Alys Clare: The Enchanter's Forest

‘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.’