The Reign of Arthur

by Christopher Gidlow

  The association between Cador and Cornwall does not seem to originate with Geoffrey. Cato, of the Life of St Carantocus, is located, perhaps, south of the Severn, and Cadwy, son of Gereint, was firmly linked to Devon and Cornwall.

  Cassibellanus appears for the first time in the list of the casualties. The previous use of the name in the book is for Julius Caesar’s adversary. The name, however, is the same as the Welsh Caswallaun, given by Geoffrey as Cadwallo. It may be that Geoffrey has Latinised the name here, inconsistent with his preference for its Welsh form. The Cambridge manuscript of Geoffrey does give an Arthurian period Cadwallo, Cadwallo Lauhr, King of the North Welsh. This Cadwallo Lauhr appears in the Harleian Genealogies as the father of Maelgwn Gwynedd. Geoffrey does not make this link explicit, but the chronology makes sense both dramatically and historically.

  Intriguingly, the possible connections between the rulers of Cornwall, North Wales and the battle of Camblan provide an answer to the conundrum posed by our analysis of Annales Cambriae. This showed a strong presumption towards a North Welsh source on the grounds of style, with the less probable option of Cornwall. A tradition with the ruler of Cornwall falling at a North Welsh Camlann, or a North Welsh leader at a Cornish Camlann would make sense of the possible inferences from the Annales entry. It accords with what we know from Gildas, that the tyrants were not merely regional in their preoccupations. A source which actually specified that Arthur, Modred, Caswallaun of Gwynedd and Cador of Cornwall, called Cador Limenic, fell together is a distinct possibility.

  Geoffrey is working with the assumption that adultery is involved in causing the battle, and that his audience already knows this. Although he does not say so explicitly, it seems likely that this information was in the ancient book. The evidence that it has an external source is Geoffrey’s seeming reluctance to include it.

  The milieu is not one of courtly romance or even another take on the folkloric abduction theme seen in Culhwch and Olwen or the Life of St Gildas (Bromwich et al. 1991). Gildas himself in de Excidio makes it clear that treachery between close relatives and adultery are features of the age in which he lives. The wives of the tyrants are ‘whores and adulteresses’, the men are ‘adulterers and enemies of God’. A later writer could deduce from Gildas that this was the sort of thing that might have happened. Alternatively, Gildas may have had specific high-profile examples of adultery in mind, signalling a change from the admirable generation of Mount Badon to that of the tyrants.

  One final point on the battle of Camblan is that Geoffrey gives it a date: ‘this [occurred] in the year 542 after our Lord’s Incarnation’ (HRB IX.2; Thorpe 1966:261). This is one of three AD dates in the whole work, and obviously something Geoffrey sets store by. It seems rather at the end of the range of dates we would expect for Arthur. What was its provenance? Whenever we have encountered AD dates before, we have always looked in the direction of the historian who popularised the system, Bede, and Geoffrey’s History is no exception. The other two dates, for King Lucius and Cadwallader, are both from Bede, and it is reasonable to suppose that 542 is as well. Bede, of course, does not mention Camlann. He does, however, date the event we know from Historia Brittonum closes the Arthurian period, the arrival of Ida in Bernicia: 547. Geoffrey may have given five years’ grace before the Saxons start up again (Arthur’s successor Constantine rules for four-plus years). It is equally possible that the date is simply five years out due to scribal error (DXLII for DXLVII).

  Merlin predicted that the end of Arthur would be shrouded in mystery. Although Arthur falls at the battle of Camblan, his fate is described thus: ‘But the famous King Arthur (inclitus ille rex Arturus) was mortally wounded. He was carried from there into the Island of Avallon for his wounds to be healed’ (HRB IX.2). This proved too puzzling for some scribes, and their versions make it clear that the healing was unsuccessful. The Bern manuscript adds ‘may his soul rest in peace’.

  Although Arthur plays no more part in the story, and might as well have died, it is unlikely that Geoffrey intended it to be read in this way. William of Malmesbury relays the early twelfth-century view that Arthur has no grave, ‘for which reason ancient fables claim that he will return again’ (White 1997). Herman of Tournai, writing about ten years after Geoffrey, recorded a fund-raising trip to Devon and Cornwall early in the century, where the inhabitants ‘said that this had been Arthur’s land’. A man argued with Herman’s party ‘as the Britons are accustomed to quarrel with the French about King Arthur . . . saying that Arthur was still alive’ (Coe and Young 1995). Geoffrey is not explicit about this. He follows the tradition in the poem Armes Prydein that a British renaissance will occur from the union of the British peoples against the English, with the heroes Cynon/Conan and Cadwallader representing them.

  In Historia Regum Britanniae, it is not clear what Geoffrey means by Avallon. It is the place where Arthur’s sword Caliburnus was forged. Though frequently described as the ‘best of swords’ and used for amazing martial feats, it does not have any magical or otherworldly properties. If we did not know anything else, we would probably read the passage as referring to the real Avallon, not far from Arthur’s last continental battles. This Avallon is not an island, but allowance could be made for poetic licence or simple mistake. Avallon, meaning place of apples, is a not uncommon Celtic place-name. There was one in Britain, too, known to us under the Roman form Aballava – Burgh-by-Sands in Cumbria, close to the possible Camlann site of Camboglanna.

  Summing up

  Geoffrey of Monmouth provided a template for later writers. Some of his ideas proved so potent that the question ‘did Arthur really exist?’ is now bound up with the image of a man who ruled Britain, wielded Excalibur, was betrayed by Queen Guenevere and was carried off to Avalon, all motifs derived from Geoffrey. A King Arthur who does not fit that template is hardly considered ‘the real’ King Arthur at all.

  Some of the Arthurian legends are revealed by their absence from either Geoffrey or the earlier material, as being unlikely to preserve historical truths. That Arthur had to demonstrate his title to rule against rival British kings, that Merlin was ‘his’ magician and Morgan Le Fay an enemy enchantress, that his famous knights sat together at a round table or that questing for the Holy Grail was their chief activity, the sources not only do not say, but in some cases flatly contradict. However appealing these motifs are, we have to conclude that they are products of the imaginations of twelfth- and thirteenth-century fiction writers.

  We have seen from the Welsh material that Geoffrey’s was not the only interpretation of the terse early sources. Before considering if Geoffrey’s model adds anything useful to the picture we have already presented of the reign of Arthur, it is worth summing up what we have deduced about his sources.

  Geoffrey does indeed have written sources, perhaps a single manuscript, distinct from anything that survives. As a single manuscript confers no greater authority than a claim to possess several ancient books, we can give Geoffrey the benefit of the doubt. Geoffrey’s source, by its content and language, cannot be ‘very ancient’ in the sense that it goes back to Arthurian times. It is a secondary source with all the limitations that implies. It is unlikely to pre-date Historia Brittonum. Consequently, where it contradicts the earlier sources then they are to be preferred.

  We have good reason to think that the source is of Breton origin, and that it may be related to Breton hagiographic writing. The main element which suggests a source is the battles in Langres, Autun and Siesia. No ulterior motive for these is plausible. Even so, it is unlikely they represent real events of the reign of Arthur. The continental stories showcase the exploits of Arthur’s famous knights, another suggestion of a later date.

  Geoffrey relies on Gildas and Bede to give a chronological frame to his reign of Arthur. This suggests that, in spite of his protestations, his source is not an orderly and consecutive narrative. Material on Merlin, Stonehenge, Uther Pendragon, the conception of Arthur, Loth and Urianus form a related group, ins
pired by characters of the late sixth century. Their misplacing is due to Merlin being identified by Geoffrey with Ambrosius of Historia Brittonum.

  Arthurian features in Geoffrey which suggest an additional source include some battle names, a connection with Silchester, the names of Arthur’s possessions and some of his men, especially Gawain, the motif of Arthur fighting giants, Guenevere as Arthur’s wife and her adultery, Camblan as the battle where Arthur and Modred fell, and Avalon as his last resting place. The closest affinity these elements have to any type of source is to the Welsh prose tales and hagiography.

  The best case for Geoffrey adding to our historical knowledge is the Modred–Guenevere–Camblan sequence. We have speculated that an end to Arthur’s reign caused by civil war is a distinct possibility, and that Arthur and Modred are adversaries a reasonable hypothesis. The idea that Modred was Arthur’s regent while he fought abroad does not seem authentic. On the other hand, the feud caused by adultery does ring true as the kind of thing Gildas leads us to believe wrecked the succeeding generation. Which brings us to the last significant point, a location of Camblan in Cornwall to match a conception place in Tintagel.

  Nennius does not know much about Dumnonia. Annales Cambriae does give a possibility that Camlann is in Cornwall. On the other hand, there is likely to be a bias towards Cornwall in any Breton source Geoffrey might be using, considering the close connections between the two areas. Geoffrey’s concept of the battle as between a true king and an adulterous usurper is plausible, given Gildas’s view of the period. However, so is the Welsh version of Arthur and Medraut as rival British leaders, set at each other’s throats by bickering wives or plotting subordinates. Geoffrey’s disputed succession to the throne of a united England displays the recurring pattern of his History, influenced by the circumstances of his own time. Both views, that Arthur and Medraut are essentially opponents or that they are essentially on the same side, might be extrapolated from Annales Cambriae.

  The historical Arthur, leader of an alliance of British rulers against the Saxons, and, crucially, victor at the siege of Badon Hill, has been distorted and marginalised by Geoffrey. He replaces this with Arthur, King of England (‘Britain’), aided by British rulers of the twelfth-century Celtic periphery, Cornwall, Brittany and Scotland. The battle of Badon is not the culmination of Arthur’s career, but a necessary step in domestic pacification before he moves on to greater victories in the international arena.

  As with the Welsh sources, the distortion is in this direction – a mythical King of Britain has been spun out of historical materials, and not vice versa. While it is easy to see how Uther Pendragon could have been derived from a mythical Mabinogion-style source and grafted on to history, through a connection with Merlin or Arthur, this is emphatically not the case with Geoffrey’s King Arthur. The bones of the Arthurian section are clearly derived from historical sources, with additions obvious from their content.

  Geoffrey of Monmouth’s work does not illuminate the historical fifth and sixth centuries. It has exerted a slight pull towards a Dumnonian aspect of Arthur’s career, adding to the south-east Welsh dimension deduced from the earlier material. Some of the peripheral characters such as Guenevere may have had their names preserved across the centuries, but figures such as Arthur’s father seem legendary accretions. It is possible that the real Arthur might have been the nephew of Ambrosius, but our evidence for thinking so is very suspect. Not the least of our grounds for suspicion is that Geoffrey tells us nothing about the relatives Gildas says Ambrosius had. His parents, remember, were slain in the Saxon revolt, something Geoffrey glosses over as he has identified them as Constantine III and his wife. He had at least one child and at least two grandchildren, but these characters do not exist in Geoffrey. And if Geoffrey does not know even these characters, what faith can we put on his assertion that Uther Pendragon is his brother and Arthur his nephew?

  Geoffrey’s idea that Britain (England) was a unified kingdom in the Arthurian period, even to the extent that the Saxons are generally resident in Scotland, has erased anything of value about Arthur’s relationship with the civitas kings. We can see traces of this erasure, where Geoffrey removes Vortiporius’s title, though he knew as well as we do that he was the tyrant of Dyfed. Geoffrey presents Arthur as operating primarily from Caerleon, with bases in London and York. This does not contradict anything we know from the period and, especially in the South Welsh aspects, fits our expectations. However, Geoffrey’s obvious geographical bias gives more than enough reason for his linking Arthur to the region, without speculating that he found such material in an ancient source.

  Over ten years after Historia Regum Britanniae, Geoffrey composed his verse epic, the Vita Merlini. In this, Merlin and Taliesin reminisce about taking Arthur to the island of Avallon to be healed of his wounds. Geoffrey makes it clear that Avallon is an actual island in the sea, presided over by Morgen and her priestesses. He uses the description of the Isle de Sein, off the north coast of Brittany, from the work of first-century geographer, Pomponius Mela. There is no reason to think that Geoffrey does not identify the two islands. Isle de Sein could be a possible place for someone wounded in Cornwall to be carried to. However, by the end of the twelfth century, this mystery would be replaced by a certainty that ‘Avalon’ was a real location in mainland Britain – Glastonbury.

  Archaeology is often seen as providing ‘forensic’ proof for the theories of historians. No amount of text-criticism can compare with tangible evidence unearthed from a boggy trench. Whatever the written evidence, many historians will never be convinced that King Arthur was a real person until his actual grave is unearthed, complete with an unequivocal inscription testifying to his identity.

  This has, in fact, already happened. In 1190, or perhaps the following year, the monks of Glastonbury were digging just outside the walls of their very ancient church. Although the wooden building had recently burned down, written records traced its existence back to the late seventh century at least.

  The dig seems to have been prompted by a monk’s desire to be buried between two pyramids in the graveyard. These monuments, inscribed with illegible ancient characters, were most probably what we would call obelisk-shaped – tall and thin. They could have been Celtic crosses which had lost their heads, christianised standing stones or early Christian grave-markers.

  Not surprisingly, the monks soon turned up evidence of a burial. Two or three bodies were unearthed. Accounts differ as to whether each body had a coffin or two bodies shared a divided coffin. The latter version, describing the primitive coffin as being carved from an oak bole, seems the most likely, paradoxically because it is so unusual. A writer ignorant of the facts might imagine the burial conformed to normal twelfth-century practice. The description of the hollowed-out oaken coffin, divided two-thirds along its length, serves no ulterior motive and is not inherently implausible.

  One of the skeletons was of a very large man. His face was broad, a palm’s breadth between the eyes, the thigh bone was three inches longer than the shin of the tallest person present when, soon afterwards, Gerald of Wales examined the find. The head bore ten healed wounds and one unhealed and presumably mortal one. The bones are not unfeasibly gigantic, not dinosaur bones, they were apparently large and human. Another set was identified as female by their delicate graceful size and, according to the accounts, by a hank of long blonde hair found with them. This piece of evidence did not survive the excavation and might just be made up to prove their identification as female.

  The bare fact of the excavation was confirmed by an archaeological dig at the site in 1962. This uncovered what seem to be the pyramid sites. Between then, as expected, was an area of digging dating from soon after 1184, and containing two or three disturbed slab-lined graves (Ralegh Radford in Ashe 1968).

  So far, nothing particularly unlikely features in this story. Unlike details of ecclesiastical exhumations in the ‘reliable’ work of Bede, which usually come with a combination of uncorrupted fles
h, the odour of sanctity, radiant lights and, shortly after, miraculous cures, this seems no more than the chance discovery of ancient burials in a crowded graveyard. What was significant was that this discovery was accompanied by an inscribed lead cross.

  The cross read ‘Here lies the famous King Arthur, buried in the Isle of Avalon’ or some other combination of those words. A celebrated engraving from Camden’s Britannia (1610) shows what, in his day, purported to be that very cross. Gerald was shown the cross soon after its discovery and reports ‘We saw this and traced the inscription . . .: Here lies buried the famous King Arthur with Guenevere his second wife in the Isle of Avalon’ (White 1997), and the smaller set of bones was readily identified as Guenevere’s. The Margam chronicle records that Modred’s body was found as well, but that must have been guesswork, as no inscription to that effect is recorded by anyone (Barber 1984).

  The various descriptions of the discovery of Arthur’s grave are often treated as clues in a fiendish whodunit, that some stray observation or contradiction might expose either the monks or the king, or both, in some Piltdown-style deception. This is to mistake the nature of the evidence. The accounts were written specifically to refute any allegations of fakery. Thus Gerald was told that the cross was found under a stone slab, with its written face fixed to the underside of the stone. This is clearly to emphasise the fact that the cross is not a later intrusion into the burial. Gerald imagines this put the inscription in an unusual upside-down position, though in fact it would have faced upwards, as any inscription would be expected to.

  Was this really the grave of Arthur? Although after the fact, ‘the visions and revelations seen by holy men and clerks’ and even King Henry II of England (died 1189) were cited as sources of information used by the monks to locate the burial, the reality is that no source predicted anything like it. Gerald testifies to the surprise the discovery caused: ‘In our own lifetime Arthur’s body was discovered at Glastonbury, although the legends had always encouraged us to believe that there was something otherworldly about his ending, that he had resisted death and had been spirited away to some far distant spot’ (Thorpe 1978). Glastonbury was not an unknown or new location. It featured in an Arthurian context in the Life of St Gildas. However, it had never been described as the place of his burial. The discovery was not inspired by or intended to vindicate any known Glastonbury tradition.