In the winter of 1191 at Glastonbury Abbey, in the churchyard of St. Dunstan, near the south door, a white-curtained pavilion was erected between two stone markers shaped like pyramids. The abbot of Glastonbury, Henry de Sully, was in charge of the construction. Two years earlier a message had arrived from Henry II, bestowing information deemed so sacred that the king’s offspring were not to be informed. The king had learned the location of Arthur’s grave and his personal friend, Ralph FitzStephen, then in charge of Glastonbury Abbey, had passed the information to Abbot de Sully after Henry died in July 1189.
Why de Sully paused two seasons before acting is unknown. Perhaps his cautious personality and desire to please Richard, Henry’s son, the monarch who appointed him to such an exalted position, played a role in his decision. Nevertheless, sometime in 1191, de Sully finally ordered that digging should begin. It took several days before, eight feet down in thick soil, a heavy stone slab was encountered. A full week was needed to raise the monolith from the hole. On the underside of the stone a cavity was discovered in which had been placed a leaden cross. It was an unusual design, the top curved, sides flared at rounded angles. Upon the cross was etched: HERE IN THE ISLE OF AVALON LIES BURIED THE RENOWNED ARTHUR WITH GUINEVERE HIS SECOND WIFE. The script was ancient, in a text not used for many generations, and had been purposefully placed inward, facing the stone.
The discovery motivated more digging and it was another eight feet down before a rough coffin, formed like a dugout canoe from a hollowed oak bole, was discovered. Two-thirds of its inside contained the bones of a man. The skull was large and impressive, many wounds were clear, all mended save for one and the diggers concluded the immense gash had been the cause of death. One of the monks removed a shinbone from the grave and held it up to the tallest man there. It stretched a full three inches above the knee, meaning that whoever filled the grave was a man due respect. In the remaining one-third of the bole were the remains of a woman. A tress of hair, plaited and coiled, still possessed of blond color, lay among the bones. One of the monks, a silly, rash, and imprudent fellow, grabbed for it and the bundle disintegrated into dust. Female hair had always been a snare for the feeble-minded, although it is said that those with strength of purpose can resist its allure.
The monks interpreted the event as an omen.
Malone said, “A mystery to the world, a grave for Arthur.”
Goulding smiled. “From an old Welsh poem. And quite apt.”
“Are you saying Arthur was buried at Glastonbury Abbey and his grave discovered in 1191?”
Goulding gently laid the open book on the corner of the desk. “A grave was excavated in 1191 and the bones of a man and woman were found. That much history accepts, since there are at least five separate accounts of what happened during the exhumation. They differ in detail, but the general thrust is similar. The bodies were sunk deep in the ground, which was unusual for graves at the time. As you might expect, tools then were not the finest, and digging deep would have been difficult. But Arthur was the sworn enemy of the Saxons. He almost succeeded in stopping their steady intrusion over Britain. The Saxons would have relished in ravaging his grave, so burying him deep made sense.”
“You believe Arthur to be an actual historical figure?” he asked.
“Without a doubt. He was a Celt who fought invading Saxons. The best that can be determined is that he lived in the later part of the 6th century, dying around 537 to 542 CE.”
“He was a king?” he asked.
“There was no such concept then. It would be another 300 years before some semblance of kingship, as we know it, formed. Arthur was Dux Bellorum. Battle Leader. A warrior. He fought twelve battles we know of. Supposedly, after the Battle of Camlann he was carried off by his cousin, Morgan, to the Isle of Avalon, where his wounds were mended. But, in fact, he died and was buried there.”
“How could you possibly know that?” Malone asked.
Goulding motioned to the screen. “The answer is here. The plates on the bowl depict exactly what happened. There is a wattle-and-daub church in the background, which I recognize as the Old Church at Glastonbury. This cauldron is a record of those events.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Yourstone followed a contingent from the House of Lords into the queen’s audience chamber. Eight of the leadership had been summoned for a hastily arranged meeting, the subject of which was not revealed, only that Victoria needed to speak with a few of the lords.
Throughout history it had been the lords who rose to the Crown’s defense, especially when the Commons tried to cut the monarch’s power. From the 16th to the latter part of the 20th century the English monarchy had enjoyed an almost unprecedented popularity. The downfall started with Victoria’s father, who’d made no secret that he never wanted to be king. Three decades had passed since he died, and the nation had been blessed with his daughter, a woman possessed of a spirited attitude that had won back the public.
But the explosive recklessness of her eldest son had resurrected all that had once been bad, and a decade of concentrated effort on his part had merely aggravated the wound. If all went according to plan, by the end of next week Eleanor would be queen of England, Yourstone’s son her prince, their child to become the first Yourstone monarch. He could only hope it was a boy—which would be a sure sign that what he’d labored so hard to achieve possessed a divine stamp.
That male would rule as Arthur II.
But even if a girl were produced, no matter. She would bear the regal label of Guinevere. There would be no more Elizabeths, Annes, Marys, or Victorias. No Saxe-Coburg names. And the German connection with the British throne would forever be severed. Yourstone children would take Celtic and Brit names. They would also emphasize their Norman heritage.
Arthur or Guinevere.
Either one a Yourstone.