An Ageless Myth
By John Evans
Dedications
In reflecting on the publication of the following manuscript, it is critically important to note the outstanding editorial corrections made by my friend and colleague, Dejsha Morris who has made the general release of this text possible through her noble efforts. For all those who hold themselves readers of great literature, I highly recommend that you attend to her own writings with care for they are undoubtedly marvelous in all ways conceivable in an author’s work. Also important thanks must be here given to the efforts of my enduring friend, Mathew Lewis through whom much of the following materiel has been released to the public through those digital means which were and yet are so often daunting to me. Finally it is crucial to make mention of my family’s loving encouragement in the production of this work and special note also must be given to those not directly involved as they gave me the spark to undertake such a complex project. I thank you all and hope that my word finds you well.
Introduction
Around the year 1200, Jerald of Whales wrote that the monks at Glastonbury in England at the behest of the king, found in their hallowed grounds the skeletal remains of both Arthur and Guinevere in a hollowed oak between two ancient stone pyramids. Rumors had abounded, namely in rebellious Whales, that Arthur was not dead and that he would return to save his people from the reign of the Norman kings. Henry II, wishing to further legitimize his throne by quelling the insurrection, is reported to have ordered the excavation of the bones of The Once and Future King, learning of their location from a bard who is reported by varying accounts to be either English or Welsh. When a lead cross was found at the cite where the monks had conducted their digging bearing a Latin inscription bearing the names of Arthur and Guinevere, they dug deeper and then found the skeletons which were reentered by orders of the royal family where they remained until they vanished with the rise of the Anglican Church. While the lead cross did survive for some time before it too disappeared, the only other artifact found with the skeletons which was a lock of golden hair purported to be Guinevere’s was accidentally destroyed when a monk carrying out the excavation reached for it too hastily. All else is merely an ageless myth.
Those are the facts and you can find them on innumerable on-line sources as written by Jerald of Whales. Yet is it true? The chapel in Glastonbury had been lost in a fire before the finding of the bones. Is it possible that the bones of Arthur were meant to be a means by which the Abbot of Glastonbury could regain income for the church? Yet there appear to be no attempts at doing so on the part of the monks. So then did they find, Arthur? Did they find Guinevere?
It is unlikely that we will ever know. Yet the following story attempts to fill in some of those gaps and explores an account of what might have been. Many of my own details in the text may be of later Arthurian legend and I know that other authors have tried writing books like my tale here. Yet my tale is different in that it is not the epic of a bold hero or a tale of conspiracy. It is a tale of discovery and of a man more like to you or I then any other adventurer I’ve found yet. The following story is of a bard, a poor man who is given one task, one mission- to go to Glastonbury and uncover its secrets. He is to help the monks find Arthur and Guinevere. Compile with historical data and findings made from the historical record, the following tale is more founded in fact then it is in fiction. Yet for all the rest, only you the reader can decide.
1289 Yorkshire England
In a courtyard of stone knelt a bard, he was a Welshman of middle age, his graying hair and grim features solemn but fare in seeming, his hand still wresting upon his rustic harp, crudely hewn though stout, as durable as the shirt of male he wore beneath his tunic. By his poor raiment the lone figure there seated knew full well that the landless wanderer like so many of his profession was not a wealthy man, nor very well acquainted with this region of Britain having been born miles off in some nameless village perhaps where yet the ballads yet sung were heard at whiles in the fields or by the lads rushing off to war: heedless of the slaughter under the bold almost rash hope that they might for a little while free their homeland from the invading host of the pressing proud monarch, a man who brooked no defiance or opposition to his authority.
Slowly but gradually the grey pilgrim took up his instrument and there placed it at his listeners feet. The song had ended but he had been recalled for this private meeting in haste for reasons which at the time had not truly been disclosed. The wanderer could remember little else save his utter surprise upon being informed that the meeting was of the utmost importance to the crown. He personally wasn’t partial to any side in the long standing debate among his own folk and that of the throne. He was a rather simplistic fellow. Whoever paid earned his attention and apparently if he wasn’t greatly mistaken the king was ready to pay more then a pretty penny for an eve’s lodgings for this … little visit.
In a tremulous voice the bard said to the man now staring down at him from a lofty wooden chair, “Hale noble sir, I have come as I have been bidden. How may I assist your lordship? I am well trained in any loremasters tale though in regards to history unfortunately much of my work has been mingled in legend, in myth all this time. But I know many a secret passed down from generation of bard to generation which your lordship might desire or if you wish my presence at another banquet or gathering of your earls I would be more then pleased to come and sing some lay of your choosing, maybe of the Jests of the Norman court? I know a few songs which may be fitting for gentle women and fine company despite my lowly status you know. I have been invited to many a thane’s hall and thereby have learned much, perhaps too much for my own good of what could fancy my betters at the table of goodly feasts.”
“Why in fact ….””
“Silence” grumbled the lofty chap, his dark eyes glowering down at his guest as though by mere look as well as word he could shut the fool up. “Unfortunately or fortunately depending on how you may personally view the manner I am not interested in any other active service of … singing you may provide for me individually but on a matter which as you have been told involves the entire kingdom which is to say that it is in no way connected with what you may do for us tomorrow or what you have said or done yesterday. No, no our problem lies here and now, today and you right now are going to give us what we need to know and there with to be rewarded for such … service or else you may be forced to suffer the wrath of our betters who would not have their time wasted: is that clear?”
Grimly the Welsh peasant nodded, bowing his head in obedience and in submission. Even from his high seat the commanding gentleman could see the strangers’ hands shaking, shaking violently in fear or perhaps in wrath at being ousted which he could not say or would as of that time leave unspoken.
“Now” more softly declared the lord, “You are already well aware of your folk’s battles against the crown of late to be sure so there is no sense in elaborating on that point. The truth of the matter is our king, Henry II wants to stop squandering cash on this damn war and wishes to make peace but isn’t willing to submit to loss. In fact our good king believes your people are more helpful as allies rather then enemies. He just wants land and tribute and more money. After all by god who doesn’t these days? Therefore he has sent me to figure out how to quell the rebellion and he thinks you have the key to solving this our … situation.”
“How?” blurted out the bard ere he could think better of it.
Luckily the lord seemed not to mind and found the question actually amusing rather then annoying. After chuckling not so discreetly the noble asked the pilgrim,
“Tell me sir, how much do you know about King Arthur?”
“Why everything sir,” gasped the wanderer now utterly confused. You have to understand that the Triads of the Kings are well known among my folk and among bards … well dear sir it is like the foundation of all that we are, all that we do. Ask any bard and they could sing their heart out about King Arthur. There is no bard in the isles here who couldn’t, let me tell you.”
“But we hear you … you know more” covertly stated the lord. Yes we know who you are, Evan and we aren’t going to pretend otherwise.”
“What does that have to do with anything?” defensively argued the pilgrim. So I was an enthusiast in the ballads of the once and future king but who isn’t? Lets be realistic my lord. With all do respect and I mean none of this slightingly I don’t see why I should be called here over any other Celtic Bard in Christendom.”
“Because you worked once upon a time with the monks in Glastonbury and so did your father”, bluntly stated the noble.
“So what?” weakly protested the wanderer.
“So what?” quietly repeated the lord. You know very well what. You have admitted it by ignoring the question as folly. Now answer me damn you: what did you find there?”
“I don’t know what you mean”, gloomily and unconvincingly whimpered the bard.
“Answer me!” grunted the kingsman, or I’ll cut your throat.”
“Ok, Ok” cried the wanderer now dropping to his knees once more. I’ll tell you, I’ll tell you everything.”
“O that much is certain”, mirthlessly laughed the lord. I know you will.”
Fumbling about the rustic pilgrim rose once more and looked the lord in the eyes. Then in a low voice murmured, “You know it’s been a long time. It was over fifteen years ago and then I was a much, much younger man.”
“I know and if it wasn’t urgent I wouldn’t ask you”, declared the noble. I realize that matters for you haven’t been easy either. I promise you that the information you tell us shall be kept secret and shall not be revealed even when it is being used to help our .. Designs. We aren’t yet prepared to put your neck on the line. This may not be the last time we meet if we still need more information. Therefore you are to remain here if you will as to be with in reach in the castle and shall be paid daily the sum of any knight in this household and will be cared for by the lady Sara and her brother the earl Haimond until further notice. Does this sound well to you?”
“Yes” cried the bard. A minstrel then will I be a minstrel of the court. Worthy of kings. O what joy, O what splendor.”
“Then if such is your wish,” said the noble
“Evan the Minstrel, tell me this lay in words as to what exactly you and your elderly father found in Glastonbury.”
“Very well...” agreed the newly made minstrel. Very well indeed. How to begin though, O how may one begin with such a tale?"
There is no fine beginning or ending to it only memories, fleeting memories. They dance before my eyes in sleep at whiles, images of a dark church yard and those two standing stones, like monuments … monuments or markers of a tomb to … to .. Him.
The curiosity in the place, the old church-yard had been there from the start. When I was but a lad my father and I would read all the names on the headstones of the dead ones and we would laugh at how funny they sounded and poke fun at all the funny superstitions of the town outside which was at that time growing ever larger. Day and night the monks watched us as though we were doing something … something dangerous.
They always told us to stay away from those two pillars or standing columns of rock in the midst of the hallowed grounds. They seemed to think that someone important was buried near by or around there. We paid no heed that is we paid no heed until my father was confronted by a monk by the name of father Thomas. The man was a stout chubby little fellow like the others but he was new and he had a fell temper.
Ere he died he always told me that I was a fool, a jolly young fool and that I should watch my back because one day I’d find a dagger in it or I would be stuck in that same place and not know being a goner if you take my meaning.
Anyway that’s when we thought that we should keep off that ground or at least that is what my father thought. I was still naive and I think the monk, fat old Thomas, showed something to my dad which spooked him greatly and I think I know what it was for I found it you see later or at least I think I did unless I was mistaken when I was searching among the old sanctuary records.
All crumpled up it was and it had already been locked in many a chest as though someone wanted to hide it from the outside world. It was a piece of battered old parchment and on it in an unsteady hand was written a few lines of text. I didn’t know what it meant, I couldn’t read. But I got old father Godwin to tell me and Godwin was a good fellow and after taught me my letters. He it was who read out loud the lines to me. All pale he was as though he had seen a ghost and he began franticly reading the words over and over again as though he didn’t believe his eyes. Let me tell you I didn’t believe my ears when he read the text and would have called him a liar if I didn’t know him better. This is what was written there in Latin as far as I can remember,
A king lies in the earth in midst of the pillars of stone. He will not return as legends say. He is gone, Arthur the once and future king.”
“So he is buried there in the place between the pillars or columns of stone...” said the lord. Arthur, King Arthur after all these years. Thomas must have found it and must have known where it was for he clearly had gotten the paper from the treasury searching for other …. Other ... lost valuables.”
“There is more then one secret in Glastonbury waiting to be revealed,” darkly stated Evan. That is all I may tell for that is all I know but I don’t see how this will help much in ending the uprisings back home.”
“You know what Evan,” said the noble. You are a horrible liar. Do yourself a favor and don’t go in to politics if you ever, ever change your stars to rise to fortune as I’m sure you will. You know as well as I do that there are many in this land and in the other isles who believe that Arthur is not dead and that by the love of our lord Christ he was taken by certain means to another place and there dwells till he may return to save his people. The thing is if we are to trust history, Arthur is a Celt and he wouldn’t like Henry the King, a foreigner to this land as to be overlord. In fact he might help these rebels to fight against him and topple Henry as he did the Saxons of old at the battle of MountBadin. While we both know Arthur is dead never to return till judgment day there are some who think otherwise and they will do anything to everything to stop Henry from taking over without a fight. We need a dead Arthur and what is more is we need him quick. Therefore I have been authorized to discover where I may find the remains of the once and future king and to drag his bones to the court of Henry to prove to the entire world that Arthur is indeed dead and that you Welsh boys can go kiss your savior goodbye since he is now but a pile of rotten moldy bones no doubt. I tracked you down since I heard a rumor you had found his wresting place in Glastonbury and so lured you here to Yorkshire on behalf of Henry by means of the festival yesterday. I hope you found it to your liking. Anyway I will give you lodgings here in the castle and the payment as promised and I will leave you be till I have to ask you a few more … questions.”
“It was interesting talking to you.” said the bard watching the lord make his way to the door.
“Indeed it was ... insightful” declared the noble making his way through the threshold and into the adjacent room.
But suddenly he was stopped for rushing over the minstrel said on to him, “Your pardon sir, I forgot to ask you your name.”
Laughing smugly the lord said on to the wanderer, “Do you not know?”
Silently Evan frowned and shook his head.
Still grinning the stranger merely burst out laughing once more and turned and left the hall. But as he turned to go for the first time the bard noticed a device embroidered on the back of the lords’ tunic and gasped recognizing it at once.
It was the personal family crest of Henry King of England. The noble of the lofty seat had been Henry the second himself.
Falling to the wooden floor with a heavy thump the new minstrel of the court wondered if the last few hours had been but a dream and then witless and unmanned fell swiftly asleep to find himself in a warm bed and attended to by the marvelously attractive lady of the estate.
Sighing calmly Evan then thought and not for the last time how good it was working for the king.
For over a month the Welshman dwelt in that goodly house and he was tended to with the proper cares of his want in accordance with the kings wishes but when no tidings came hither in regards to what had indeed taken place in that house and the task to which the lords of Glastonbury were surely now assigned the guest grew troubled and sat long alone in thought. In consequence he fell from the favor of his peers and many of his fellows whispered of how strange it was that such a man as Evan so blessed and gifted should lock himself up in his study for hours on end pondering his fortune and the implications of it. For though the guest reviled in his fancies he had won many bitter enemies do to his luck and untimely visit with the lord Henry though none knew that it was indeed he who had visited the earldom of Yorkshire and the nature of that visit.
Yet to these matters of opinion the lady of the fiefdom paid little heed or rejected utterly for she knew the heart of the bard and thought him well, a man of honor and of principle and yet at the same time practical. Slow to anger and swift to admit fault once recognized he was an honest man and the maiden appreciated that in him and held it as a standard for which she held all men after, be he knight of valor or lowliest serf. Then was Haimond wrathful for he feared his sister falling from her status to one such as the minstrel and swiftly he wrote to the king but there was no answer for Henry had suspected these turn of events and finding them amusing had forthwith given chance to give fruit to this conflict.
But all this soon changed, for some time after the old king fell ill and so died and his death while mourned by most was an abounding joy to the earl of Yorkshire and he by sheer will alone gained audience to the lord Edward heir to the throne and at once the bard was cast from the land where in he had prospered and for that time all communications ceased between the minstrel and the damsel till when in Ireland under the service of one thane, Aidon he had learned of her untimely end, though by what cause none could yet say.
Therefore when only a week had past since he had received those tidings he made his way in secret back to York and there would have slain the earl Haimond if not fate had proven otherwise. For in either great wisdom or folly of his heart the Welshman believed that the lady had been cruelly tortured and slain by the earl and speaking this openly one eve was for his recklessness rebuked by the earl’s men and soon imprisoned in the dungeons of his bitterest foe.
There he would have perished and his story might have been forgotten utterly if it had not been for the work of the squire Roron who being but a boy easy to heed well truth in idealism rather then bounty in falsehood sprung set the wandering pilgrim free for which Haimond was made wrathful in spite. Since that day no rumor of Roron Milton’s son of Yorkshire has yet been heard and we know no more of him.
But now the tale returns to the bard, Evan in his flight. For fifty days and nights he aimlessly eluded the eyes of his pursuers and reaching a nameless brook on one eve and is said to have even fooled the guard of Haimond who followed after in haste. Yet that haste proved ill born as is sung in the lay of Evan and in returning empty handed the chase for the rebel was soon forgotten replaced by other matters of state which occupied the haughty earl till his death in the strife of that following year in the wode. So did the outlaw then chance upon a band of wild and desperate men in the wood of the saints and there did work such distress upon the sheriff there that they were routed hence for many a mile ere splintering off into ragged companies living lonesomely in the wild and save for the name of their captain and a few others they were forgotten and so lost.
But once more the minstrel returned in prominence and seeking out Glastonbury and made his way thither in hopes of learning what had become of the search for Arthur’s bones. Evan was weary for the foes of his person that still lurked in the woods wherein he hid. He was shunned from many a god fearing house for his strange customs and unfamiliar lays. Thus he traveled till at length he reached his destination and held converse with the monks there who still sought for the trove of kings beneath the place between the pillars and in the summer of that waning year he joined them in their labors in exchange for safe haven and shelter from they who abused him and pitying the wanderer and knowing him not evil or a worker of evil the holy men there welcomed him into their dwellings so that for that time all was well.
For nigh on a fortnight longer they toiled in the grimy soil, spade and shovel meeting the earth day after day, a baleful sight for a baleful task and still there was no relenting. The warm eves turned cold and swiftly Autumns’ chill took possession over the dismal atmosphere, the cool breeze filling glade and glen, homestead and court with an almost unsettling feel of lingering mystery, whispers of a legend an ageless myth and its historicity. Was the once and future king a man or a dream? None knew the answer, some wished not to know the answer for fear of the truth and others still flocked in throngs, in full fledged gatherings on the popular subject. For to the distress of the crown the rumor of the work at Glastonbury had not been contained. All knew or half knew some element of the excavation and with that knowledge came great excitement and to others also unprecedented fear among the rebels who wondered if indeed their omens of Arthur’s return would ever come to pass, if they had lived a lie and fought and died in that dilution, seeking phantom heroes in a all but remote and unreliable memory. Was Glastonbury Avalon? Only time would tell, the ravaging weight of the festering days’ labor giving way to earnest hopes and darker dreams, rich in imaginative promptings spurred hence by the pervasive lore of a fellowship of knights, of princes and damsels fare, of valleys that shook with the clashing of brandished steel matched in drakes’ onslaught, of mountains on who’s lofty peaks invited calamity of contest upon their summit where upon the crimson life’s blood of heroes drowned the luscious flower of the court of a waning king, a champion so enmeshed in the context of his own legend the man of fault, of flesh and of trial was almost forgotten. The only traces that couldst be evident of his stay for shortest while upon the face of earths’ stage of toils lay in the grounds of the church-yard and therein thus far there was founded only the pillars of the saga in rumor and in rumor alone. But even the frailest whisper in the clutches of the blackest eve may work to some purpose and now that such belief held that the mystery of the chieftain of the isles rested in Glastonbury in the minds of the populous, more dreadful then any force considerable, Glastonbury hid a secret, a secret which merely lingered in the shadows to be unveiled or rather unburied.
The fated night on which the truth was revealed came when the restless monks awoke having been troubled by strange premonitions. With them came the minstrel for he too had been awaken by the same sensation, the same uneasiness.
Then, when the hapless hands of the workers slowed and the rugged wills of each fine princekin of the spade faltered, the bards shovel met a solid form, wreathed in the darkness of the shade which yet laid deep in that pit wherein they struggled, dauntless though warn from the gratuitous agony, the laborious madness in the filth, the ceaseless monotony in the mire.
Clumsily shaking his head in disbelief the bard whispered in a tone thick with emotion, “By God, he’s here.”
“Lets not jump to rash conclusions” grumbled a monk by the name of Oric. Faith is one thing, false hope is another.”
“True.” conceded the minstrel staring gloomily at his scarred hands and aching wrists. We have one immediate quandary to solve first though. Do we dig on till we collapse or do we clear the cite and leave Arthur for tomorrow.”
“First lets just see what we got here.” interrupted one of the novice monks, a young man with dark hair and deep set eyes. Maybe we finally got him here.”
“Alright then” muttered Oric pointing to the young monks’ shovel. You begin the purging of the grime.”
Unwilling to dare a debate with the others the lad crept deeper into the hole and with some care skillfully removed the soil which covered the surface of the unknown object. Unable from their vantage point to clearly make out what it was the elderly Oric called down to the boy, “What is the bloody thing?”
Recognizing the frustration in his fellows’ retort the novice called to his colleagues, “A stone, only one enormous stone.”
“What now?” asked a strange peculiar servant of the abbot, a stocky man though muscular.
“It could be important...” mused the bard outloud.
“How?” argued a still raging Oric, his hands trembling in a frenzy of wrath. Come on Evan, its just a big bloody bolder, a cursed rock found by a fool who has neglected his scriptural studies for a week mark you. Surely god has scorned this venture. The old king is gone. Leave the dead. Am I not correct in saying that there is too much to do here, now among the living. We need money Evan, not bloody bones. Ever since the chapel fell the grounds around have fallen in to disarray. Imagine how many mouths we could have fed with fresh corn and crop of the garden if the same effort here was invested in rebuilding the local stability.”
“Let me explain something Oric,” angrily murmured the bard looking the elderly monk directly in the eye. The bones of Arthur are a significant relic, are they not? Well, in the event we actually dig up the damn bones we can prop them up on display here in a rebuilt chapel wherein the throng of merry pilgrims can behold the hallowed tomb. You know exactly what that means, Oric . . . . Money, lots and lots of money- enough to feed all the starving in these parts, that is if the abbot knows how to distribute the earned bounty attentively with a free hand.”
“But what of this damned stone” interjected one of the local peasants gazing down at the shape of the lad at work in the pit uneasily. Oric does have a point Evan. How does this rock, fall in to all this?”
“Isn’t it blatantly obvious!” cried the now weary minstrel. In the name of the good lord, has it not occurred to you it could be a grave marker? If Arthur lived surely they would have erected a large stone in his memory, a memorial stone to be precise.”
“Then lets lift the bloody thing and see if there are any markings on it or something...” urged another novice monk, eagerly racing over to help his friend in the mire still arduously toiling away while the others argued.
“Sounds like a plan...” admitted the bard. Finally some moron here is listening to me.”
Guiding others to do likewise Evan gathered the workers around the large bolder lodged lopsidedly in the earth finally freeing the six foot tall rock from the surrounding soil. At first nothing strange or wondrous could be seen on the stones’ face, accept for a few sections where portions of the rock had been weathered by the outside world when it had been open to the elements and a few ancient chisel marks. No runes could be immediately spotted. But even as the workers lifted the enormous bolder from the pit on the bottom of the structure the bard beheld something gleaming in the sunlight and so halted his fellows’ movements as to examine the shining shape more closely. Scrutinizing the oddity more closely he grew rigid and dropped to his knees in astonishment. Hastening to his side Oric found what the minstrel had been looking at.
It was a lead cross of considerable size attached to the stone engraved with a Latin inscription in an archaic mode of primitive writing evidently visible for all to see. Tremulously running his hand along the symbols the elderly monk read the words there found outloud as though he couldn’t believe his eyes,
“Here lies the renowned king Arthur buried with his second wife Guinevere on the isle of Avalon.”
“By god!” muttered Oric staring wide eyed at the blue sky. He is here.”
“So now what to do?” asked one of the more rash youths among the company after a long and awkward silence.
At first none dared speak. All were overwhelmed in emotion.
At last Evan declared in a wavering voice, “Hide the stone in the Abbots’ treasury and notify him of our discovery. When that is done we ought to rest for the better part of this day left to us and return to find what we may tonight.”
“Sounds well to me,” clumsily stated the elderly monk hobbling out of the pit. I’ll tell the Abbot. The rest of you wash up. We have much to talk about and much to do.”
“Isn’t that such a surprise?” mirthlessly chuckled Evan in a half hearted tone. It was too serious a matter, too much depended on this one pivotal point. Ere turning away to dine with the others in the Abbots’ halls the Welshman gazed long at the two columns of blackened stone and the ditch now delved between until he shifted his attention towards the crude bolder and that lead cross engraved with that tangible haunting runic statement, the Latin name of Arturus evidently visible even from the bards now somewhat distant view of the priceless artifact. Solemnly the minstrel clumsily traversed the church’s grounds, silently muttering a prayer to the blessed virgin and every saint he could then recall by miracle and name, beseeching them to show favor upon his search that restless eve. Finding his feet gradually taking him mindlessly to a tall standing gnarled oak beside a rushing brook, he exhaustedly knelt to the earth and lingered for some time until at length, realizing dimly that inviting sleep was overwhelming him he propped his head against the trunk of the aged tree and so fell instantly in to strange dreams.
Lost in slumber, he beheld a grey lifeless field strewn with the dead or dying, their pale faces caught in expressions of the harshest harrowing and bitterest hate, their pallid features in contrast to the darkness that consumed them, as the shadow fell upon that forlorn country. Among these battered folk were writhing in a raging battle two hosts, one in naught save sable, the other of gilded shirts of male, lofty helms, and well warn swords, pikes, spears, and dauntless bows engulfed in a rain of flying feathered shafts or devious darts. Nigh to the field of many standards, one bearing the drake of the clans of some legion there assembled, there stood a dark wood, beneath which remote torch light could be seen in who’s radiance shadowy figures could be spotted, racing hither and thither, their blurry movements clearly of no less ferocity then the tumult on the grounds more clearly apparent. Some where in that deeper gloom, beyond the rushing frenzy before the eves of the forest, there were most rightly visible two large persons seeming almost giant size among their phantom ranks passing in and out of vision, each crowned as princes or kings, their own swords outstretched for combat. Against one another they strove for what in a drowsy state seemed to be in waking time an hour, the foes in mighty strokes leaving blows to match their native strength with weariness, with the loss of life’s’ blood which surely followed with the new gash won in the contest, neither man appearing to dominate in the onset, their grappling arms knocking other lords from their stances, their swift movements powerfully though cunningly made, a duel worthy of many a song, a lay which might stand the test of the ages, which would outlive all there who then fought. The last glimpse of the fighting the bard could after recall was one of the shadowy combatants in the remote climax of their assault strike the other with the hilt of his blade upon the others’ helm, only to be cut down by the falling knights’ sword which was raised at the last in one final desperate act of hopelessness. Then were the fires in the wood extinguished, the soldiery of the sorties on the field drawn off to their stricken captains away in the forest, their steeds galloping freely over the slain. The haunting expressions of grief and loss in many of the gilded knights’ eyes proved more terrifying to their foes then the arms they bore wildly through the fray, their pitiful cries of lamentation ringing in the bards’ ears long after he had awoken from that realm of phantoms and demons. Arising to behold the waxing moon overhead, the minstrel looked about him for signs of his colleagues who had been working in the church-yard in the place wherein the lead cross was found. By the kindled flames of a couple of men shoveling in the mire nigh at hand, the Welshman hastened towards them calling many of the monks’ names he beheld there, grime still clinging to their fingers from the day’s early labors.
Gasping at their friends’ unforeseen arrival having been away so long the workers haled Evan in delight, swinging their spades and shovels in ripe cheer at his coming. Staggering over to him, Oric declared, “Thank the good lord for this blessing. We feared you had met some misfortune. What happened? We didn’t find you at supper.”
“It’s a bit of a long story,” mumbled the Welshman. All that matters is that I’m here now.”
“Indeed” cried one of the young boys from the village, his torn tunic coated with clumps of soil, an impious almost sardonic expression on his face. We could use a hand.”
“Very well,” grumbled Evan irritably. Not that I was accepting any different from a mere lad and his fellows. Some party after all.”
But in the very instant that the Welshman snatched a spade which had been carelessly left in a pile of lumber, one of the novice monks digging unexpectedly yelped, a frantic expression on his face, tripping over another fellows’ shovel backwards into the arms of Oric, who in turn tossed the frightened man aside to have a better look at whatever had startled him in the first place. Staring down into the pit the old man grew very still, rubbing the brass buttons on his otherwise humble raiment between his index finger and thumb, his arms slowly beginning to shake noticeably.
Walking tactfully towards the elderly monk the bard gently said, “Oric, Oric what is it.”
Taking hold suddenly of the minstrel’s shoulder the old man stared directly in the bard’s eyes, an unyielding gaze which despite the monks’ swift movements kindly, almost reverent. In a croaking almost feeble voice the elderly chap said, an impish smile now appearing on his face, “You luckless bastard. You were right. You were absolutely right.”
Releasing himself from the monks’ clammy grip, the stunned Welshman dared peer down into the chasm they had made below. There wreathed in a deeper blackness could be seen the hall of a mighty barrow, a tomb fitted with what could be descried as a statue of a lofty warrior raising one arm in warning against trespassers, another bearing a lance carved with many weathered runes. On the apparent right hand of that chamber was another room who’s wooden door had long since rotted away, even in that hold in the church’s grounds, and on the left a smaller area, almost impenetrably dark save for what appeared to be the glint of gold in the moonlight. Turning to his companions the minstrel asked in an almost casual nonchalant tone,
“Ok, who’s heading first into the dark and creepy tomb?”
No answer. Sighing in a comical manner the Welshman said, “Alright, guess I’m left with all the dangerous work again. You morons can loiter out here while I meet the dead people.”
“Good luck,” sarcastically mumbled Oric. If you die down there I have dibs on your harp you little wuss.”
“Sure you do” softly chuckled the bard not so gracefully falling into the barrow. Sure you do.”
Believing that he would have better luck finding the once and future king and his adulterous wife in the chamber to his right, Evan made his way through the larger corridor among the decayed fragments of the collapsed door which had stood there and so came on to a narrow place for quite some time wherein all was perfectly dark, so black that practically nothing, absolutely nothing could be discerned. After suffering this blindness for around a good five minutes the Welshman began to have his doubts. Had he gone the wrong way. Fumbling about in that hallway for a few more steps he suddenly without warning tripped over a loose stone from one of the crumbling walls into an enormous chamber, a circular room adorned with countless shirts of male, of swords and spears, of helms and other priceless treasures beyond count on all sides. In the midst of the ceiling there was a shaft leading off to some point among the living above and lining the round roof could be found fine tapestries of an archaic artistry and carvings of constellations which though crudely shaped seemed accurate to the cursorily glance of the bard. Then there was also rising from the stony floor a large bolder like to the one which bore the lead cross save that it was topped first by an anvil and then . . . a sword. Rushing over to the weapon the minstrel examined the hilt more closely. There on, in Latin, markings of an earlier mode there still could be read, “Arturus Rex Pendragon.” Running his hand along the battered blade Evan knew full well that there could only be one weapon of war on earth like to this one which he now touched. He had found Excalibur.
Shaking his head in disbelief the Minstrel beheld on the opposite end of that chamber another archway beyond which could be descried not save shadow. His curiosity now thoroughly peaked and finding no real reason to turn back just yet the Welshman navigated his way around the oddments which littered the floor and so entered into that other hall. There, to his astonishment resting on several intact wooden legs was the original round table, the seats of the many knights of yore still present, their markings signifying all the lords who once sat there also still visible, Galahad’s seat perilous in particular being hallowed by its former occupant seemed nigh on immaculate. Scanning that place bewildered by the myriad of marvels which danced before the eye, Evan located an ancient alter on which were placed . . . a finely wrought challis and a lance like to the one born by the statuesque figure in the vestibule. Racing over to examine these holy relics the Welshman knew that here he beheld none other then the grail of Christ and the lance of the centurion at the Crucifixion, the instrument of the most dolorous stroke. Daring not to place his unclean hands on these precious objects and realizing that he was blessed to have seen such omens of the lord the Welshman obverted his eyes for some time, unsure as to if he was awake or still sleeping. Finally coming to his wits and understanding that he was indeed where he was the flabbergasted bard would have turned to go, to explore some other part of that barrow if not some other will convinced him to gaze not on the high alter but behind it. For there beyond the sight of the grail and the lance of faith there was to be found a meek slab of stone over which rested a wide painted shield. Thereon could be spotted the drake of the crown, the crest of the Pendragon, the signature of the house of Uthir. Gasping in utter amazement the minstrel heedless of aught else by the good will of God stepped foot upon that alter and so knelt before the resting place of Arthur and Guinevere. Making up his mind to examine the coffin of stone as to insure his discovery was indeed final and legitimate Evan reluctantly though reverently removed the heavy lid. Praying onto the father for repentance the Welshman stared down upon the bones of two persons, one evidently male by his larger features, the other female. On their bony heads were crowns of gilded ivory and in their hands a long package bound in leather. Feeling some unknown compulsion driving him onward beyond the call of prudence or of interest the bard lifted from their bony hands the bundle and gently opened it, beholding the golden locks of the lady’s hair undimmed despite the test of time. Placing the package back where it belonged, the minstrel made ready to cover the coffin with its accustomed lid. But as he did so he noticed some lines of Latin like to those on the sword of ages and on the lead cross on the inside part of the lid. They read,
“Here lies Arthur, the once and future king.”
Suddenly filled with a remorse for having disturbed the sanctity of that hallowed place, Evan insured that he left all as he had found it and passing from that room and came onto the others outside who eagerly awaited his tidings. Seeing the longing the excitement in their eyes the minstrel was unsure as to if he should carry through with his decision. He had made it the instant he had placed the stone lid back on the faces of Arthur and Guinevere. The world didn’t need another road side attraction. It was time to let the once and future king go.
Running up to him Oric asked him, “Did you find him?”
After a long pause the Welshman shook his head vehemently and said, “No”
“What do you mean no?” cried the others. Then who else is down here?”
“An Abbot...” lied the minstrel. Just a heap of useless religious oddments. There is no sense in exploring the place. Better luck next time. I hate to break it to you but I’m starting to believe we are talking about a myth.”
Disappointedly Oric said with a knowing smile, “You know what. Something’s telling me your right.”