed the battle of Mount Badon, and that led to the fight between Arthur and Mordred at Camlann, Gildas’ reluctance to mention his brother’s killer is understandable. He could scarcely deny the triumph of Mount Badon, but he could not bring himself to record the name of the victor. There is also a long-standing tradition that Gildas did, in fact, write about Arthur, but threw the draft of the book that included his name into the sea.
It may not be necessary to find reasons why Arthur’s name does not appear in the De Excidio. If the battle of Mount Badon was the resounding victory all accounts suggest it was, its details would be well known to the book’s readers. Gildas had no need to repeat that Arthur won it - it would have been a fact of life.
By the time Nennius was writing 250 years later, Arthur had been accepted as the victor at Mount Badon and as the paragon of British heroes - not only in Britain proper, but also in Brittany, where so many Britons had fled after the Saxon invasions. The stories of the mighty warrior were embellished and adapted to the taste of the people in whose land they settled. But the basic storyline remained surprisingly close to the Celtic legends and poems of Wales and the British West Country, where Arthur’s deeds were treasured and his praises sung. The common people, the descendants of the people Arthur had fought to defend, never lost faith in their champion. Indeed, their belief became more fervent: “If you do not believe me,” wrote a twelfth-century French theologian, “go to the realm of Armorica [to Brittany] which is lesser Britain, and preach about the market places and villages that Arthur the Briton is dead as other men are dead, and facts themselves will show you how true is Merlin’s prophecy, which says that the ending of Arthur shall be doubtful. Hardly will you escape unscathed, without being overwhelmed by the curses or crushed by the stones of your hearers.”
By the twelfth century, Arthur’s fame had spread far beyond Britain and Brittany to France, Germany, and Italy. The sixth-century British warrior whose identity had been obscured by the passage of time became one of the most celebrated heroes of the Christian world. To the peasant, he was the just protector who one day would rise again to right their wrongs; to his lord, Arthur was the model of knightly virtue; to all men and women, Arthur’s courage offered hope and his prowess, inspiration. Naturally, proof of his existence was sought - yet proof was lacking. Then, in 1191, the skeptics suddenly were confounded by a remarkable discovery.
The find was made at Glastonbury in Somerset - Arthur’s traditional realm - known in local lore as the Isle of Avalon, to which Arthur was borne, after the fateful battle of Camlann.
In earlier times, Glastonbury was an island; the waters of the Bristol Channel had reached deep into Somerset, covering the coastline with tidal water amid which hills and ridges stood like islands. At Glastonbury, the Iron Age British of the second century B.C. built villages of timber huts on patches of dry land. The so-called lake village rested on timber platforms, supported by pilings driven into the marsh and peat.
The people who lived there were skillful farmers who grew wheat, barley, peas, and beans. They were also expert carpenters, wood carvers, basket makers, metalworkers, potters, and glassworkers. Although they were under increasing pressure from the Belgae, warrior tribes who had crossed from northeastern Gaul to settle in Britain, they managed to maintain an astonishingly high standard of civilization for more than a century. Then, shortly before the first Romans landed in Britain, in 55 B.C., the village was attacked by Belgae raiders, who destroyed its buildings and killed most of its inhabitants.
The peace Roman power brought to Britain enabled the survivors to move to drier and healthier ground, and Glastonbury probably became the deserted swamp it had been before the lake village was built. Over the centuries, drops in sea level partially drained the marsh. At some point before the end of the sixth century, a monastery was built there. Its monks used to claim that the Glastonbury monastery was the oldest in Britain, and the original abbey church, the Vetusta Ecclesia, a primitive construction of wattle and daub, was shown to the pilgrims who flocked to Glastonbury to see “the source and fountain of all religion” in Britain.
It was shown to William of Malmesbury, widely regarded as the most reliable twelfth-century historian, when he visited Glastonbury sometime between 1125 and 1135. He seems to have had doubts about its age and authenticity, but he was sufficiently impressed by the abbey’s ancient documents to maintain that the Church of St. Mary at Glastonbury was “the first church in the kingdom of Britain.”
Delighted to have confirmation of their ancient foundation from such a respected authority, the monks at Glastonbury made and circulated several copies of his De Antiquitate Glastomensis Ecclesiae. They went on to issue revised editions of the work, still listing William as the author but adding new material embellishing the abbey’s history and reputation. One of these revisionist accounts discussed how the abbey had been founded by “no other hands than those of the Disciples of Christ,” who had come to England in 63 A.D. to preach the Gospel. The group was led by Joseph of Arimathea, the follower of Jesus who had Christ’s body laid to rest in the sepulcher. A British king, impressed by their conduct, gave them land on which to settle at Glastonbury. There they were visited by the Archangel Gabriel, who told them to build a church, the original Vetusta Ecclesia, and dedicate it to the Virgin Mary.
Gradually, as new editions of William’s book were issued by succeeding generations of monks, each hand written with considerable care and artistry, further details were added. St. Joseph of Arimathea had brought with him to Glastonbury, if not the Holy Grail itself, at least a pair of vessels, one containing the blood, the other the sweat of Christ, and these vessels had been buried with him in the abbey grounds. At the foot of Glastonbury Tor, the hill that rises above the abbey, Joseph had knelt to pray, leaning on his staff, and the walking stick had taken root and budded. This plant was the origin of the celebrated Glastonbury Thorn, which flowered every year at Christmas.
Although William of Malmesbury never linked the name of Arthur with Glastonbury, it appeared from later versions of his book that the king, a benefactor and patron of the abbey, was buried there, in the grounds that once had been known as the Isle of Avalon.
In his seminal history of England, De Gestis Regum Anglorum, William had called Arthur a man “truly worthy to be celebrated . . . since for a long time he sustained the declining fortunes of his country and incited the unbroken spirit of the people to war. Finally, at the battle of Mount Badon, relying upon the image of the Mother of the Lord which he had fixed upon his armour, he made heed single-handed against 900 of the enemy and routed them with incredible slaughter.” But William had taken pains to separate the real Arthur from the Celtic legend - those “foolish dreams of deceitful fables,” as he called them - and he went on to state that “the grave of Arthur is nowhere known.”
The Glastonbury monks, however, cast such concerns aside. Geoffrey of Monmouth’s History of the Kings of Britain had been completed in 1139, within a few years of William’s visit to
Glastonbury, and had made the name of Arthur revered throughout the Christian world. Who could blame them for giving authority to the local tradition that Arthur had been laid to rest at Glastonbury? And what Englishman could not feel gratified when, in 1191, it appeared that their faith had been rewarded with evidence?
The story of the monks’ discovery began on May 25, 1184, when a fire broke out in the abbey, destroying virtually all its buildings and relics, including the church. Encouraged by King Henry II, who agreed to contribute a substantial sum for the rebuilding of the abbey, the monks began to raise money themselves. They went into the country to beg. They solicited subscriptions from wealthy nobles. They restored many of the relics that had been burned and exhibited them in shrines where pilgrims could bring their offerings. They found the remains of several saints, including bones belonging to St. Patrick, and a skeleton they claimed to be St. Dunstan, a former abbot of Glastonbury and Archbishop of Canterbury - a claim that aroused much indignation at Canterbury, where the monks had been showing St. Dunstan’s tomb to pilgrims for more than 200 years.
The Glastonbury monks collected enough money to begin rebuilding on a lavish scale, and by 1186, the first stage of the work was completed with the dedication of a new Lady Chapel. But in 1189, Henry II died, and his successor, Richard I, had no funds or inclination to rebuild abbeys in England while there were Saracens to fight in the Holy Land. But the idea to search for King Arthur’s tomb had taken hold at the abbey, and the monks went to work in earnest. In 1191, they claimed to have discovered Arthur’s grave.
King Arthur Page 5