by Alys Clare
He saved the ripest plum for last.
‘I’m on my way south now,’ he announced as he got up from the bench. ‘Far side of the Great Forest.’
‘Indeed?’ Brother Erse said, eyes alert with curiosity. ‘Anywhere in particular?’
‘Oh, yes.’ Thomas took his time, looking round the circle of monks and lay brothers to make sure he had their attention. ‘Oh, for sure.’
‘Where?’ several monks said together.
Dropping his voice to a dramatic whisper, Thomas said, ‘I’ve got nails and needles, soft satins and a silver cup on my old cart and I must make haste to reach my destination while the light is good and bright. I’ve been entrusted with a special order – an important order – and the man who awaits me is impatient for his goods.’ He eyed the group, gratified to see that they were hanging on his words. ‘It’s going to change things around here,’ he went on, ‘you see if I’m not right, for news is spreading like the tide through a breached dike and there’s an air of excitement everywhere I go. Oh, yes, it’s going to change things all right!’
‘What is?’ breathed young Brother Augustus.
Thomas turned to him. ‘They’ve found something,’ he whispered. ‘Unearthed it from the ground, put up a shelter to keep it from the elements, spread word that there’s been a miracle discovery and organised a place for folks to refresh themselves and stop overnight.’ Eyes widening in feigned amazement he went on, ‘Why, it’s much like this here settlement in the Vale, now I come to think of it!’
Alarmed now, the monks were muttering to one another. A ripple of unease spread through the company.
‘You mean – you’re telling us that somebody has found another source of holy water?’ It was Old Brother Firmin who courageously voiced the unthinkable.
‘No, not exactly that,’ Thomas said, turning to the elderly monk with a kindly smile. ‘It’s bones, see. That’s what’s been found: great, heavy bones, like as if a giant’s buried there.’
‘And . . .’ Brother Saul paused, swallowed and tried again. ‘And the bones work miracles?’
‘Oh, aye, I reckon they do that all right,’ Thomas assured him. ‘Leastways, that’s the claim. Whether they do or not’ – he shrugged lightly – ‘well, we’ll just have to wait and see, won’t we?’
‘Whose bones are they?’ Brother Micah whispered, glancing nervously over his shoulder in case some higher authority stood there about to punish him for indulging in dangerous gossip.
‘Didn’t I say?’ Thomas asked innocently. ‘Dear me, no, I don’t believe I did!’ He shook his head at his careless omission. ‘Well, you’ll know the name right swift enough when I tell you and you’ll readily understand, clever and learned men that you are, why this here discovery has led to the construction of the shrine I’m heading for with my goods and why it’s going to bring about all the fuss that’ll follow, sure as my name’s Thomas.’ The remark, long-winded even by Thomas’s standards, left him slightly breathless.
‘Who is it?’ cried Saul. ‘Whose skeleton’s been dug up?’
Thomas looked from monk to monk, meeting each anxious pair of eyes for a moment. Then he told them.
Josse d’Acquin, King’s man and long-time friend to Hawkenlye Abbey, learned of the news sitting in a cool, shady corner of his neighbour’s garden contentedly supping a mug of ale and watching the antics of the children of the family.
Brice of Rotherbridge had wed Isabella de Burghay in the summer of 1193 and she had born him a daughter, Fritha, the following April. The baby girl, now a couple of months past her first birthday, was laughing infectiously as her elder half-brother and sister played with her beneath the sweet chestnut tree. As Josse watched the trio – all three were attractive children and Roger and Marthe were well-mannered into the bargain – he and Brice were joined by Isabella.
She walked gracefully across the grass towards them, a jug in her hand. Her heavy, dark blond hair was neatly braided and covered by a small veil held in place by a narrow silver circlet and she wore a gown of dark green whose sleeves, lined with paler green and flaring widely at the cuff, trailed almost to the ground. Her full breasts and the beginnings of a bulge under her waistband suggested that she was pregnant again; in fact Josse knew this to be true for Brice had just told him. He got up from the rough bench on which he and Brice were seated and with a smile indicated to Isabella that she should take his place: ‘You should rest, my lady, in this heat,’ he said solicitously.
Isabella returned his smile. ‘Brice has told you, then,’ she said.
‘Aye, and right glad I am,’ Josse replied earnestly. Both Brice and Isabella had suffered tragedy in their lives; to see them married and so happy together, the new baby girl and the older children whom Isabella had born her first husband close-knit into a real family, made his heart glad.
It also made him realise how lonely he was and how purposeless his life had become.
But now was not the time to dwell on that.
‘Do you wish for a boy or a girl?’ he asked. A little too heartily, if the concern in Isabella’s eyes as she shot him a look was anything to go by; he had forgotten how very perceptive she was. She moved closer to him and briefly took hold of his hand as if trying to give him her understanding and her support.
‘For my part, I do not mind one jot as long as the child is healthy,’ Brice said.
Isabella laughed. ‘Don’t you believe him,’ she said lovingly, ‘for, already having a daughter, he would dearly love a son.’
‘I’m quite sure—’ Josse began.
Isabella put a hand on his arm. ‘Do not worry, Josse,’ she whispered, ‘for the baby that I carry is indeed a boy and we shall name him Olivar, after Brice’s late brother.’
‘How can you know it’s a boy?’ Josse hissed back.
But Isabella’s only answer was a serene smile. Then she reached for his and Brice’s empty ale mugs and refilled them.
They sat together on the bench beneath the chestnut tree for some time, the heat making them too lazy for anything but the most trivial conversation. There was a soft but constant humming in the air, as if a thousand invisible insects were close by. The sweet scent of gillyflowers lay on the summer air. The ale combined with the excellent meal that Josse had just consumed, making his eyelids heavy so that he found himself nodding; the sounds of the children and the baby seemed to drift further and further away . . .
. . . and then he heard the word Hawkenlye and was suddenly wide awake.
‘Hm? What was that?’ he demanded, making himself sit up straight and blinking his eyes open.
Brice chuckled and Isabella said kindly, ‘We were speaking of the new shrine on the southern fringe of the forest, Josse. Brice was saying that Hawkenlye Abbey will have to take care that it does not lose all of its pilgrims.’
‘What new shrine?’
‘Have you not heard?’ Brice sounded surprised. ‘They’ve found some bones – large ones, or so I’m told. Some young lordling has cleared the ground around the site and he’s put the word around that there have been some miracles – cripples throwing away their crutches, deaf old women suddenly regaining their hearing, barren women becoming pregnant, that sort of thing. He’s built a shelter and he’s offering food and drink. For a price,’ he added.
‘They’re saint’s bones?’ Josse asked. He was both amazed at something so extraordinary happening so close to home and, at the same time, very apprehensive because of what this new discovery might mean for the Abbey. In particular – she was very dear to him – for its Abbess. She fought a constant battle with what to him seemed a perfectly natural pride in the Abbey and its place at the centre of life in the vicinity and any threat to it would be like a direct threat to her . . .
Brice and Isabella exchanged a glance. ‘Not exactly a saint,’ Brice said.
‘Whose are they, then?’ Josse asked, with some impatience.
Isabella looked down at her hands and then said quietly, ‘Josse, are you familiar with the
Matter of Britain?’
‘Er . . .’ The phrase was familiar but it took Josse a few moments to gather his thoughts and recall what he knew about it. ‘It’s to do with King Arthur, isn’t it?’ Isabella nodded. ‘Aye, and he’s meant to be sleeping in a hollow hill somewhere with all his knights, ready to come to England’s aid at our hour of gravest danger.’
Brice smiled. ‘In brief, you have it,’ he said. ‘There is, however, rather more to the story.’ He looked at his wife. ‘Isabella is the expert,’ he continued. ‘I am sure that she will explain further, if you would care to hear?’
Josse was unable to see what this Matter of Britain had to do with a sudden threat to the Abbey but if enlightenment was on offer, then he was going to take it. ‘My lady?’ he said.
Isabella sat quietly for a moment or two, as if collecting her thoughts. Then she said, ‘I have always loved tales pertaining to our land and its turbulent past. You, Josse, knowing as you do the unusual circumstances of my childhood and youth, will readily understand that it was probably these very circumstances that predisposed me to that love.’ Josse nodded. ‘Aware of my interest, my dear Brice here obtained for me a most welcome gift on the occasion of our marriage; he commissioned the monks at Canterbury to make my very own copy of Geoffrey of Monmouth’s great work, the History of the Kings of Britain.’
‘A most generous and enviable gift, my lady.’ Josse, who was no reader, did his best to put enthusiasm into his voice but Isabella’s quiet laughter suggested he had failed.
‘For me, nothing could have been more welcome,’ she said, still smiling. Her voice filling with eagerness, she went on, ‘Geoffrey’s story begins with the arrival of Brutus, who was the great-grandson of Aeneas the Trojan, and tells of how he established a dynasty of kings at New Troy, and the story proceeds to cover a thousand years of our land’s history and . . .’ She stopped herself. Her eyes had been on Josse and he realised that his smile of polite interest was probably looking a little fixed. ‘But I must not risk boring you. The point is that Geoffrey’s thrilling account concludes with the tale of King Arthur and his magnificent court, of his valour and of how he kept the invader at bay, of his death at the hands of his treacherous nephew and of how his body was taken to the Isle of Avalon to be cured so that he may answer Britain’s call when we have need of him.’
Josse, watching her as she spoke, noticed how her sea-green eyes had lit up with excitement. He realised that she believed in her story; for her, quite clearly, the prowess of the legendary Arthur was as much a legitimate part of England’s history as the arrival of William the Bastard and the stormy reign of Henry II.
Which was going to be a ticklish problem of diplomacy, since Josse didn’t credit a word of it. Memory had returned and information concerning King Arthur, his castle, his knights, his wife and his hunt for the Holy Grail was now flooding Josse’s mind. There had been other works by this Geoffrey of Monmouth; Josse had met folk who had eagerly consumed every word the man and his imitators had written. Copies of the manuscripts were readily available, although their cost made them the preserve of the wealthy. It was said that Queen Eleanor and the late King Henry had been fascinated by the tales and had made a royal visit to Glastonbury, a site closely associated with Arthur.
Glastonbury. Bones. Pilgrimage. Something was knocking loudly and insistently on the door of Josse’s attention, demanding admission.
‘Excuse me, my lady,’ he said, interrupting Isabella, busy outlining the wonders of Arthur’s court. He bowed briefly in apology. ‘If all this is leading up to an announcement that King Arthur’s bones have been unearthed in the Great Wealden Forest, then that can’t be so because they were dug up by the monks of Glastonbury Abbey five years ago.’
‘That is quite true,’ Brice said gently. ‘The Glastonbury monks found the bones of both the King and of Guinevere his Queen, buried in a huge, hollow tree trunk beneath which was a stone and an inscribed lead cross. The Queen’s long, fair plait of hair was found, although it fell to dust when it was touched.’
‘Hm.’ Josse fought to keep his cynicism under control; any belief that he might have originally had in the monks’ miraculous find had been tempered by the realisation that Glastonbury Abbey had suffered a devastating fire shortly before the bones had been found and was consequently in desperate need of the money that pilgrims would bring pouring in. But out of deference to his hosts – who were also his good friends – it did not seem polite to mention that fact.
‘The inscription on Glastonbury’s lead cross is clearly legible,’ Isabella was saying. ‘It’s in Latin: Hic jacet sepultus inclitus Rex Arturus, in insula Avalonia.’
‘Here lies entombed the famous King Arthur in the Isle of Avalon,’ Josse translated softly. To himself he added, how very convenient for Glastonbury, that the bones were so clearly labelled.
‘The Isle of Avalon is the old name for Glastonbury and the place to which Joseph of Arimathea brought the Grail,’ Isabella said eagerly. ‘They say that the area was once under water and that the hill of Glastonbury stood out like an island. There is magic in such sites, Josse, for there the water meets the land, although the boundary between the two elements is ever shifting, ever shrouded in mist. And now we’ve got such a site of our very own, and it too is located on a magical boundary, for it is where the trees thin out and fade into open heathland and it is exactly the sort of place where such a person would have been buried.’
She was, Josse thought, thrilled and entranced by the discovery. He could understand her reaction, for life in the country tended to stroll along at a fairly even and unhurried pace and anything new was always greeted with enthusiasm. This tale of ancient and highly distinguished bones that could work miracles was news of the most exciting kind; people would be falling over one another to go and have a look, even if they were in no more need of healing miracles than he was and went along out of plain curiosity.
Isabella was still speaking of mysteries and magic. Her voice, he noted, had taken on the hypnotic tone of the story teller who ensnares her listener in the web of her spell . . . Josse blinked, shook his head sharply a couple of times, and the illusion disappeared. She was Isabella, his friend, the wife of his neighbour, and there was no danger present whatsoever.
‘So,’ he said decisively, ‘someone’s unearthed King Arthur again, this time in the Wealden Forest.’ Brice tried to interrupt but Josse was well into his stride now and did not allow it. ‘The man behind the whole business must be – who is he, by the way?’
‘His name is Florian of Southfrith,’ Brice supplied. ‘He’s a rich young man, well set-up, handsome, and he lives with his beautiful wife in a modest but very fine manor house near Hadfeld. You know it?’
‘The name is familiar but I cannot recall any details.’
‘It is the area where the dense trees give way to heath. The forest lies to the north and to the south are the green valleys that eventually rise up to meet the South Downs.’
‘And from whom does this Florian of Southfrith hold his lands?’ Josse asked. ‘His overlord, presumably, will be claiming a goodly portion of the takings?’
‘I imagine he holds tenure from the Clares of Tonbridge,’ Brice replied mildly. ‘Richard de Clare has interests in that direction, although, come to think of it, I cannot say for sure that Florian is his tenant; the lands may belong to Canterbury for all I know.’
‘Hmm.’ What was I saying? Josse asked himself. I was about to make some point when I was diverted. Ah, yes. ‘This Florian is bragging of his miraculous bones in the hope of attracting the sick, injured and needy to his shrine and the people, I would guess, are as one diverting their attention to the new wonder and away from Hawkenlye Abbey.’
‘You have it,’ Brice agreed. ‘It is said that scarcely anyone visits the Hawkenlye shrine any more, so eager are they to see the new discovery for themselves and share in its power.’
‘But that’s terrible!’ Josse said furiously. ‘These poor fools must be protected
from their own folly, for the dubious claims made for a pile of bones out in the forest can hardly be compared to the skill and care freely on offer at Hawkenlye! As well as the holy water down in the shrine that they give so freely, there are kindly monks and lay brothers to feed and care for those in need, as well as an infirmary full of nursing nuns whose reputation for herbal remedies and healing is well known throughout the land!’ It was an exaggeration, but he did not care. ‘The very purpose of that magnificent Abbey and its hard-working, selfless people to be cast into the shade by an upstart with a false claim? It is not to be borne!’
He heard the echoes of his furious words die away. He felt ashamed for having shouted; all of this was no fault of Brice’s or Isabella’s, who had merely relayed the news. He could not in fairness be angry with either of them, for if they chose to believe in something which he himself viewed with the greatest suspicion, then that was their choice. And, from what they had told him, it would seem that their view was the popular one; to have such a discovery made virtually on the doorstep would, for the local populace, be the sort of awesome and exotic event that they could only dream about. Word would spread like fire in a hay barn and soon the whole country would be beating a path to see the new wonder.
He, it appeared, would be in a minority of one.
No.
His would not be the sole voice that spoke out against the new attraction, for he could think of another who would be shoulder to shoulder with him. And she most certainly did not stand alone.
Abruptly he stood up, experiencing a brief wave of dizziness; he had been sitting in the heat for too long. For all that the bench was in the shade, the summer afternoon was hot. And two large, empty jugs testified to the amount of ale that he and Brice had downed.
‘I must be on my way,’ he announced. ‘Thank you, Isabella, for your hospitality; thank you both for your entertaining conversation.’ He bowed, first to Isabella, then to Brice.
Both of whom, he noticed, were hiding smiles.
‘You will be on the road again early tomorrow, I’ll warrant,’ Brice said.
