‘For as long as it lasted, Sir William.’
I sank back, still aquiver from the incident in the street. I’d been given a comfortably padded chair facing the great windows. The glass in them was very fine, with large panes. We were on the first upper floor, with a view of river and spires in the blue-grey haze.
‘We were interrupted,’ I said. ‘By my cousin.’
Which he’d know, of course, having – I was sure – personally instructed her to ensure that my discourse with the Queen should not get below surface pleasantries. I was guessing there was something Cecil wanted me to hear from him rather than the Queen. Presumably because their respective versions would differ a good deal.
‘You have a cousin’ – raising of a Cecil eyebrow – ‘who would interrupt the Queen?’
‘Blanche Parry,’ I said with patience. ‘Her family and mine are related. As are most families from the borderland of Wales.’
Including, for heaven’s sake, his own, the Cecils of Allt-yr-ynys – all of us down from those same hills.
‘So I’ve heard.’ He nodded. ‘Yes, of course. A formidable woman, Mistress Blanche.’
His eyes were half closed. He’d been Secretary of State in the time of the plot to make poor Jane Grey Queen of England in Mary’s stead, and yet somehow avoided entanglement. Thus surviving to serve under Mary, to enter Parliament, become knighted. Protestant to Catholic and back to Protestant – how many could say that?
He picked up his wineglass and appeared to do no more than moisten his lips before putting it down again and leaning back into fingers interlacing behind his head.
‘You’re busy, John?’
‘Day and night,’ I said. ‘When permitted.’
‘A man ever driven by an endless flow of illumination.’ Cecil peered down at his board on which several letters had been spread, then looked up. ‘Glastonbury.’
‘Mercy?’
‘A small town in the west. Once upon the Isle of Avalon. And once famous for its abbey. You know it?’
‘I know of it,’ I said.
Already making connections.
‘ What do you know of it?’
‘I know that it was the burial place of King Arthur.’
Arthur… What of him? the Queen had asked.
Cecil sniffed.
Last night, I’d shut myself in the library to locate the books I’d be obliged to deliver to the Queen.
My shelves were yet rudimentary structures supported by bricks. On them, I’d found the works of Giraldus Cambrensis and Geoffrey of Monmouth, from which Malory had derived his pot-boiling twaddle, Morte d’Arthur.
Not that Geoffrey himself was much more reliable. When he ran out of history he’d make it up and, on the subject of Arthur, history was scant. But there must at least be seeds of truth therein, and it hadn’t been long before I’d been guided to the town of Glastonbury, Arthur’s burial place on the so-called Isle of Avalon. An island town no longer, it seemed, the sea having long ago retreated, leaving a community built among small hills swelling from waterlogged flatlands bordered with orchard.
Orchard.
Odd that the Queen and I should have been discussing this matter in my mother’s orchard. The very word Avalon was surely derived from Afal, the Welsh for apple. This area of Somersetshire was both rich in apple orchards and close to Wales and therefore seemed as likely as anywhere to be the mystical island to which, in legend, the dying King Arthur had been borne by barge.
Either to be healed of his wounds or to die and to be buried within the precincts of what would become a famous abbey. Depending which version of the story it was in your interests to believe.
A pretty tale, whichever you accepted. An inspiring tale. A tale to strengthen our tradition. The ideal of monarchy, with his round table of knights and his magical sword Excalibur, King Arthur had ever been central to us.
Us? Us the English? Us the British? Us… the Welsh?
You and I being both of Welsh stock, the Queen had said.
When I was a boy, my tad would tell me that we, the Dees – the name is rendered English from the Welsh Ddu, meaning black – were descended from Arthur himself. And I believed it, for who would choose not to? I believe it now, but not in the same way. Now I’m more interested in an Arthurian tradition, a mystical strand, from which we can draw an ancient energy.
Besides, a far more illustrious family than mine also claims descent from the great British hero.
Our royal ancestor, the Queen had said. With a smile.
‘…had it not been for that regrettable business twenty years ago,’ Cecil was saying.
‘Beg mercy?’
‘Over the Abbot of Glastonbury. It’s all most of us know of the ghastly place.’
‘Mmm. Yes.’
At the time of the Dissolution, the last Abbot of Glastonbury had been dragged through the town on a hurdle and then hanged, drawn and quartered. Tortured first, it was said, slowly and extensively.
This on the orders of Thomas Cromwell, acting for King Henry VIII. The Abbot having been treacherous and uncooperative.
‘All rather unnecessary,’ Cecil said, ‘given hindsight.’
I said nothing. The Dissolution of the monasteries still pained me, whenever I thought of it. Although I understood full well the need to be free of an oft-corrupt papacy, the destruction of such beauty and the loss of the centuries of knowledge it represented was near unbearable to me. All those books torn up and burned. Many of the rescued volumes in my library had, so to speak, scorched pages.
‘They say the place has never recovered,’ Cecil said.
‘As with other abbey towns. Was not this one the oldest religious house in England, in its foundation?’
It seemed more than likely that Cecil had been to Glastonbury himself, on one of his visits to his late friend Edward Seymour, Duke of Somerset. But he said nothing.
‘Obviously an important place of pilgrimage, in its day,’ I said. ‘Given the legend of its foundation…’
As the Queen had reminded me, it was said that the wealthy merchant who had provided a tomb for his Saviour, had travelled to these islands, to trade, landing in the extreme west of England. And that Jesus, said by some sources to be his nephew, had journeyed with him as a boy, and had thus set foot both in Cornwall and Somersetshire.
Indeed, it was further said that Jesus had returned as a man, to train in the spiritual disciplines under the Druids. A thrilling legend which seemed unlikely ever to be proved. However, it was more widely believed that, after the crucifixion, Joseph had also returned, bringing with him the holy cup of the Last Supper which had later caught drops of the holy blood from the cross, and that this cup, the Holy Grail, remained, hidden somewhere.
The most precious, powerful and inspirational vessel in Christendom. The purest of King Arthur’s knights were said to have gone in quest of the Grail, thus bringing together the two great legends of Glastonbury. A holy legacy indeed, and out of all this had grown a huge and wealthy monastic establishment, said to have been founded by Joseph of Arimathea himself.
And then King Henry, the Great Furnace, had ordered its destruction.
‘Never been there yourself?’ Cecil said.
‘No.’
‘Odd. I mean… given your noted fascination with the great spiritual mysteries.’
I grew cautious.
‘It’s a question of time, Sir William.’
‘Time.’ He smiled. ‘We can always make time. And you could be there… oh, well within a week, I’m assured.’
He looked at me, placidly. There was never any reading of his eyes.
‘Why?’ I said.
‘For the stability of the realm of course.’ Parting his fingers, Cecil sat up in his chair and stretched his spine. ‘Why else do I exist?’
I’d wondered why he’d summoned me here, to his private home, his cottage. Had to be for reasons of
