Ghosts

by Hans Holzer

  Now the Knights Templars belong to a much later period, that of the Crusades. Strangely, the legend of the Holy Grail is set during that latter time, incorporating much of the Arthurian traditions. Was there a connection somewhere between a post-Roman local ruler and a Christian mystical upholder of the faith? Was Camelot reoccupied long after its fall and destruction by Arthur’s nephew Mordred, in the Saxon period by a group of monks who established a sanctuary there, linking the Arthurian traditions with their early medieval Christianity? In other words, did a group of monks during the early Crusades occupy the hill at Cadbury, and found upon the ruins of Arthur’s sanctuary and palace a new sanctuary dedicated to the revived belief in the Holy Grail of nearby Glastonbury?

  All these thoughts came to me much later, when I sifted the material back in New York.

  At the moment we were standing atop Cadbury Hill, and the air was getting chilly as the sun started to disappear behind the horizon.

  “There was some link with the sea, but they were finished, they had to move…very suddenly…came here for sanctuary and tried to build up…the same meeting place…feeling….”

  “What was the place called then?” I asked with bated breath. “B-r-y-n-w-T-o-r-,” Sybil answered.

  “Brynw Tor?” I repeated. Nearly Glastonbury came to mind. A tor is high, craggy hill that in England usually has a temple on it.

  “What was here actually?” I pointed to the ground.

  “The home of…. I see a face lying down…with gray things hanging…chains. It’s a good man, in chains. Loss of freedom must cause suffering…tied here.”

  Later I wondered who the prisoner she felt might have been. I found that Arthur himself was thrown into prison by one of the sons of King Ambrose, after the king had died. Arthur had become embroiled in the quarrel among Ambrose’s sons and successors. Eventually Arthur was freed by his men. Could Sybil be picking up this mental image of that event in the far past?

  Again I asked, who was the leader here, and Sybil replied, she did not know. When I saw Paul Johnstone in St. Louis many months later, he informed me that he had had contact with Arthur, through his psychic board. Arthur had informed him that he had not been present when I came to look for Camelot, even though I had come to the right place.

  “Do you sense any leader at all?” I insisted, and looked at Sybil.

  “Two leaders. Two men.”

  This, I discovered later, was also interesting. Arthur ruled jointly with King Cado at Camelot when Arthur first came there. Later, Arthur became sole ruler. Cado is remembered today in the place name for Cadbury, site of Camelot.

  “What does the place look like?” I continued my questioning.

  “There is a circle…the circle is important…building, too, but there must be a circle…the knights…brave men…Welsh names…Monserrey….”

  I was overcome with the importance of what we were doing and spoke in a subdued voice, even though I could have shouted and nobody but the cows would have heard me.

  “Are we here…” I asked. “Is this Monserrey?”

  “The place is here, but the cavity is not here.”

  “Where is the cavity?”

  “West…toward the sun….”

  “What is in the cavity?”

  “The chains.”

  “What is kept here?”

  “No one must know. Not ready. Not ready for knowledge.”

  “Before the circle….”

  “Who is at the head of the circle?”

  “He’s dead. You should not look yet.”

  “What is the secret kept here?”

  “I will not say the name.”

  The conversation was getting more and more into the realms of mysticism, I felt. What Sybil had brought through made sense although I would not be able to sort it out until afterward, on my return to New York. The circle could refer to the Round Table, the knights with Welsh names were certainly Arthur’s men, but Monserrey (or Montserrat) belonged to the legend of the Holy Grail. Again, Sybil was fusing into one story two periods separated by many centuries.

  The cavity containing the chains also interested me. Was she referring to a relic kept, perhaps, at Glastonbury? Was there something besides the cup and the sprig Joseph of Arimathaea had brought with him from Palestine? Were these chains of later origin? I was hardly going to get any objective proof for these statements, and yet the picture, although confused, was intriguing, especially so as Sybil had no way of connecting the windswept hill we were standing on with either King Arthur or the Holy Grail!

  “Who is the communicator?” I demanded. I had the feeling it was not Artorius, and it wasn’t Sybil any longer, and my curiosity was aroused: Who was it?

  “Don’t say communicator…communicant!”

  “Very well, what is the communicant’s name, then?”

  “The King.”

  I was surprised, taken aback.

  “I have to have proof.”

  “The name is not ready…. It is wrong to discover more than you can hope to learn…. I want to protect the secret with magic.”

  “What is your name?”

  “She knows me….” he said, referring to the medium, and all at once I, too, knew who my informant was, incredible though it seemed at that instant!

  “I know you, too,” I heard myself say, “and I’m a friend, you need not fear me.”

  “I’m a bird,” the voice coming from Sybil’s entranced lips said, a little mockingly.

  Merlin! Of course…Merlin means “small hawk.” How apt the name fit the wise counselor of Arthur.

  Was there a Merlin?

  Not one, but two, Paul Johnstone assured me, and one of them did serve as an adviser to Artorius. Whether or not he was also a magician is a moot question. But a historical figure Merlin (or Medwin) certainly was.

  “Link between the sea and here…stranger…must come…. When will that be? When the hawk…when the birds fly in the sky like me…. Man flies in the sky…. The link is a bad one….”

  “And who will the stranger be?” I asked.

  “Erfino…a bird….”

  “Where will he come from?”

  “From out of the earth?”

  “Inside the earth?” I asked incredulously.

  “Out of the earth…will rise again.”

  “You speak in riddles.”

  “I know the answers!”

  “Why not give them to me now?”

  “You are a man…. There have to be twelve others… the bird is the secret….”

  I began to understand the implications of this prophecy, and, forgetting for the moment my mission here, said only, “Is there nothing I can do?”

  But Merlin was gone.

  Sybil was back.

  The change in expression and personality was incredible: One moment ago, her face had been the wizened, serene face of a timeless wise man, and now it was Sybil Leek, voluble author and voluntary medium, merely standing on a hill she didn’t know, and it was getting dark and chilly.

  We quickly descended the steep hill and got into the car, the driver turned on the heat, and off we went, back to London.

  But the experience we had just been through was not easily assimilated. If it was indeed Arthur’s counselor Merlin, speaking for the King—and how could I disprove it even if I had wanted to?—then Sybil had indeed touched on the right layer in history. The implications of Merlin’s prophecy also hit home: Was he speaking of a future war that was yet to come and that would drive the human race underground, to emerge only when it was safe to do so, and build once again the sanctuary?

  * * *

  The idea of a council of twelve is inherent in most secret doctrines, from Rosicrucian to White Brotherhood, and even in the twelve apostles and the esoteric astrologers’ twelve planets (of which we know only nine presently) this number is considered important.

  The prophecy of birds (airplanes) he calls hawks (warlike) that represent a bad link needs, I think, no explanation, and the subseque
nt destruction forcing man to live in caves was reminiscent of H. G. Wells’ strangely prophetic The Shape of Things to Come.

  But what was the meaning of the bird named Erfine, or perhaps Irfine, or some such spelling, since I only heard the word and did not see it spelled out?

  When I confronted Paul Johnstone in his friend Dr. Saussele’s offices in St. Louis in February of 1968, I questioned him about the Camelot material.

  “I think Sybil got several periods there,” he began. “The Templars were prominent in England in the 1200s, but that is of course seven hundred years after Arthur.”

  “Did Arthur build a sanctuary on the hilltop?”

  “Not to my knowledge. He built a fortress and occupied a dwelling on the hilltop. Some invading Celtic tribes built a hilltop fort there around 200 B.C. Then the Romans came and chased these people away. The hill was semideserted for quite a while. Then Cado reestablished himself there. Cado was a kinsman to Arthur, and around 510 A.D., after the victorious Battle of Badon Hill, he invited Arthur to share his kingdom with him, which Arthur did.”

  “Any other comments?”

  “No, except to say that Sybil Leek was getting something real.”

  “Thus the real Camelot can no longer be sought at Tintagel, or in Wales, or on the Scottish border: nowhere but atop the breezy hill at Cadbury near Ilchester. There are several other Cadburys in Somerset and Devon, but the one that once belonged to King Arthur lies at a spot marked Cadbury Castle on most maps. You can’t miss it if you have an ordnance map, and even if you don’t, have Sybil Leek with you!

  But to my mind Sybil had done more than merely establish via psychometry the reality of Camelot and the Arthurian presence at Cadbury. The puzzling dual impression of sixth-century Arthur and a twelfth-century Grail tradition at this spot seemed to me to point in a direction no other author has ever traveled. Could it be that the romantic, almost fictional Arthur of the Christian chivalry period was not merely the result of the continuous rewriting and distortion of ancient legends? Was there a kernel of truth in linking Artorius with the story of the Grail?

  According to my psychic friend, Sybil Leek, the hallowed ground where Arthur tried to save Briton from the barbarians overrunning it at the time was later turned into another sanctuary by the Knights Templars. We know that the legend of the Grail became known about that period, when the monks of Glastonbury started to spread it.

  So much of this part of the world is as yet underground, awaiting the spade of the archeologist. Perhaps some day in the not-too-distant future, additional digging will reveal tangible proof for what is now mainly information and deduction, but certainly not fantasy or make-believe.

  The early Christian leadership of Arthur may very well have been the example the Templars wished to follow in their endeavor to found a sanctuary of their own in a period no less turbulent than Arthur’s. In time, the two struggles might have become intertwined until one could no longer tell them apart. The thirteenth- and fourteenth-century authors merely picked up what they heard and uncritically embroidered it even further.

  Unraveling the confused yarn is not an easy task, but through the talents of a psychic like Sybil Leek we could at least assure ourselves of a totally fresh and independent approach. There can be no doubt that Mrs. Leek picked up impressions out of the past at Cadbury, and not thoughts in my mind, for most of the material she obtained was unknown to me at the time of our expedition.

  It probably matters little to the producers of the magnificent film that the real Camelot looks a lot less glamorous than their version of it; no matter, Arthur would have liked it. I’m almost sure.

  * 20

  Her Name Was Trouble: The Secret Adventure of Nell Gwyn

  PICTURE THIS, IF YOU WILL: All England is rejoicing, the long and bloody Civil War is finally over. Thousands of dead cavaliers and matching thousands of roundheads will never see the light of day again, smoking ruins of burned-down houses and churches and estates have finally cooled off, and England is back in the family of nations. The Puritan folly has had its final run: King Charles II has been installed on his father’s throne, and Whitehall Palace rings once again with pleasant talk and music.

  The year is 1660. One would never suspect that a scant eleven years before, the King’s father had been executed by the parliamentary government of Oliver Cromwell. The son does not wish to continue his revenge. Enough is enough. But the Restoration does not mean a return to the old ways, either. The evils of a corrupt court must not be repeated lest another Cromwell arise. Charles II is a young man with great determination and skill in the art of diplomacy. He likes his kingship, and he thinks that with moderation and patience the House of Stuart would be secure on the English throne for centuries to come. Although the Puritans are no longer running the country, they are far from gone. The King does not wish to offend their moral sense. He will have his fun, of course, but why flaunt it in their faces?

  With the Restoration came not only a sigh of relief from the upper classes, that all was well once again and one could play, but the pendulum soon started to swing the other way: Moral decay, excesses, and cynicism became the earmarks of the Restoration spirit. Charles II wanted no part of this, however. Let the aristocracy expose themselves; he would always play the part of the monarch of the people, doing what he wanted quietly, out of sight.

  One of the nicest sights in the young King’s life was an actress of sorts by the name of Nell Gwyn. She and her mother had come to London from the country, managed to meet the King, and found favor in his eyes. She was a pale-skinned redhead with flash and lots of personality, and evidently she had the kind of attractions the King fancied. Kings always have mistresses, and even the Puritans would not have expected otherwise. But Charles II was also worried about his own friends and courtiers: He wanted the girl for himself, he knew he was far from attractive, and though he was the King, to a woman of Nell’s spirit, that might be enough.

  The thing to do was simply not to sneak her in and out of the Whitehall rear doors for a day or two, and possibly run into the Queen and a barrage of icy stares. A little privacy would go a long way, and that was precisely what Charles had in mind. Nell was not his only mistress by any means—but she was the only one he loved. When he gazed into the girl’s sky-blue eyes or ran his hands through her very British red hair, it electrified him and he felt at peace. Peace was something precious to him as the years of his reign rolled by. The religious problem had not really been settled; even the Stuarts were split down the middle among Protestants and Catholics. The Spaniards were troublesome, and Louis XIV in league with the “godless” Turks was not exactly a good neighbor. Yes, Charlie needed a place in the country where the pressures of Whitehall would not intrude.

  * * *

  His eyes fell upon a partially dilapidated old manor house near St. Albans, about an hour and a half from London by today’s fast road, in the vicinity of an old Roman fortress dominating the rolling lands of Herfordshire. Nearby was the site of the Roman strong city of Verulamium, and the place had been a fortified manor house without interruption from Saxon times onward. It had once belonged to the Earl of Warwick, the famed “King maker,” and in 1471, during an earlier civil war period, the War of the Roses, the house had been in the very center of the Battle of Barnet. To this day the owners find rusty fifteenth-century swords and soldiers’ remains in the moat or on the grounds.

  By the middle of the sixteenth century, however, the manor house, known as Salisbury Hall, had gradually fallen into a state of disrepair, partially due to old age and partially as a consequence of the civil war, which was fought no less savagely than the one two centuries later which brought Charles II to the throne.

  A certain country squire named John Cutte had then acquired the property, and he liked it so much he decided to restore the manor house. He concentrated his rebuilding efforts on the center hall, lavishing on the building all that sixteenth-century money could buy. The wings later fell into ruins, and have now completel
y disappeared. Only an old battlement, the moat surrounding the property, or an occasional corridor abruptly ending at a wall where there had once been another wing to the house remind one of its early period.

  One day Charles and Nell were driving by the place, and both fell in love with it instantly. Discreetly Charles inquired whether it might be for sale, and it so happened it was, not merely because he was the King, but because of financial considerations: The recent political affairs had caused the owners great losses, and they were glad to sell the house. Once again it was almost in ruins, but Charles restored it in the style of his own period. This was a costly operation, of course, and it presented a problem, even for a king. He could not very well ask Parliament for the money to build his mistress a country house. His personal coffers were still depleted from the recent war. There was only one way to do it, and Charles II did not hesitate: He borrowed the money from discreet sources, and soon after installed his lady love at Salisbury Hall.

  Nell Gwyn’s old home later became the Royal Saddlery. It is a night club today.

  As time went on, the King’s position grew stronger, and England’s financial power returned. Also, there was no longer any need for the extreme caution that had characterized the first few years after the Restoration. The King did not wish to bury Nell Gwyn at a distance in the country, especially as he did not fancy riding out there in the cold months of the year. He therefore arranged for her to have a private apartment in a house built above the Royal Saddlery near the Deanery, in the London suburb called Soho.

  In the second half of the seventeenth century, Soho was pretty far uptown from Whitehall, and the young things flitting to and fro through its woods were still four-legged. Today, of course, Soho is the sin-studded nightclub section of London’s West End. The old house, built in 1632, still stands, but it has changed over many times since. Next door to it was the Royalty Theatre, where Nell Gwyn had once been among the hopeful young actresses—but not for long. It seems odd to find a theater next door to the stables, but Soho was a hunting suburb and it seemed then logical to have all the different sporting events and facilities close together. Besides, Nell did not mind; she liked peeking in at the Royalty Theatre when she was not otherwise engaged. Unfortunately, the theater is no more; an unfriendly Nazi bomb hit it during World War II. But the Saddlery did not get a scratch and that is all to the good, for today it houses a most interesting emporium. The nightclub known as the Gargoyle occupied part of the four-story building, the balance being what is now called the Nell Gwyn Theatre, and various offices and dressing rooms. In the 1920s, Noel Coward was one of the founding members of this club, and Henri Matisse designed one of the rooms. It was highly respectable and private then, and many of the leading artists of the 1920s and 1930s made it their hangout for late-night parties. As Soho became more and more a nightclub area, the Gargoyle could not remain aloof: It became London’s best-known strip-tease club. The acts at the Gargoyle are never vulgar. It isn’t the place to take your maiden aunt, but you can take your wife. The last time I visited Jimmy Jacobs and his club, I was somewhat startled by the completely nude bartenders, female, popping up behind the bar of the upstairs club; it seemed a bit incongruous to think that these girls dress to go to work, then take their clothes off for their work, and get dressed to go home. But I think Nell Gwyn would have been quite understanding. A girl’s got to make a living, after all. The decor inside is flashy and very much in the style of the 1920s, for Jimmy Jacobs has not touched any of it.