by Amy Myers
‘King Arthur?’ Georgia asked with dread, just as Peter chimed in hopefully with: ‘Could that have had anything to do with his death?’
‘In the hypothetical case of murder, it’s entirely possible. The prize was immense. It was the remains of Sir Gawain, King Arthur’s nephew.’
Jago looked from one to the other and grinned. He had obviously read her thoughts correctly, for he added: ‘I can see you are thinking that this is some Piltdown Man scam. An archaeological booby trap for the unwary.’
‘Something like that,’ Georgia admitted. This jump from fine art back into fantasy was quite a leap. The fact that Peter’s antennae were clearly waving furiously did not escape her.
‘You can be forgiven for thinking so,’ Jago admitted. ‘However, Gawain’s bones were not all that was at stake, though they were my own chief interest. For others, including Lance, there was something far more enticing.’
‘And that was?’ Peter asked, when Jago paused.
‘King Arthur’s golden goblet.’
Georgia’s first reaction was to laugh, but she managed to repress it. A golden goblet? This had to be a joke. Unfortunately, as she could see, Peter was taking this as seriously as Jago and therefore she should at least pay lip service.
‘You mean,’ she said solemnly, ‘the Holy Grail itself.’ Not again!
‘No. Very definitely not,’ Jago answered to her relief. ‘We are talking the historical Arthur here, not the medieval creation. I refer to the goblet he held to the lips of the dying Sir Gawain, the cup that Lance and I were – are, in my case – so sure was buried with his body.’
Georgia rapidly ran through all she could remember of the stories of King Arthur, but nothing rang a bell, and she could see that even Peter was at a loss. Jago had probably intended this, because he chuckled.
‘You’re wondering whether I’m raving mad, or merely an enthusiast on a hiding to nothing. I am neither.’
Mark chose that moment to enter the room with a laden tray, and had obviously overheard the last part of the conversation.
‘I seem to have arrived at the right time,’ he said, putting it down on the coffee table and dispensing tea and rather nice-looking macaroons. ‘You’ll need to fortify yourselves against the onslaught of the round table.’
‘This,’ his father said firmly, ‘is merely a story about Sir Gawain and King Arthur.’
‘Do you hear a bee buzzing, Georgia?’ Mark asked with resignation.
‘A bee?’ She was slow on the uptake, because Mark grinned.
‘He refers to the one in my bonnet, I’m afraid,’ Jago chuckled, although Georgia sensed tension in the air. ‘My own pet theory. I imagine we all have one in some area or another. Henry VII killed the Princes in the Tower, Queen Elizabeth I was a man, and so on. We cherish our bees, and feed them from time to time, patiently waiting for confirmation that we are right. I have long held such a bee, and it amused Lance greatly to feed it whenever he could although, as I have explained, he partly shared it.’
‘Where does the bee stem from?’ Peter asked.
‘Dover,’ Jago answered.
Georgia remembered Luke’s mention of Dover at the wedding, and, hardly to her surprise, Peter already knew about it.
‘You mean the story in Malory’s Morte D’Arthur that Gawain was buried in the church within the Dover Castle precincts?’ he said eagerly.
‘Quite,’ Mark confirmed drily. ‘A fact so well established that not a word can be found in print or script to confirm it, save in the fanciful ramblings of a gentleman confined to prison for rape and violence. Fortunately he had an exceptionally good prison library to hand. Come off it, Dad. Face the truth. It’s a pretty story, that’s all.’
‘I’ll explain, shall I?’ Jago said pleasantly, waving this aside. ‘It is Lance’s role that interests you, of course, Peter, so I’ll begin there. He saw his job as a crusade to keep the art world pure: Lance Venyon versus Forgers of the World, rather as it had been in the SAS, the small band of brothers fighting the many. Every fake or forgery unmasked was a victory for his cause. That’s why when he told me about some hitherto unknown oils by Dante Gabriel Rossetti in his King Arthur series, I took it seriously. Rossetti’s pen-and-ink drawings and planned frescos on King Arthur are well known, but oil paintings are fewer. In the 1950s the Pre-Raphaelites were less highly regarded than they are now, which made it unlikely that the ones Lance had heard about were fakes, although it was still possible. Lance was sure of their provenance, however. In those days the tests for detection were not so developed as they are today, and a lot depended on provenance, expert opinion and the power of talk. Lance understood that well, which gave him an advantage in tracking art works down. He also knew every trick in the trade about faking provenance. He had to, in his job.’
‘You never told me about all this,’ Mark said, frowning.
‘Didn’t I?’ Jago looked surprised. ‘I suppose because Arthur isn’t a subject dear to your heart.’
‘Art and fakes are,’ Mark replied. ‘It’s my job, after all.’ He turned to Peter and Georgia. ‘I’m in insurance and look after the art side. What happened to these paintings, Dad?’
‘I offered to buy them, sight unseen, but they disappeared before I could do so. Lance told me the Benizi Brothers were involved, and I knew that that meant my chances were nil. They were serious as well as shady operators.’
‘Doesn’t that suggest that the paintings were fakes?’ Georgia couldn’t see where this was leading. It seemed a long way from golden goblets.
‘Possibly but more likely the contrary. For some years rumours had been spreading through the Arthurian world, by which I mean not only historians and Camelot devotees but those who seek historical artefacts in the hope of proving Arthur’s existence. The rumours concerned not only the existence of this golden goblet, as if that weren’t enough, but scripts confirming the story. Naturally Lance and I were excited, since this could confirm my theory and probably pinpoint the place where the bones of Sir Gawain could be found.’
‘Here we go,’ Mark muttered. ‘Buzzing-bee time.’
‘Fact, Mark, fact,’ Jago said patiently. ‘Even you can’t deny that there was a tradition long before Malory’s time that King Arthur had connections with Dover Castle. There is still a hall named after him, and until relatively modern times a gateway. The present hall dates only from the thirteenth century, but Dugdale’s Monasticon quotes a source stating that King Arthur himself had built a hall in ad 469 and set aside a chamber for Guinevere. Be reasonable, Mark.’ Jago turned to his son. ‘Even if one does not accept as fact that Arthur himself had a historical connection with Dover, it most certainly suggests that the name of Arthur was not suddenly invented to throw glory on the monarch of the day. Even Lance agreed this was a tenable thesis.’
‘It’s a long way from that to where you’re going,’ Mark said sharply. He now seemed to be deliberately needling his father, Georgia thought. Was there a subtext here she wasn’t catching?
‘Mark’s opinion is about to come into its own,’ Jago graciously conceded. ‘We shall shortly come to the legend, which does not mean that it contains no fact. Malory’s Morte D’Arthur relates that Mordred, Arthur’s enemy, seized the opportunity when Arthur was overseas to crown himself king at Canterbury and help himself to Guinevere too. When he heard the news, Arthur came rushing back across the Channel with his forces, including Sir Gawain, to save the day for England, not to mention his wife. Mordred marched to Dover cliff to stop him landing and a battle took place. Gawain was injured, a former wound reopened, and after the battle he was found in a ship near to death.
‘When Arthur reached him, Gawain asked him to oversee his burial. Arthur buried him in the chapel of Dover Castle, which would have been the early Christian church preceding the present St Mary-in-the-Castle. In vengeance Arthur pursued Mordred’s retreating forces and a fierce battle took place on Barendoune, now Barham Downs. Arthur won, Mordred was defeated, and a return match agre
ed which was to take place in the West Country. The battle was duly fought, and Arthur and Mordred slain. Arthur was taken to Glastonbury where he was buried. Or,’ Jago added, ‘if you believe the Wymdown tradition, he sleeps in a cave on the North Downs, where he will come again in the hour of England’s need.’
‘How much of this do you believe?’ Georgia asked cautiously.
‘I believe some truth lies in it, and Lance agreed with me, when the rumours about the goblet began to circulate. It was believed to be the cup with which Gawain was given the last rites, and which was later held to his lips by King Arthur.’
‘On what evidence?’ Peter asked.
‘There were rumours of old scripts that confirmed it, and that John Ruskin, the nineteenth-century art critic and antiquarian, knew of the goblet. Then came one of the paintings mentioned. Rossetti had depicted King Arthur actually holding the goblet to Gawain’s lips as he lay dying in the ship. With the evidence of Sir Gawain’s skull—’
‘If you believe that—’ Mark began.
‘I do,’ Jago said firmly. ‘Just as I believe that Arthur himself existed, whether he be one person or an amalgam of various leaders over a longer period. Caxton, the fifteenth-century printer of the Morte D’Arthur, states that the skull of Sir Gawain was still shown to visitors to the church with the marks of the wound that had killed him clearly visible. Henry VIII’s antiquarian John Leland recorded in the following century that he saw the bones of Sir Gawain. At some point later, however, they disappeared. Fact, fact, fact.’
Jago glanced from Peter to Georgia, who hoped her disbelief wasn’t written clearly on her face as on her brain.
‘I grant you,’ Jago continued, apparently not a whit deterred, ‘that it cannot be proved that the skull was that of Sir Gawain and not any old skull introduced by an unscrupulous chaplain at St Mary-in-the-Castle to fundraise for his church. That was the attitude Lance pretended to take, since he liked to tease me, but he confessed that if he genuinely thought there was nothing in the story he wouldn’t even be discussing it with me. Lance was particularly fond of another Dover legend about the Lady of Farthingloe, a manor belonging to Dover Priory, who was greatly in love with Gawain and he with her. In this legend Gawain was killed on the battlefield and in searching for him the poor lady discovered his head and took it to the priory canons, from whose ranks the chaplains at St Mary’s were chosen. Hence the appearance of only the skull at St Mary-in-the-Castle.’
‘But there’s no proof since you said the bones, including the skull presumably, had disappeared,’ Georgia pointed out.
‘Quite.’ Jago gave her an approving nod. ‘But this was 1534. Leland reported all his findings on his commissioned Grand Tour of England to the King, who eagerly noted, no doubt, all the interesting items he’d like for himself.’
‘The Dissolution of the Monasteries,’ Georgia exclaimed. At last she saw where this was leading.
‘Indeed. The exact status of St Mary-in-the-Castle is uncertain. It seems to have had a degree of independence and was responsible to Canterbury, rather than to the priory. The three chaplains charged with looking after St Mary and its relics were undoubtedly aware that the King’s men were marching down the Canterbury road towards them with their booty bags to fill. What would you do if you were in their place?’
‘Hide the valuables.’ Peter gave the obvious answer.
‘In the 1860s there was heavy restoration work at St Mary-in-the-Castle,’ Jago continued. ‘The church had been in ruins for years, and while they were digging to study the original foundations they came across . . .’
As Jago paused, Georgia longed to reply: ‘King Arthur, who leapt up crying, “Is it time?”’
‘A lead coffin,’ Jago concluded.
‘With bones?’ she asked.
‘Empty,’ Jago said deflatingly, ‘which could confirm our story. We are agreed that these relics would have been taken to a safe place, but a heavy coffin would have been an impediment for the fleeing chaplains.’
Jago seemed to be entering the land of crazy logic in offering a negative as proof, otherwise it would be all too easy to go with the flow and conclude that this was a tenable thesis, Georgia thought.
‘The priory in Dover, their first natural choice,’ Jago continued, ‘had been quick to list all its valuables and cede the priory to the crown. Compliance was its response to the dissolution order, so no relics would be safe there. The next choice for the chaplains would be to take them to a smaller religious site that the King’s men had already sacked, in other words one on the road from Canterbury, roughly where the A2 runs.’
No prizes for guessing this one. ‘Such as Wymdown,’ Georgia said.
‘Where else? It is near the old Roman road, and would seem a good choice since it had much in common with St Mary-in-the-Castle. There is evidence of an early church predating the Anglo-Saxon one, and the church is still named St Alban’s, after the British saint who was martyred by the Romans when they clamped down on Christianity. When the Romans became more tolerant in the fourth century, temples were built in memory of the sacred martyrs. St Mary-in-the-Castle could be one, Wymdown another.’
‘Tell them, Dad,’ Mark said, as Jago came to another impressive halt. ‘Beware, you two, the Great Theory nears its climax.’
‘Mark is a cynic,’ Jago said with dignity. ‘At first Lance thought I was up the pole,’ he admitted. ‘I don’t think the phrase is used now, but it was a mild expression for being a loony of the first order. I firmly believed that Gawain’s remains and the gold goblet were buried near Badon House, in a field adjoining the churchyard.’
Harry Potter, here we come, Georgia thought. And where was Lance Venyon in all this?
‘Why there?’ Peter asked, looking all too ready to set off straightaway on a treasure hunt, she noted with foreboding.
‘Because Badon House used to be a lodging house for monks collecting tithes, it could therefore have been a place of refuge when the chaplains at the castle church were under threat. I bought both Badon House and the relevant field in 1959, as soon as I was convinced in my own mind of my thesis. Such large houses were going for a song then. Lance and Mary were living in Barham, and later moved to Wymdown on the Woolage Green road, and so they could keep an eye on the house for me. I came over occasionally to examine the ground to work out where the site could be. Lance naturally took a great interest.’
‘Looking for the golden goblet?’ Georgia asked, grateful Lance was back on the scene.
Jago laughed. ‘Yes, although in those days gold objects were automatically treasure trove for the crown, so if you are harbouring thoughts that greed was Lance’s motive or a motive for his death, you are wrong. In any case,’ he said wryly, ‘I found nothing – which is why I’m sharing this information with you today. Wherever that goblet is it isn’t in that field. I covered every inch of it with a metal detector, and dug too, but it produced nothing.’
‘Except a few old coins and bottle tops,’ his son put in sourly.
‘So what did you conclude?’
‘That my theory was wrong, so far as the burial site was concerned. And yet I couldn’t quite believe it. So although I sold the house, I still, crazily enough, own the field.’ He pulled a face. ‘An old man’s fantasy.’ Another pause, then a grin. ‘Or so I thought once.’
‘Are you implying it might still be there?’ Georgia asked incredulously.
‘No, but it is interesting that for some time now the story of the goblet has been circulating once again.’
‘How?’ Peter asked curiously. ‘Is there new evidence?’
Jago frowned. ‘Not to my knowledge, but who knows how such things begin? It’s mentioned between enthusiasts over the Internet, at archaeological meetings and so on. Sometimes it’s a joke, sometimes treated very seriously indeed. New evidence would hardly be revealed, since any historian would naturally want the glory of discovering the hoard all to himself.’
‘That would have been so in Lance’s time too,
’ Peter pointed out. ‘A powerful motive for murder.’
Jago smiled. ‘Indeed, and that is why –’ a glance at Mark – ‘I have inflicted this long tale on you. Gold represents the ultimate Grail of worldly possession, and not only in monetary terms. Nevertheless, however greedy we collectors are for fame, it’s a far cry from that to pushing my poor friend off a yacht. Conspiracy theories, Mr Marsh, flourish with hindsight, and so, you must find, do those of murder. Lance was my dear friend, and I too find it difficult to grapple with the fact that a simple accident caused his death. But it did, and I still mourn his loss.’
*
‘A wasted day so far as work is concerned,’ Georgia observed, as they drove back to Haden Shaw, ‘even though Lance Venyon seems to have been an interesting guy. Nevertheless Jago didn’t believe he’d been murdered, and he should know. And before you say this King Arthur link should be followed up, remember that there’s no evidence that this golden goblet ever existed, let alone that it’s alive and well and living deep in the Kentish earth.’
‘It’s not all been a waste of time,’ Peter said complacently. ‘He’s a nice old boy and Lance’s best friend. And if nothing else it showed us that both art and King Arthur can arouse strong feelings. Even the way Mark reacted shows that.’
‘True, but where does that take us?’
‘Even best friends can fall out over passionate beliefs.’
‘You mean when Jago found there was nothing buried there, he blamed Lance for encouraging him, jumped into Lance’s yacht, and once out at sea, pushed him off it.’
‘Stranger things have happened.’
‘Nonsense. There’s not even a sniff of a suspicious death.’
‘What about Sir Gawain’s?’
‘Ha, ha,’ Georgia retorted crossly. ‘We’re not running a round-table service ourselves, prepared to right the wrongs done to Gawain’s bones.’
