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Authors: Ariana Franklin
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saw.”
“And why couldn’t it?”
“Well,” Rhys said, still sly, “there’s some credit that Arthur’s only sleeping, see. In a crystal cave at Ynis-Witrin, the Isle of Glass. Avalon.”
“Which is Glastonbury,” Henry said briskly. He gestured to the page at the door. “Take him down to the kitchen and feed him again.” To Adelia he said, “The bugger’s always hungry.” As the page ushered Rhys out, he shouted after him, “And don’t
sing.”
When the door closed, the king said, “Well?”
“Yes, my lord,” said Adelia. “But well what?”
“I’ll tell you well what. He informed us of all this when we were at Cardiff—we’ve been dragging him round with us ever since—and right away I sent to Glastonbury’s abbot and told him to set his monks digging between the two pyramids in the graveyard and find that coffin.”
Adelia frowned. “So you think it was a real vision, my lord?”
“Of course it was real. The monks have found the thing.” Henry waved a parchment at her, setting its large seal swinging. “This is a letter from Abbot Sigward, informing me they’ve dug up a coffin sixteen foot down, exactly between the pyramids. Two skeletons in it, one big, one small, Arthur
and
Guinevere, God bless her. Two for the price of one.”
Adelia nodded carefully. “They dug it up
after
the fire, did they?”
“Well, of course they did—just after, otherwise the coffin would have been burned like everything else, wouldn’t it?”
“I see.”
Henry squinted at her. “Are you suggesting it’s a fraud?”
“No, no.” Nevertheless, she thought, it was a remarkably happy find for an abbey that had just lost everything else that would attract revenue.
“I’m glad to hear it. Abbot Sigward is an honorable man. He doesn’t actually claim it’s Arthur in that bloody coffin, but who else can it be? Haven’t you read Geoffrey of Monmouth?”
She had not, hadn’t needed to; she’d heard most of his book. In the forty years since Geoffrey’s
History of the Kings of Britain
had been written, it had gained unstoppable popularity. Apparently recording the descent of Britain’s kings over two thousand years and giving them an ancestry from the Trojans, those literate enough to read its Latin had passed on its stories to those who could not, wonderful stories of adventure and love and war and magic and religion—and most wonderful of all was the tale of King Arthur, who had stood against the pagan Saxon invaders and created a Golden Age of chivalry somewhere in the mist of Britain’s Dark Ages.
Arthur had caught the country’s imagination and still did. Tales of his prowess, his knights and battles, his marriage to Guinevere, her sexual treachery, were told by professional and amateur storytellers in palaces, on manors, in marketplaces, and around cottage fires.
At each inn Adelia had stayed in on her journey with Emma, somebody had been prepared to entertain the guests with one Arthurian legend or another, sometimes with embroidery that even Geoffrey of Monmouth wouldn’t have recognized. More than that, nearly every town and village they’d passed through laid claimto a shred of the legend, boasting of a local Arthur’s well, Arthur’s chair, Arthur’s table, Arthur’s mount, Arthur’s hill, Arthur’s quoit, Arthur’s hunting seat, Arthur’s kitchen.…
His fame had even spread to the continent—Adelia could remember her foster mother in Salerno telling her about Arthur’s exploits on Vesuvius. The stories appealed to women like no others; Emma adored them. “Don’t you just
love
the bit where Uther Pendragon steps out of the darkness at Tintagel and seduces Ygraine?” she’d said.
“Well, yes, but isn’t the account that he’s taken on the appearance of her husband somewhat implausible?” Adelia had asked.
She’d been charged with lacking romance in her soul. “I suppose
you
prefer reading about boring things, like people’s innards,” Emma had said
“And why couldn’t it?”
“Well,” Rhys said, still sly, “there’s some credit that Arthur’s only sleeping, see. In a crystal cave at Ynis-Witrin, the Isle of Glass. Avalon.”
“Which is Glastonbury,” Henry said briskly. He gestured to the page at the door. “Take him down to the kitchen and feed him again.” To Adelia he said, “The bugger’s always hungry.” As the page ushered Rhys out, he shouted after him, “And don’t
sing.”
When the door closed, the king said, “Well?”
“Yes, my lord,” said Adelia. “But well what?”
“I’ll tell you well what. He informed us of all this when we were at Cardiff—we’ve been dragging him round with us ever since—and right away I sent to Glastonbury’s abbot and told him to set his monks digging between the two pyramids in the graveyard and find that coffin.”
Adelia frowned. “So you think it was a real vision, my lord?”
“Of course it was real. The monks have found the thing.” Henry waved a parchment at her, setting its large seal swinging. “This is a letter from Abbot Sigward, informing me they’ve dug up a coffin sixteen foot down, exactly between the pyramids. Two skeletons in it, one big, one small, Arthur
and
Guinevere, God bless her. Two for the price of one.”
Adelia nodded carefully. “They dug it up
after
the fire, did they?”
“Well, of course they did—just after, otherwise the coffin would have been burned like everything else, wouldn’t it?”
“I see.”
Henry squinted at her. “Are you suggesting it’s a fraud?”
“No, no.” Nevertheless, she thought, it was a remarkably happy find for an abbey that had just lost everything else that would attract revenue.
“I’m glad to hear it. Abbot Sigward is an honorable man. He doesn’t actually claim it’s Arthur in that bloody coffin, but who else can it be? Haven’t you read Geoffrey of Monmouth?”
She had not, hadn’t needed to; she’d heard most of his book. In the forty years since Geoffrey’s
History of the Kings of Britain
had been written, it had gained unstoppable popularity. Apparently recording the descent of Britain’s kings over two thousand years and giving them an ancestry from the Trojans, those literate enough to read its Latin had passed on its stories to those who could not, wonderful stories of adventure and love and war and magic and religion—and most wonderful of all was the tale of King Arthur, who had stood against the pagan Saxon invaders and created a Golden Age of chivalry somewhere in the mist of Britain’s Dark Ages.
Arthur had caught the country’s imagination and still did. Tales of his prowess, his knights and battles, his marriage to Guinevere, her sexual treachery, were told by professional and amateur storytellers in palaces, on manors, in marketplaces, and around cottage fires.
At each inn Adelia had stayed in on her journey with Emma, somebody had been prepared to entertain the guests with one Arthurian legend or another, sometimes with embroidery that even Geoffrey of Monmouth wouldn’t have recognized. More than that, nearly every town and village they’d passed through laid claimto a shred of the legend, boasting of a local Arthur’s well, Arthur’s chair, Arthur’s table, Arthur’s mount, Arthur’s hill, Arthur’s quoit, Arthur’s hunting seat, Arthur’s kitchen.…
His fame had even spread to the continent—Adelia could remember her foster mother in Salerno telling her about Arthur’s exploits on Vesuvius. The stories appealed to women like no others; Emma adored them. “Don’t you just
love
the bit where Uther Pendragon steps out of the darkness at Tintagel and seduces Ygraine?” she’d said.
“Well, yes, but isn’t the account that he’s taken on the appearance of her husband somewhat implausible?” Adelia had asked.
She’d been charged with lacking romance in her soul. “I suppose
you
prefer reading about boring things, like people’s innards,” Emma had said
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