The Bones of Avalon

by Phil Rickman

  Dudley and I standing atop the tor. I was in no doubt that Fyche could see us, and cared not a toss if he did.

  ‘I see the fishes,’ Dudley said. ‘Do I see the fishes? Whereas the eagle… made more sense in the notebook.’

  ‘It’s also described as a Phoenix, in some way representing Aquarius the water-carrier. Follow the lines of the hills, how they curve. Not so much the carrier as the vessel.’

  He couldn’t see it. Neither, in truth, could I, though already it burned in my soul. To know the truth we’d have to be higher, far higher. Flying like…eagles.

  I’m flying.

  Come, she’d said. This may be too much too soon.

  The vision of heaven. Glimpsed when I was made of air and walked in my night garden, tending the stars with my hands. In the moments when I felt I almost knew His mind. Had I? Had that happened, or was it a false memory?

  ‘John?’

  ‘Mercy,’ I said.

  There were few men of his status likely to be more receptive than Dudley to this intelligence, yet I wished to heaven that it were she who was with me now. She who, on hearing that stormy night what Joan Tyrre had to say, would surely have understood, forged the links. And then, heedless of the dangers, would have gone to her father, slipping through the dawn streets to ask what he knew of the great secret… Matthew Borrow, atheist, practical man who, if he knew at all, had thought so little of it that he’d buried it with his wife, considering it more trouble that it was worth. Merlin’s secret. Buried.

  Not any more.

  We sat down on the edge of the tor’s small plateau, maybe where Joan Tyrre had sat with Cate Borrow, and I could scarce keep a limb still. If I truly had been a conjurer, then I might have summoned the spirit of mad John Leland to join us. But at least I had his notebook. At least I knew his mind.

  And so began to talk of Arthur, said by some to be descended from Brutus the Trojan, first King of Britain. Arthur had been Leland’s passion. Everywhere he went on his itinerary he’d discover more of his hero’s footprints, memorably proclaiming that the earthworks around the hill at Cadbury – not a long ride from here – made it, unquestionably, the site of Arthur’s Camelot.

  ‘So we can see why he spent so much time in Somersetshire,’ I said, ‘and why he returned here after the fall of the abbey. It was all about Arthur.’

  ‘Arthur’s bones, perchance?’

  ‘Nothing so prosaic. This town stands for the magic side of Arthur. Here’s the place to which he was carried by barge, by fey women, either to die or to lie until his country hath need of him. And this – where we’re sitting – was where lived his magician. Merlin. Who came before Arthur and gave to him, in particular, the round table. Do you begin to see now?’

  ‘In truth,’ Dudley said, ‘no.’

  ‘Nel Borrow said her mother knew nothing of the Holy Grail but had once said that some of Arthur’s round table was still to be found here. Clearly, this must have become part of local legend, because Benlow the bone-man offered to sell me a piece of it.’

  I reached into a bare patch of earth and scratched up some soil, holding it out on the palm of my hand.

  ‘In truth, this is a piece of it.’

  Bringing out the hide-bound notebook, then, opening it up and turning it on end, so that a drawing of what had appeared to be a serpent now looked more like a swan with open beak.

  ‘These are the creatures of the stars… the signs of the Zodiac – Pisces, Aquarius, Libra… I could draw them all in my sleep. Yes, they look different here – the shapes are not as recent astronomers have drawn them. Which is why it took me so long to work it out. These may be much older versions.’

  ‘On the… ground?’

  ‘The signs of the Zodiac created upon the land… giant signs, in a circle which appears to be ten miles or more across. Marked out in physical features of the landscape – in the shape of hills and the paths of rivers and roads, fields, hedgerows. This… is the great secret of Glastonbury, passed on by Merlin the Druid, guarded by the monks.’

  ‘But who—?’

  ‘I don’t know. The ancient people. The old Britons. Maybe the people who were here when Pythagorus was alive. Or earlier… when Hermes Trismegistus walked the earth. The very builders of the landscape… perchance with the help of the cosmos itself—’

  ‘Calm yourself, John, you’ll have a seizure.’

  ‘Mercy.’ I swallowed, leaning over with hands on knees, could barely breathe. ‘A… a celestial mirror. The earth here – the holiest earth. Dear God, it’s wondrous.’

  ‘If it’s right, my friend,’ Dudley said. ‘If it’s there. It’s just I don’t see how they could have done it. If it’s not possible for anyone to see it fully, even from the highest ground…’

  ‘You also,’ I reminded him, ‘found it impossible to see how one man might chart the land, the shapes of hills, the shape of the coastline. The point is… if it were possible to stand in one place and see the whole circle, it would be no secret. Its power lies in the knowledge of its existence… how it lives in the mind. As above, so below.’

  Of course, it would not be so obvious now as it might have been in centuries past. Hills would be eroded, rivers grown wider, some dried up.

  ‘But if it would’ve meant altering the paths made by roads,’ Dudley said, ‘and maybe changing the direction of rivers and streams… then too many people would have to know the secret, and it wouldn’t be a secret and we’d all know of it.’

  I shook my head.

  ‘Not so. Who owned all this land, or most of it? The abbey. Who decreed how it should be maintained? Who decided where roads might go, how the flat lands might best be drained… The abbot. The farmers and builders would do as the abbot decreed.’

  ‘So you’re saying this was the secret Abbot Whiting would not reveal?’

  I shrugged.

  ‘Jesu,’ Dudley said.

  ‘It was also, I’d guess, the secret that drove Leland out of his mind. Did it not bring together the two most important things in this man’s life – the charting of the country…?’

  ‘And Arthur.’ Dudley came to his feet. ‘By the Lord God, John, what have we stumbled upon?’

  ‘We didn’t stumble upon it. We had to dig for it.’

  I looked down at the notebook, these rough sketches: the design of insanity? For all I knew I was on the same path as Leland, destined for the Bedlam.

  ‘Let’s look at this chronologically. We don’t know when it was made, but we must assume it was before the time of Christ.’

  ‘So no abbey…’

  ‘Hell, Robbie, it explains the reason for the abbey. If this was a wonder of the ancient world, an island of the stars, then surely it justifies the story of the Saviour being brought here as a child. There would’ve been a college here, where the knowledge was held and passed on by the Druids.’

  ‘Merlin?’

  ‘Merlin indeed, whoever he was. In all probability, a Druid. Someone best qualified to reveal to Arthur, when he came of age, the great celestial secret… in other words, presenting to him the round table.’

  ‘But did Arthur come before or after Christ? I mean, in Malory—’

  ‘Malory wrote stories, not history. It matters not a toss which came first, the Zodiac fits either version. Arthur comes to die in the most sacred place in all England, Christ is brought here to learn the mysteries of astrology. Joseph of Arimathea founds the abbey to guard and maintain the great Zodiac.’

  ‘But then the abbey falls…’

  ‘Which is where the darkness comes down. If we assume that the secret of the Zodiac was held only by the abbot and maybe one or two of his most trusted monks… were these the two executed with him?’

  ‘Here.’ Dudley glancing over a shoulder. ‘Here where we sit.’

  I could not but sense the agony of Abbot Whiting. Dragged up here upon a hurdle. Hanged. Cut down when not yet dead to be gutted and quartered. I looked at Dudley, saw the tightening of the muscles of his face
, knew he was thinking not only of Whiting but of Martin Lythgoe.

  Neither of whom were at peace.

  ‘I think we can assume,’ I said, ‘that Fyche was not one of the monks trusted with the secret. Yet, having aspirations to become the next abbot, would be close enough to know that there was a secret. Which he’d do anything to discover.’

  ‘For himself?’

  ‘For himself.’

  Dudley stood looking across the town on the purple-grey edge of evening. You could, at least, see all of that, from the crow-picked skeleton that had been an abbey to the fish hill on whose flank Cate Borrow lay.

  ‘You believe Fyche tortured Whiting?’

  ‘Or had it done.’ I arose, went to stand beside him, looking down. ‘I’d give anything to prove it.’

  ‘But even if you could… it was more than twenty years ago. Hard times. Atrocities happening daily. And the Papists were worse. I won’t shed too many tears over a Papist. And anyway, who’ll charge Fyche now? And with what?’

  ‘It wouldn’t help his reputation,’ I said.

  ‘He’d still be a monk, then, right?’

  ‘So? He’s from a moneyed family. Not too difficult to get the ear of Thomas Cromwell.’

  ‘Luring him with this talk of a secret?’

  ‘May not have been necessary,’ I said. ‘Cromwell only sought evidence of the abbot’s treachery. Who better to plant it than a monk at the abbey?’

  Thinking back to the night of Nel Borrow, her conviction that Fyche had betrayed his abbot, and then…

  It was more than betrayal.

  ‘It seems likely,’ I said, ‘that Cromwell was satisfied enough with evidence of Whiting concealing a chalice and possessing documents critical of the King.’

  ‘Fyche thinking to learn the greater secret and keep it for himself?’

  ‘Wouldn’t you?’

  ‘I’m not sure I’d torture an old monk to get it.’

  ‘He hanged an innocent woman,’ I said, ‘and he wants to hang another.’

  ‘And Lythgoe? Was Lythgoe…?’

  ‘I think I’ve said enough.’

  The twisting of a knife in a new wound. And if a charge against Fyche were needed…

  A few moments of silence. Even the crows had fled the tower. Then Dudley’s shoulders relaxed and he turned and gazed over to where the sun, if there’d been one, would be setting.

  ‘Is this the centre of the wheel of stars?’

  ‘No. I’ve not yet worked that out. But I will.’

  ‘How do you think Leland heard of it?’

  ‘Don’t know.’ I sighed. ‘Unlikely we’ll ever know. But he, more than any man of his time, had an eye for the patterns in the land. He travelled constantly. He spoke with divers people – noblemen and yeomen and peasants. He also had access to every book in the abbey’s library.’

  Awe and stupor, I remembered. Awe and stupor, indeed. ‘Both Nel and Monger the farrier attest that Leland approached various monks who’d been at the abbey. According to Monger, the only ones who might’ve known are long gone from here… but Leland may have found one. He moved around.’

  But betwixt times he’d been to talk to Cate Borrow, close friend of Abbot Whiting. Prompting the thought that Whiting, knowing he might otherwise be taking the intelligence of the Zodiac to his grave, had imparted at least some of it to Cate.

  It seemed not improbable.

  But Cate to Leland? From what I knew of her, she’d never have betrayed the abbot’s trust.

  ‘John…’

  ‘Mmm?’

  ‘Someone coming.’

  Voices. Laughter.

  ‘If this is Fyche, I’ve’ – Dudley wore no sword, but I saw his hand moving to where it usually hung – ‘not yet met the man.’

  ‘Nor should you. Not now.’ I looked around for the best way down. ‘He’ll ask why we’re here. We don’t want to give him any inkling of what we know. Until we’re ready.’

  It was clear the voices were coming from the Meadwell side so I motioned Dudley towards the common path. If we continued down that way, we’d be seen, so we must needs cut across the flank of the tor. Best, then, to wait a while, just out of sight of the summit. In the thickening dusk, we crouched on a shelf of turf which once had been part of the tor’s maze-like ramparts, and I listened out for Fyche’s voice.

  Sounds of stress and effort. Men labouring to the top of the tor, hauling something behind them? Put me in fresh mind of Abbot Whiting on his hurdle. No wonder the old man was said to haunt this town still. Should be haunting it forever.

  Men were calling to one another as they worked. Shards of it reaching me.

  ‘…there, is it?’

  ‘Bit too… out of… shadow… tower.’

  ‘…be no shadow then.’

  ‘…be seen, mind.’

  Footsteps in the turf, coming towards us. Me pressing myself into the slope, head in the grass. Dudley, too, but with obvious reluctance; Lord Dudley bent before no man and only one woman. Looked up, saw a pair of shiny leather boots not five yards away, tried not to breathe.

  ‘Hold it.’ The voice on top of me. ‘Hold it there!’

  When the boots moved away, I risked lifting my head to peer through the longer grass, saw Brother Stephen, Fyche’s son.

  ‘Further left,’ he shouted. ‘I said left, you fucking idiot.’

  On the flat land in front of the broken tower of St Michael, two men were supporting the two stocks of a wooden gibbet.

  XLVII

  Little Bear

  I FINALLY SLEPT, full-dressed, my head on an arm across the board in my chamber and, at some stage, the dream began again, where I was walking the hills to follow the tolling from distant steeples. But this time my steps transcribed a careful pattern on the land which I knew to be a magical glyph that would open doors to the soul, and when I reached the summit of the tor all the bells were clanging from the empty tower.

  But these bells rang in painful discord, so loud that I flung myself on the ground, covering my ears and rolling in the grass with the agony of it. Rolling over and over and coming to rest – coming to unrest – in the black, T-shaped shadow of the gibbet and awakening into the birth-tunnel of my darkest dawn, the fleshy stench of tallow, and Robert Dudley in the doorway with a candle on a tray.

  ‘Christ, John, you look like a week-old dog turd.’

  Said with pity as he walked over to the window and opened the casement.

  ‘How long have you slept?’

  ‘Five… six?’

  Dudley sighed.

  ‘You mean minutes, don’t you?’

  I shifted, finding Leland’s notebook still under my hand, greasy with tallow.

  ‘I meant to get everything from this that anyone could.’

  ‘And if anyone could, it would be you.’ Dudley wrinkling his patrician nose at the stink from the dead candles. ‘Come on, old friend… Wells?’

  The thought of it made this day harder to face than any I’d known. Harder than those long days when I was held at Hampton Court awaiting trial for sorcery. I wondered how Dudley had felt on the morning of his father’s trial, knowing how it would end. We’d never discussed it.

  ‘There’s bread and cheese on the board downstairs,’ Dudley said.

  ‘Couldn’t eat.’

  Last night, I’d asked Cowdray if there’d been a hanging on the tor in recent years… any hanging.

  Not since the abbot, Cowdray had said. All others, including Cate Borrow, had been hanged at Wells. He’d looked at me sorrowfully, saying nothing more. But it was clear that, even though it must have been dark before it was raised, the erection of the gibbet upon the tor had not gone unnoticed.

  How could I have slept?

  ‘And the horses… are made ready,’ Dudley said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You are still committed to…?’

  ‘Yes. Dear God, yes.’

  I arose, aching, the weight of Wells a cannonball in the gut. Picked up Leland’s no
tebook. All through the night, I’d examined the notes in the smallest detail, drawing my own charts, throwing all my attention into the unravelling of it. Shaking my fuddled head, remembering what now seemed such a mean triumph.

  ‘Um, Robbie…’ Pulling hair from my tired eyes. ‘For what it’s worth, I think I can point you to the bones of Arthur.’

  We rode out into mild rain and a silvery sky which roiled like eels in a tub, as if a dark energy were already abroad. Hardly alone on the road this day. Apart from goods carts, there were clusters of horsemen dressed as for a fair. I knew them not. Wool-merchants and minor squires, I guessed, making the assize an excuse for a day in the taverns.

  Glastonbury, in the pre-dawn, had been subdued. Waiting for Cowdray’s boy to bring out the horses, I’d marked Benlow, crossing from Magdalene Street and about to approach me until he’d seen Dudley and thought better of it. I’d run after him, catching him, seizing him by the shoulders, pushing him against a house wall.

  You think you can help me?

  Oh I can help you, my lord, count on it…

  Benlow giggling, but his voice had been hoarse, and he’d looked not well. Sweating. Maybe he’d been drinking too much, though there was no smell of it. I let him go, backed away to reason with him.

  Please… come with us to Wells. Tell the assize how you provided the bones to be scattered on Eleanor Borrow’s herb garden.

  In court? In front of Sir Edmund? I may be a sick man, my lord, but I’m not a madman. What’s the matter with you?

  He’d shaken his head and I’d said, We can protect you.

  My lord, I wouldn’t even get out of Wells alive.

  Then… you can’t help me.

  I can tell you where to find more relics of Arthur. I can tell you where to find his bones.

  I doubt that, Master Benlow.

  I swear to you.

  You can swear all you like.

  Me turning away, frustrated, and Benlow fading back into his own darkness.

  When the other travellers were ahead of us and we were able to ride side by side, Dudley slowed his horse.