How the Heather Looks Read online

  The nearest dry land to the lake villages was the site of the present town of Glastonbury. It was here that the drawbridge and causeway gave access, where the lake dwellers kept their flocks and tended their small plots. It was also, probably, where they buried their dead. According to Geoffrey Ashe (in King Arthur’s Avalon), although the Celts did not have a unified religion they did have two beliefs concerning the afterworld. Either the soul passed into a sort of fairyland by way of a hill, or it migrated to a Celtic version of the Greek Fortunate Isles, presided over by Avallach, Lord of the Dead. This second concept was the more popular because of the belief that spirits cannot cross water.

  So now we have it: a unique community protected by a glassy lake, an island surmounted by a curious green hill. I have one more idea to add, not entirely my own, since T. H. White gave a clue to it in his book, The Godstone and the Blackamore. Could it not be, he asks, that the islands to the west of Ireland are those to which Oisin was transported? And could not the one where he found eternal youth be the one where the tannic peat bogs are known to have preserved the bodies of whoever fell or was buried in them? Jacquetta Hawkes writes that, although we shall probably never know the full extent of the beauties of Celtic weaving and leather-work, the bogs of Glastonbury have yielded up a treasure in bone and wooden artifacts that was preserved by the peat. Would not this peculiarity add to the concept of a place where a warrior king, such as Arthur, could retire with his wounds and wait through the centuries until he should be called again?

  But we were not even dimly aware of all this as we wandered about and tried to orient ourselves. The Abbey, dismantled when Henry VIII broke with Rome, has suffered centuries of vandalism and is almost a total ruin. We entered the Lady Chapel and stood uncertainly, trying to get the feel of the place. The ruins of this chapel stand over the spot where once stood another chapel made of wood and covered with lead. This, in turn, was built to protect a tiny oratory made of wattle and daub, incredibly old, incredibly holy. It is believed to have been St. Joseph’s chapel, built by Joseph of Arimathea, contemporary of Christ. Legend has it that after the Crucifixion he and a band of followers fled to Britain, that he built a chapel at Glastonbury, and that he preached the gospel there.

  Caroline Dale Snedeker’s The White Isle, which is still popular, communicates something of the history and mysticism of Glastonbury along with believable characters and a good plot. The White Isle is the story of a family of patrician Romans who were exiled to Britain. Lavinia, the heroine, is kidnaped by bandits, then rescued by a band of early Christians who take her to Glastonbury where she learns something of their religion. The description of a firstcentury Holy Communion service as a simple communal meal is especially interesting.

  There is, of course, that other legend about Joseph of Arimathea: that when he fled to Britain he brought with him the cup used at the last supper and later used to catch the blood of Christ. This is the Holy Grail about which clusters so much legend, mysticism, speculation, and heresy. The knights of Arthur’s Round Table vowed to seek for it, but only Galahad was pure enough to see it in a vision. The Blood Spring on Chalice Hill is supposed to flow from it, but archaeologists claim that the well casing is older than Christianity and that it might even be Egyptian. It seems always to have been regarded as either magic or holy and there is some supposition that the Druids used it in their rites. There is so much to explain – and so much unexplainable – at Glastonbury that figurative as well as literal quagmires abound. It is probably best to accept that Glastonbury is a sort of geographical point of intersection for Druidical magic, Eastern mysticism, and Early Christianity, and to let it go at that.

  Moving about among the green lawns and golden stones we could understand why Eleanore Jewett had chosen Henry II’s time as the period for The Hidden Treasure of Glaston. Most of the ruins date from Henry II’s time because it was in that reign that a great fire destroyed the earlier buildings. The tiny wattle chapel was the most appalling loss of the fire. Although Henry II bent every effort to restore the Abbey to greater magnificence, he could do no more than commemorate the place where St. Joseph’s original chapel had stood. The king, perhaps more than any of his subjects, realized it as a national loss.

  Even in 1154, when Henry Plantagenet became king, the Welsh were still uneasy under Anglo-Norman rule, still muttering of the time when Arthur should return from Avalon and lead them to victory against the English. Henry II realized that what his empire lacked was a national mythos, and he was not unwilling to turn the Arthurian legend to his own advantage. As Geoffrey Ashe says, the problem was “to preserve the hero but lay the ghost.” Henry learned from a Welsh bard that not only was Arthur definitely buried at Glastonbury (and that Glastonbury, therefore, was the true Avalon), but that the grave could be found between two small pyramids on the Abbey grounds. Henry seems to have let this idea lie fallow for a year or two, but in 1184, when the great fire burned most of the Abbey to the ground, it seemed a logical time to do a little digging.

  Twelfth-century archaeology was a haphazard affair. It was not until 1190 or 1191 that the monks got around to investigating the designated spot. King Henry was so interested that he sent his own steward to supervise. It may have been the steward’s idea that the area be roped off and curtained. The work proceeded at the leisurely pace typical of the time. Weeks went by before a workman’s pickax struck a stone slab seven feet down. On the other side of the slab a leaden cross was set loosely into the stone, a cross on which was written: HIC JACET SEPULTU INCLYTUS REX ARTURUS IN INSULA AVALLONIA. “Here lies buried the renowned King Arthur in the Isle of Avalon.” As Geoffrey Ashe points out in his book, a grave usually has the name of the person buried and perhaps the date, but why the place? It seems terribly convenient for Henry!

  But the monks kept on digging. Sixteen feet below ground level their spades and picks struck something large and wooden. Now, this is the odd part: if, as Geoffrey Ashe points out, they had found nothing but wished to pretend they had found something, they would have invented an elaborate stone coffin suitable to Arturus Rex. From their point of view a wooden coffin must have been disappointing. They probably did not know that the Celts sometimes buried their dead in hollow oak trunks. From our point of view, it at least proves that Glastonbury was used as a Celtic burying ground, but to the monks the find must have been a surprise – even if the leaden cross was not. Carefully the monks cleared away the earth, and just as carefully pried open the coffin. They peered in and saw a jumbled skeleton. One of them picked up a shin bone and measured it against the knee of the tallest monk present. It measured a good three inches longer. A giant must have been buried there! At his feet were other bones – smaller, feminine. Local legend tells that a shaft of light fell on the skull and something shone in the sunlight. A monk reached out to touch the golden hair of Guinevere just as it fell away into dust.

  There is another tradition, equally strong, that the Queen founded Amesbury Abbey as her retreat and was buried there. But that is the way with Arthurian legends – as soon as you think you have caught one and can nail it down, it slips away or conflicts with something else.

  Hot and tired and confused, our family stood on the green grass by a heap of tumbled stones and tried to imagine that here had once been the high altar. We had come, we had seen, we had wanted to believe. We longed for epiphany. Ian tried not to fidget as John read from a metal plaque:

  Site of King Arthur’s tomb; in the year 1191 the bodies of King Arthur and his Queen were said to have been found on the south side of the Lady Chapel. On 19 April, 1278, the remains were removed in the presence of King Edward and his Queen to a black marble tomb on this site. This tomb survived until the dissolution of the Abbey in 1539.

  We had come to Glastonbury on Quest, not hoping for the Grail but, much more humbly, Arthur. So far we had not found him.

  We moved back toward the gate and, because our family is incapable of passing even a shelf of books without pausing to take a look, we
stopped to browse for a minute among the stalls and fell into conversation with one of the booksellers. Tentatively I asked her a few questions. If this was Avalon, where was Camelot? She answered that some people thought that it might be Winchester, the ancient capital where kings were crowned before the building of an Abbey at Westminster. She seemed to hesitate, as though trying to make a decision. “There is a place, but it’s hard to find. It’s not a real castle, you know, just a sort of hill fort – with terraces.” She paused, almost as though she regretted having said anything at all.

  Ian, who had been looking at post cards, now turned his full and glowing attention upon us. A hill with terraces? Like the one in “Childe Rowland”? The woman smiled. “If you really want to see it I’ll tell you directions. I always hesitate because people are often disappointed. It’s a long way to go and they expect so much more when they get there.”

  Ian was wild to set out at once, but thanks to the warning of a long drive we stopped in Glastonbury for high tea. We also decided to search early for a Bed and Breakfast place to spend the night. The afternoon shadows were long as we drove through the flat countryside, a strange green and golden light suffusing all the landscape. It occurred to us that the road was really a long causeway over reclaimed land. After a while the road cut through an air base which stretched for miles on both sides of the road. Since this was all Crown land there were no farmhouses or inns. We came at last to six Nissen huts, the same shape as our Quonsets, that were set in a row not far from the main gates of the air base. One of them had a Bed and Breakfast sign in the window. We passed it, thought better of it, and turned back. Perhaps it was not romantic or quaint or charming, but it was a place to lay our heads.

  Our landlady proved to be a widow whose soldier son was stationed in Cyprus and who lived alone. The place was clean and neat, had a “telly” in the parlor, and modern plumbing off the back hall. She was amazed to learn that we planned to go out again, even more so when she found out where we were going. “That’s no proper castle,” she said. “There’s a nicer one along the other road,” and she insisted on giving us the directions to a Norman keep. She had never been to Queen Camel herself, although she had lived in the Nissen hut for twenty-five years. Her son had bicycled over with his friends one day. “He was a great one for learning things from books,” she said.

  Ian had fallen heir to the son’s room for the night. There was a shelf of books under the bowed roof: a children’s encyclopedia, much worn; Quennell’s illustrated histories; some school stories; some old Hentys, and A Boy’s Malory. He had been on Quest, too.

  We drove out into the long twilight. It was almost nine o’clock, but in that latitude we still had an hour or so until total darkness. Lucy was sleepy but we wrapped her in a blanket and took her along. We lost ourselves several times, threading through narrow country lanes and even going around in a circle once. The closer we got the less use we found the directions given to us in Glastonbury. The little village which we sought seemed so far off the beaten track that it might have fallen off the edge of the world. For once our Bartholomew’s Road Atlas failed us, but this was only because the print had become almost microscopic. Cadbury Castle actually has an official existence.

  And then we saw it! On our left a great dark hill thrust its way up into the sky. It was tiered like a wedding cake, with cows grazing on the receding “layers.” A thick wood surmounted the hill and great trees thrust themselves out to break the symmetry of the lower flanks. We half circled the hill and came into a village of apricot-colored plaster and well-kept thatch. The entire population seemed to be in the local pub, hoisting its well-earned evening pint. A boy came out of the pub door and climbed on a motorcycle. We asked where there was a path up to Cadbury Castle. He stepped on the accelerator and the motor gave a deafening roar. He was anxious to get away. “You’ve already passed it,” he said, “but there’s nothing there. Naught but mud and nettles. And it’s not a proper castle.” Then with a final roar he drove off.

  We found the path ourselves and parked the car as close as possible to its base. John persuaded me to leave Lucy to sleep on the back seat. She seemed deep in slumber and I told myself that if she called I would hear her on the quiet air. We scrambled up the hill and came to a gate. Ian was there before us, sounding out the letters painted faintly across it. “Beware of the …” The rest was obliterated. What were we to beware of? Dogs … bulls … dragons? A stile had been placed beside the gate, so we concluded that other human feet had trod before us. Not only human feet. Our way had been churned to mud by generations of cattle.

  We soon found ourselves caught in a groove. I suppose that each “layer” had been hollowed out to shoulder height so that a warrior could run safely around the entire hill, able to throw flaming arrows or deadly slingstones at the enemy below. In order to climb higher we would have to cut toward the center, just as a knife cuts through a cake. Alas! It was not easy. There seemed no direct path to the summit. We labored up over the edge of each tier, down into a trough, then up to the edge of the next. Once John and I stopped to measure the circumference of an immense old ash pushing out from the hillside. Our finger tips barely met. The shadows under the great trees were almost black and we gave up trying to avoid the nettles. As Shakespeare knew, the barbs do not sting if one has the courage to grasp the leaf quickly and tightly, but we had to brush by and could only squeak and groan in undignified anguish.

  Then we came to the top of the hill, a great hollow filled with waist-high golden grass. The air was hot and humid. Ian stripped off his plaid shirt, knotting it over his shoulder and under one arm. He had become a desperate Briton. He found a long stick to use as a spear and ran about, as small boys will, completely caught up in the game. John and I looked out over the flat countryside, peering through the strange greenish twilight. Far away on the horizon we thought we could see Glastonbury Tor. If Cadbury had really been the Celtic chieftain’s fort, then it would make sense to bury him at Avalon. We began to believe again.

  Christina Hole, in her book English Folk Heroes, has some interesting things to say about Cadbury. The top of the hill is known as King Arthur’s Palace and a track leading from the hill to Glastonbury is known as King Arthur’s Causeway. The fort must have been of strategic importance during Roman-British times. When a party of archaeologists made ready to investigate the mound in 1890, they found the local legends still vigorous. In the little villages that skirt the hill there was no doubt that this was Camelot. One old man was quite in earnest when he told them that the King was sitting inside the hill with all his knights, playing at chess, and if you climb the hill on St. John’s Eve you can peep through golden gates and see him there. Others said that on winter nights a troop of horsemen ride ’round and ’round the hill, then gallop off toward Glastonbury. They claimed that silver horseshoes had been found as evidence. The archaeologists found no horseshoes, although they did find Roman coins. They also found the gates, just where the old man had pointed. By a curious freak of folk memory, the whereabouts had been preserved, although the road leading to it had been obliterated by plowing and a planting of ash trees three hundred years before.

  The historical Arthur must have lived about the time that the edges of the Roman Empire were crumbling and the legions ordered home. The Romans had been in Britain more than four hundred years. One can make a parallel with English or Anglo-Indian families brought up in the Far East, who spoke and wrote in English, whose manners and dress were English, who thought of themselves as English – yet who had never been to England. And so it was with the Roman-British who were suddenly faced with orders to return to Rome or, even more difficult, to defend some other part of the Empire. Many of them had lived for generations on farms and in villas in the English countryside. There were commercial ties not easily snapped. Even more compelling, there were wives and children who would be left to the mistreatment of Saxon barbarians.

  Rosemary Sutcliffe has caught this feeling of decay and indecision in he
r young people’s novel The Lantern Bearers. Her hero, Aquila, is a Roman officer who discovers, at the last moment, that he is more British than Roman and decides to stay and keep alive the remnants of civilization in Britain. This is only the beginning of the story, for almost as soon as he returns home to the family villa the Saxons arrive to burn and pillage; his father is killed and his sister abducted. He himself is carried off to thralldom by the “wolves of the sea” and years pass before he is able to return to Britain. Eventually he makes his way into the mountain fortress of Wales where the last remnants of culture still exist alongside the Celtic culture previously sent into exile, before the coming of the Romans. Perhaps it was men like Aquila, embittered patricians, who disciplined the wild Celtic forces and attempted to forge them into a fighting unit. In Miss Sutcliffe’s story their leader was Ambrosius (a historical figure), the last official representative of Roman authority, and young Artoris (Arthur) was his nephew. Aquila has to conquer his own bitterness in order to realize that something more than force and vengeance is needed if there is going to be any hope in the Dark Ages ahead, and in this he influences the young Artoris.

  Historians now generally agree that if Arthur existed he was not a king at all, but a mercenary commissioned by the several British princes who remained to hold back the Saxons. Under the Romans there had been an office and title of Comes Britanniarum. The holder of it commanded six mounted mobile regiments whose range covered all of Roman Britain. Arthur may have held this office under the new weak and divided authority. The seafaring Saxons knew nothing of cavalry or the discipline that goes with it. It has been surmised that somehow Arthur scraped together the last remnants of Roman military skill, that under his tutelage and inspiration smiths were made cunning again, and that with a picked force of armored men on horseback he was able to maneuver his mobile troops quickly from one part of Britain to another and to keep back the darkness for at least another half century.