by Bill Kitson
‘Not really, at least not in the first part of the book, although by the sound of it, disease or plague of some description took its toll on a number of them before they could complete their assignment.’
We started on the second volume once we had been fortified with mugs of tea brought by Frank, who was now able to use his injured arm without the need for a sling. We had chosen the manor’s small library for the task. It was a comfortable room, protected from the elements by virtue of its position to the rear of the drawing room. Knowing we were to occupy it, Robert and Frank had been thoughtful enough to light the fire, so that by pulling two armchairs close to the blaze we were warm and cosy.
Once we had finished our drinks and the homemade scones Mary had provided, Eve switched the lights on. The winter afternoon was already drawing to a close as I commenced reading the second volume. After much of the same stuff, I decided to try a different approach. I jumped to the tenth journal entry, and then moved swiftly to the eleventh section. ‘Domenico and one of his colleagues from the Rome delegation have been consulting a monk named Brother Boniface,’ I told Eve. ‘Now, Domenico has gone to Abbot Henry to discuss what Brother Boniface told them.’
Eve must have seen the change in my expression as I was in the throes of translating, ‘What is it? What have you found?’
I continued, my finger moving from word to word as I struggled with the difficult handwriting. My finger stopped as I noticed two words that were in English, not Latin. I read them once; then again, and as I grasped their significance, I gasped aloud. ‘Evie, this is incredible. It’s as if myths and legends are coming to life before our eyes. I know where Domenico and his colleagues came to in England. Not only that, but I have just read something that was apparently as much of a rumour in the twelfth century as it is today. Listen to this.
‘I had cause to visit Abbot Henry, whose advice I needed to solicit. I told him one of my companions had been talking to Brother Boniface and I believed the story he told merited consideration. Some centuries past, I am not certain quite when, for I am lamentably ignorant of English history, there was a great chieftain here whose deeds are still recounted by local people. It is said he was Celtic by birth and commanded a great host of valiant soldiers whose achievements in battle repelled the Saxon invaders for the best part of one hundred years. Much of what Brother Boniface had to tell me was based on little more than gossip and rumour but it appears that many myths and legends have grown up about this man. Accounts seem to vary wildly, but on one thing most are agreed; that the chieftain was named Arthur and that he was married to a queen called Guinevere.
‘Many of the legends are contradictory and none more so than regarding his fate. Some say that Arthur did not die, but that he rests asleep until such time as England’s need of him is great again; then he will rise and lead another rebellion against the invaders and thrust them back into the sea. Another legend relates that Arthur was mortally wounded in his last great battle and that he and Queen Guinevere lie buried together close by or inside the grounds of the Abbey, for this is said to be both his spiritual and ancestral home.
‘The worthy Abbot told me he knew of the stories surrounding King Arthur, and also knew the legend of his ancestry. He saw me looking blank and continued, ‘It directly concerns the reason for your mission here, and lends great credence to the possibility of discovering that which you seek.’
‘He looked at me, his gaze keen, piercing almost. ‘Do you recall, before the snow came, at the turn of the year, I took you to that place, the one they call Wearyall Hill and showed you a thorn that was in blossom? We were fortunate, for although all else was heavily rimed with frost nothing could disguise the purity of the flowers on that thorn. That is no native tree, for there is none other that flowers at this time of year; all others blossom in the month of May. There is a legend surrounding that thorn, for the locals insist it grew from the staff of St Joseph which he planted in the ground when he and his small band of companions arrived here. It is from his line that King Arthur is reputed to have been descended.’
Eve started at me in disbelief. ‘I don’t know what to make of that, do you? And what’s all that about hawthorn and blackthorn, they don’t flower until around May, do they?’
‘There is one that does. Only one tree, and only in one place. It is called the Glastonbury Thorn, and it is on Wearyall Hill, close to Glastonbury Abbey. Legend has it that when Joseph of Arimathea came to Glastonbury, he planted his staff there and the thorn grew from it. That is the legend that Abbot Henry has been recounting to Domenico. And what I find extremely interesting, according to Abbot Henry, is the popular superstition that King Arthur was descended from Joseph or one of his followers.’
‘This is fascinating, but what does it mean, even if it is true?’
‘I’m not really sure, but it has given me an idea. This journal entry could mean that Victoria is having no success with that third inscription from the stone tablets because she’s using the wrong language to decipher it.’
Robert was delivering fresh coffee to the study and we followed him in. The only language we heard on entering was Anglo-Saxon. Victoria looked up from the paper she had been scribbling on and apologised. ‘Sorry for the unladylike phraseology but this final message has got me so flummoxed, and is having an extremely bad effect on my temper. I hate to admit defeat, but if I don’t get a breakthrough soon, I’m going to have to give in.’
‘Before you do that, may I make a suggestion?’
‘Does it involve throwing this onto a blazing fire? Because if so, I’ve already thought of it –several times.’ Victoria paused, then relented, ‘Go on, give me your suggestion, and please make it an inspirational one.’
‘What languages have you used?’ I grinned at Robert and added, ‘Apart from Anglo-Saxon.’
‘All the Celtic ones, including any dialect variations I could think of. I even dipped into some of the old Germanic tongues.’
‘Is it possible that the runes aren’t Celtic at all? Could the message have been presented in runic form simply to throw people off the scent by disguising the true origin?’
‘It’s entirely possible, I suppose, and if that was the intention, I have to say it has worked remarkably well, at least as far as this translator is concerned.’
Robert looked puzzled, so I explained. ‘Suppose I was to write down, “My name is Adam Bailey and I live in North Yorkshire,” but instead of using the Latin alphabet I wrote it in Cyrillic; then showed it to a man in Leningrad or Vladivostok, how likely is it that they would understand it?’
‘Oh, I get you.’
‘I take it there is a specific point to your extremely open question?’ Victoria asked, a trifle sarcastically.
‘There is indeed. My suggestion is that you try using Aramaic.’
‘Aramaic? Why on earth would it be written in an ancient Semitic language that hasn’t been in use for around fourteen hundred years, and then only in a few regions thousands of miles away? This is Britain, not Babylon, Adam.’
‘I know that, and I agree that it’s a long shot, but I still think it’s worth a go. I have evidence, if that’s not too strong a word, that visitors to Britain who would be familiar with the Aramaic language might have commissioned the carving of that message.’
‘Very well, as I’ve reached desperation point and tried everything else I can think of, I’ll give it a try. I’ll be sure to let you know if I’m successful – or otherwise.’
The fiendish grin that accompanied her final remark told me that if she were to fail, her rich vocabulary of invective would be directed at me. With that in mind, as we returned to the library, I told Eve that I was almost dreading encountering Victoria later. ‘Don’t worry, Adam, I’ll protect you,’ she consoled me.
Much of the second volume of Domenico’s gave details of the dangerous situation the visitors faced; not by virtue of their mission, but simply because of the warring factions in Britain at that time. England during that period
was a land of division. The power that was William I had long gone, and in his place the dying King Henry II had just been replaced by Richard I. Although Richard was portrayed by history as a courageous warrior leading his troops on crusades against those who had captured the Holy Land, at home, all was far from well. In fact, Richard detested England, spending as little time in the country as possible. Into that vacuum stepped his younger brother, the ambitious Prince John.
I explained this to Eve, and was surprised by her response. ‘It sounds like one of those war reports you did from Africa.’
I stared at her in surprise. ‘When did you see those? I didn’t know you when I worked there.’
She blushed slightly, but admitted she had found the video tapes the TV company had given me of several of my dispatches. ‘If you watched those you must be a masochist,’ I joked, but I saw her point. There was a similarity between the civil wars I had covered in Africa and the lawless state of Britain towards the end of the twelfth century.
‘However interesting these facts might be, they do nothing to advance our knowledge of the purpose of Domenico’s mission,’ I added.
‘What do you suggest?’
‘I think we should leave them until a later date and seek enlightenment towards the end of the journal, in the latter part of volume three. By then he might have decided to come clean about their objective.’
I was dead right, and almost immediately we opened volume three I found what we had been looking for. As with the previous occasion, it was a two-word phrase that almost leapt from the page, only this one was in Latin, not English. ‘Oh my goodness,’ I exclaimed, not having Victoria’s gift of invective.
‘What have you found?’
I pointed to the phrase. Eve peered at the crabbed, tricky handwriting for a second, her lips moving as she read each letter. She looked at me, and I knew from her startled expression that she had performed her own translation.
The phrase did far more than explain the reason for the priests having travelled to England. It explained Stephen Pengelly’s desperate search. It explained his willingness to spend a huge amount of money in attempting to find it. Above all, it provided a motive for the murders that none of us could have foreseen. What it did not do was point to the identity of the killer.
It was early evening when Victoria came into the library, where Eve and I were still sitting in quiet contemplation of what we had learned. ‘You were right, Adam,’ she told me. ‘It is Aramaic, and I have completed the translation. What I am now hoping is that you can shed more light onto how you came to guess so accurately, and what the message refers to –although I have my suspicions.’
‘I think everyone should hear it, but before they do, I think you should take a look at this.’ I pointed to the journal.
Victoria was as startled as we had been, and agreed with my interpretation. ‘Let’s call the others and get this over with.’
I smiled at the retired professor, who was as excited as a six-year-old on Christmas morning. Small wonder, having read what we had found. I went to summon everyone, and when they arrived, Victoria explained her success with the final rune, and how it had come about.
She picked up the piece of paper and prepared to read out the translation. ‘I was baffled to begin with as to the meaning, but what Adam and Eve found in that journal’ –she pointed to the ledger –‘explains it all. Here goes.
‘Our small group came to this strange, cold, inhospitable land in fear of our lives for we refused to recant our belief in face of the barbarians. It was as well our leader knew these shores else the seas hereabouts would have accounted for us. Fortune favoured us on reaching this place, for our leader knew the local warlord before whom we were brought, having traded in metals with him. These people are wondrously clever in metal-craft and this stood us in good stead.
‘So we have made our home with them and have achieved a form of status. With the passage of time the power of that which we brought became known and the force it gave to sustain the body against all manner of maladies and ailments spread far and wide. Although it did much good for us, for we were made safe by its power, it became a target for those who would steal it, careless of its true significance.
‘To protect the wonderful object our leader entrusted it to me before his time was over and charged me to do all within my power to protect it. Now my time too runs short, so I have devised a place where the object is secreted, away from the acquisitive gaze of men. The whereabouts of its resting place I will pass to the son of our leader, for none has a greater right, with these words of warning for the generations that follow.
‘Heed this, you who come after. The power of this thing is great, so great you cannot comprehend it. But as it is a power for good, in equal measure it may be a power for evil. Think well and well again before you risk unleashing such power, for as it saves, so may it also destroy.’
She put the paper down and looked at the others, before turning to Eve and me. ‘I now understand what this is all about, but I’ll let Adam and Eve explain. This is more their success than mine.’
All eyes turned to me and I began by directing my explanation to Robert. ‘I can now see why your brother invested so much money in the company Overtring. He obviously believed he was on the verge of discovering something of incalculable value. By way of confirmation, towards the end of Domenico’s journal the priest reveals why he was sent here.’
I told them our more recent discovery. ‘The place he describes is Glastonbury, and towards the end he explains why they had been sent here by the Pope and his emissaries. Their mission failed, but the objective was to recover the most sacred relic of all time and take it to Rome. Domenico refers to it as the “Sacro Catino”, which roughly translated means sacred dish. In other words, the Holy Chalice from the Last Supper, or as it has also been called, the Holy Grail.’
There was a long, stunned silence. It seemed an age before Alison spoke. ‘That is incredible. Think of it, Robbie; think of the effect this discovery would have. How much would an object like this be worth? I’m not sure you could put a price on it. It must be without doubt the most precious religious and historical artefact the world has ever seen, the vessel containing the sweat, the tears, and the blood of Jesus Christ; The Holy Grail. Not only that, Robbie, that’s only a part of it.’
‘She’s right, Robert,’ Victoria added. ‘Remember when I told you what Professor Gladstone said? “The true story would be revealed at last of the most mysterious and charismatic leader and his entourage, King Arthur. Not only that but the story of Merlin the wizard, father of both Cerdic of Wessex and Arthur, a story that will make every history book of the time just worthless scrap paper.” If this is true and not a confidence trick, the possibilities are endless.’
Robert looked troubled. ‘I’m not sure where all this is leading to? I really can’t comprehend it.’
‘Hang on though, Robert, I’m afraid there’s even more to this than you’ve taken on board yet,’ I told him. ‘Have you worked out who the leader referred to in that message is?’
Robert shook his head. I looked at Eve and Victoria, who both obviously had.
‘Tell him, Adam, it’s not fair to keep him in the dark,’ Eve encouraged me.
‘Very well, I think the leader refer to in the runes is Joseph of Arimathea, St Joseph. He was a trader in metals and visited Cornwall regularly to buy tin. Rumour has it that on one of those journeys he brought Jesus along with him. ‘That’s what William Blake’s poem refers to.’ I hummed a snatch of the hymn Jerusalem to emphasise my point.
‘Jesus was Joseph’s nephew, or so it’s believed. There is evidence that after the Crucifixion, Joseph travelled from the Holy Land through Europe with a group of Christ’s followers, escaping persecution and carrying the sacred vessels with them. The group split up, but Joseph and a small party came to England, where they settled at Glastonbury. It is believed that Joseph and other members of the party intermarried with people from the local tribes, par
tly as a means to avoid persecution. When you read that message, and take it in context with the other runes, and if we believe Gladstone’s tale, I think it’s safe to assume that the man who passed the secret to his sons was Merlin, and the two sons were Arthur and Cerdic. That would also bear out the rumour that was prevalent as early as the twelfth century, that Arthur was descended from St Joseph. It is mentioned in another part of the journal.’
I paused for a long time to allow the full implication of my theory to sink in. It clearly hadn’t dawned on Robert, so Alison prompted him. ‘Robbie,’ she whispered, her voice a mixture of awe and terror, ‘if Arthur’s ancestor was St Joseph, and St Joseph was Christ’s uncle,’ she paused again, unable to comprehend the implication of her own deduction.
‘Go on, Alison, say it,’ Eve told her, her voice almost inaudible.
‘If all the details Stephen researched are correct, if that family tree happens to be accurate, do you realise what it means? Robbie, if by some,’ Alison gulped, ‘I was going to use the word miracle but that doesn’t seem appropriate really, if by some remote chance the genealogy happened to be correct, do you realise what a special person you would become in the eyes of many? Merely at the thought that you might be the last person in a direct line from the Holy Family.’
Chapter Seventeen
Reaction to the revelations of the previous evening had been intriguing. Whereas many might have considered we should have been in high spirits; the converse was true, and for much of the time, everyone seemed more inclined to quiet introspection I think we were all somewhat overawed by the possible implications.
One of the few comments made was by Alison, who professed to be a little sad that one of her favourite childhood stories now seemed less credible. Faced with cold hard fact, the fiction withered, according to her. ‘I used to love reading about those brave knights that King Arthur sent to do battle with dragons and rescue damsels in distress. In particular I loved the story of the quest for the Holy Grail, but if King Arthur knew where the Holy Grail was hidden, he wouldn’t need to send his knights to search for it.’