The Medieval Murderers: King Arthur's Bones

‘Are you well, Brother Owen?’ said the abbot.

Owen seemed to shake himself before saying, ‘The cross was attached to the underside of the stone by those brackets, isn’t that right, Michael?’

One of the workmen raised his muddy face and pointed to the rusting iron bands.

‘The cross fell away, sir,’ he said, addressing the abbot. ‘When we lifted up the stone, the cross fell away.’

‘Is there anything else down there?’

‘Don’t know, sir. We stopped digging. We thought it best to report what we found.’

The other labourer nodded in vigorous agreement.

‘Very well. Do no more digging today. You have done enough. Get a couple of your fellows to stay here and keep watch. Carry both the stone and the cross to the Hall.’

‘They’re dirty, sir. Should we clean them up?’

‘That doesn’t matter. Bring them straight away.’

Henry de Sully turned away from the makeshift tent. He moved at his usual deliberate pace, his face composed. He indicated to the sacristan and the cellarer as well as to Geoffrey that they should accompany him. He needed time to consider the implications of this find.

But if he’d hoped to keep the principal part of the discovery secret, it was too late. For, as the Abbot of Glastonbury moved towards his quarters, the hush that had fallen while he examined the cross was broken by a fresh outbreak of questions and whispers among the monks and the lay workers.

One word stood out from the buzz. It was a name. Not in the Latin form that was etched into the cross but in its English version.

‘Whose is it? Who is it?’

‘Arthur,’ said the buzz. ‘King Arthur.’

An hour later Henry de Sully, Owen, Geoffrey and Frederick were peering down at the cross. It had been laid on a table in the abbot’s parlour, with a cloth to protect the surface of the table. But, of course, the cross was infinitely more valuable than a mere tabletop.

It was shaped like a great key, with a slope-sided head, stubby arms and a squared-off section at the end. The letters were quite crudely formed, almost crammed to fill all the available space. Frederick the sacristan had transcribed them – his veiny hand shaking with excitement – but each monk had the legend already fixed in his mind as if the cross-maker had inscribed it there himself: HIC IACET SEPULTUS INCLITUS REX ARTURIUS IN INSULA AVALONIA .

‘Here lies buried the renowned King Arthur in the Isle of Avalon.’

This was Owen the cellarer. There was reverence in his lilting voice as he repeated, for the sixth time at least, the English meaning of the words. For all their seniority and air of wisdom, the four men had been reduced to little more than head-shaking and mute examination of the cross for several minutes now. They traced out the letters with disbelieving fingers. They stood back to marvel at the item.

One peculiarity was that the face of the cross had been placed inwards against the stone.

‘Why should that be?’ mused the abbot.

‘Perhaps those who buried Arthur needed to keep his grave secret,’ said his chaplain-secretary Geoffrey. ‘His enemies would have despoiled his resting place if they found it, so the slab of stone was used to hide the face of the cross. That would also account for the small size of the cross. A great leader should have a fine grave, but Arthur was buried almost in secret.’

‘Remind me, Brother Frederick,’ said the abbot, ‘why you ordered the men to dig in that spot.’

He knew perfectly well but felt it important to recapitulate events, to get a sense of order into the story. The sacristan, who had charge of the abbey library, was the obvious person to ask. He was an elderly, spare man but, apart from some stiffness in his joints, he had the stamina and memory of a man twenty years his junior.

‘As you know, Father, it was the late King Henry himself who passed on to your predecessor a story concerning the burial at Glastonbury of Arthur and his queen, Guinevere.’

‘And yet Robert of Winchester did not attempt to find the burial place, despite having a king’s directions?’

‘They were not directions, Father, so much as… as a fable told to Henry years ago by a bard from Brittany.’

‘A bard from Wales,’ said Owen.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ said de Sully, smiling in his humourless way. ‘Go on, Frederick.’

‘According to Abbot Robert, King Henry could not recall much except that the body was reputed to be buried between two pyramids near the Old Church. The last abbot was not inclined to investigate any further. A “fable” was how Robert referred to it.’

‘But this is no fable,’ said Owen, brushing his hand over the surface of the cross.

‘We did not look for the tomb in earlier days because the hints from the late king were vague. It was not until you came to Glastonbury, Father, and told us to begin the search…’

‘The king has an interest here,’ said de Sully. ‘Our present king, I mean. He feels that the remains of his famous forebear should be more fittingly disposed of… if they can be found. I took my cue from him.’

The others were silent for a moment, no doubt contemplating the fact that de Sully came from a noble family, a very well-connected one. King Richard himself had recently elevated de Sully to Abbot of Glastonbury.

‘It was Brother Frederick who thought that the “pyramids” in the old story might be the obelisks, the remains of ancient memorial crosses on the grass outside,’ said Geoffrey. ‘It was he who directed that the digging should start exactly midway between them.’

‘That is so,’ said Frederick, unable to hide his pleasure.

‘If this is truly Arthur’s cross, then why is it buried so deep?’ said the abbot.

‘In St Dunstan’s time, we were running short of burial space,’ said Frederick. ‘Dunstan ordered that layers of fresh earth be heaped over the old cemetery. It is possible that the stone and the cross were themselves buried then.’

The sacristan talked as if he had witnessed Dunstan give his command a few years ago, yet the sainted abbot of Glastonbury had been dead for more than two centuries.

‘So Arthur or his remains, and perhaps those of his queen, should be further still below the same patch of ground?’

‘I do not believe so,’ said Brother Owen. ‘I do not think he will be found.’

The other three looked in surprise at the cellarer. Owen, an easy-going, gregarious individual – as cellarers tended to be – rarely expressed himself so directly. The abbot waited for him to explain. Owen seemed uneasy. He glanced out of the window at the gathering darkness.

‘There is a story that Arthur is not dead but merely sleeping…’ he said at last.

‘All of the dead are merely sleeping… until they rise on the day of judgement,’ said Henry de Sully.

‘… and that he will return in the hour of his country’s need,’ said Owen, ignoring the interruption. He added quickly: ‘I am only saying what I heard at my mother’s knee.’

The abbot and the others had often heard such tales of King Arthur, the past and future king. They dismissed them as credulous talk, popular on the western fringes of England and over the border in Wales, the parts of the country which had held out longest against the waves of invaders since the days when Arthur was supposed to have flourished. The surprise was that an educated man like Owen should even give voice to the belief. But then he was from Wales and would have swallowed the legend of Arthur’s return with his mother’s milk.

‘So, in your opinion we will not find the remains of the king or his queen, Brother Owen?’ said the sacristan.

‘Even if we did unearth some bones,’ said Owen, ‘how would we know that they are Arthur’s or Guinevere’s? As you reminded us, Brother Frederick, the place we are excavating is the site of an old cemetery. It must be littered with human bones. We should explore no further; it is a sacrilege to all who lie at rest out there. We must be content with this cross.’