-

Chapter One: The Darkness

On a dreary November afternoon in 1539, spectators watched a frail and emaciated monk; his tonsured head bleeding, being lashed to a farm sled on the orders of King Henry VIII. Grim-faced soldiers whipped the sure-footed Shires into action, driving them up the steep slopes toward the top of Glastonbury Tor. Upon the windswept hill, the procession halted at a newly built gibbet with three ropes hanging down, each with a noose tied to the end. The desolate ruins of Saint Michael's chapel cast a shadow as the sky darkened for a storm. The soldiers dragged the old man to the platform and allowed him to stand mute while a dark hooded executioner prepared the ropes.

In his final moments the old man gazed lovingly across the green pastures. A ray of sun broke through the clouds in the distance. His eye first fell upon the serpentine hedgerows defining the horizon and then followed the River Brue, past the apple orchards to the spires of the mysterious abbey at the foot of the hill. This vista revealed the legendary Vale of Avalon, the traditional location of King Arthur’s final days, the place where his wounds caused the land to wilt, and where many believe he lay buried within the abbey grounds. This vast plain and its abbey also tell of the legend of Joseph of Arimathea who supposedly brought the Holy Grail from Jerusalem. Somehow, over the centuries the two legends grew into one.

The old man, gripped a vial of anointing oil he was able to secret away in his robe and broke the glass pressing it into his skin, causing his leg to bleed through his robe. A few flakes of snow fell upon his lips as he spoke aloud: “I shall be whiter than snow.” The black-cloaked slayer pushed him off the platform with a wooden pitchfork before he could speak the final words of the testament of James, chapter 5 verses 14-15, but he managed to complete the act of attrition and gave himself extreme unction.

The monk’s lifeless body remained for three days and nights. Finally, he was cut down and taken back to the village, past the labyrinth and the gawking onlookers.

This man was executed for refusing to reveal the whereabouts of the legendary treasures of the abbey, the gold and silver and especially the books laden with jewels supposedly buried and sealed up in walls. The pillagers had already carted away tons of loot, but now they were after the more esoteric, items…the sainted artefacts that formed the breathing soul of the abbey. Several villagers were interrogated with disappointing results. Henry the VIII would not be rewarded for his crushing blow to the abbeys and, so he thought, to the Catholic Church.

To make a further statement, and to strike fear into all who would defend the remaining monks and their missing treasures, the old mans body was butchered and dragged through the streets. Nevertheless, even that gruesome scene proved insufficient to extract the desired information. It is probable that the villagers simply did not know what happened to the treas-ures, and certainly the novice monks were not yet entrusted with such damaging secrets. But to make a final comment, the Kings collectors, struck off the bloody heads of the hanged monk and his several companions, fixed them to pikes and displayed them promi-nently on the abbey gate? One wonders why that particular monk was singled out for such vile treatment. Perhaps the reason lies in his identity. The old man was no simple monk; in fact, he was Richard Whiting, the Abbot of Glaston-bury, the last in a long line of Abbots.

The next day, the remaining monks were driven out at dawn and the abbey was stripped of everything that could be thought of as pawnable wealth. Plaques were prised out of walls over a period of weeks, and carted to London to be auctioned off, but an amazing list of items were left behind, some buried, some simply undiscovered, things like books and charts of no immediate value to the exchequer.

Centuries went by with constant vandalism and yet items still survived, plain books, wooden chairs, angelic carvings hanging in the rafters, tables, pews, strips of leather, curtains of no apparent value, a few plain windows. In this way, the most famous abbey in England, and probably in Western Europe, stood abandoned for at least 200 years until Oliver Cromwell and his roundheads, hating the gargoyles and aware that some form of paganism was practiced here, did a final job with ox teams and gun-powder.

The hand-formed stones, window frames, and shards of stain glass, many things once lovingly sculpted with prayerful hands, were quarried, and in time, the abbey crumbled into ruins. After the death of Abbot Whiting, Glastonbury Abbey became a ghost, its soul gone, its few remaining windows reflecting nothing but mist and yet curious travellers did come to this haunted place, a few scholars, some mystics, and the historical detectives to whom we now owe a debt of gratitude.

The precious relics of the saints which adorned the gilded high altar, the vases, gold and silver chalices and the crosses encrusted with a dazzling array of gleaming emeralds, sapphires, topaz, chrysolite, amber, jasper and onyx are all lost to us. Gone are the serene painted images of the Virgin Mary, and Mary Magdalene seated in majesty in niches coated with gold leaf, along with woven tapestries depicting the portraits of the Apostles and St. Michael. Only a few hints remain to remind the onlooker of a former glory.

In spite of the rapine and destruction and the jealous hatred levied against the place—it remained bathed in a supernal light. The corner stones showing us how the architects and master masons built the church in the first place. In addition, more knowledge lies deep in the ground. The high altar, now missing, was marked by bits of stone and was measurable in the early twentieth century. Some quartz fragments would have glistened in the sun and moonlight as recently as Elizabethan times.

Between 1189 and just before WW I the abbey stood isolated. It had already been violated beyond repair, the haunted cemetery was overgrown with thorns and brambles and, no one had yet considered the meaning of the oddly placed stones marking what was once the outline of the high altar. We now realize this was the location of the marble tomb that once stood resplendent in the exact centre of the exquisite mosaic floor, a tomb illuminated, on certain days, by light beams, was still very real, making Glastonbury, in spite of its pillaged state, a place of extreme mystery. This was supposedly the tomb of the legendary King Arthur and his queen.

At the height of its glory, in the 12th century, the cross vaulting above this tomb impressed everyone. The figure eight shaped arches copied from the fabulous abbey at Cluny, arches of a type still on view at Wells Cathedral, convinced everyone that God was indeed present here.

The vault reaching almost as high as a cathedral resounded with the angelic voices of cherubic-faced novices, the older monks in the stalls, chanting psalms and intoning the Te Deum. The perfectly tuned voices rose to embrace the carved angels affixed to the pillars and, in typical Benedictine fashion, the scents of frankincense and myrrh, wafted around the stones and across the mosaic labyrinth to entrance the congregation.

Sadly, the week after Abbot Whiting’s martydom, the renowned portable altar, a small reliquary wrapped in silk and linene, was found buried beneath floor tiles in an archway, and was unceremoniously carted away. This was the relic that St. David, the patron saint of Wales, (c. 519-601) donated to Glastonbury, the relic, originally from Jerusalem, lost and miraculously found again in the time of Abbot Henry Blois. In its rededication Bishop Blois, donated a huge cabochon sapphire— from his own treasury—to adorn the altar ever after.

This small but sacred relic, said to be connected with hundreds of healings and other miracles, was originally a beautiful wooden object adorned with “gold, silver, and precious stones.” Luckily, parts of it remain on display in the British Museum, but it has lost its power, the huge Sapphire is believed to be part of the Crown Jewels and its spiritual value as the beating heart of Glastonbury is gone, it’s meaning misun-derstood. Even the legend of Joseph of Arimathea coming to Glastonbury carrying the Holy Grail and other magical artefacts no longer seems cogent. Can it ever be reconstructed? Can the power ever return? Finally, was King Arthur a real king, did he ever exist?

Some of these questions can be answered through study of the works of three men, Saint Dunstan, Abbot Henry Blois and John Dee, all with direct links to Glastonbury, but beyond them stretches a long and intertwining road of unanswerable mysteries.


	Arthur *the* God Chapter One: The Darkness On a dreary November afternoon in 1539, spectators watched a frail and emaciated monk; his tonsured head bleeding, being lashed to a farm sled on the orders of King Henry VIII. Grim-faced soldiers whipped the sure-footed Shires into action, driving them up the steep slopes toward the top of Glastonbury Tor. Upon the windswept hill, the procession halted at a newly built gibbet with three ropes hanging down, each with a noose tied to the end. The desolate ruins of Saint Michael's chapel cast a shadow as the sky darkened for a storm. The soldiers dragged the old man to the platform and allowed him to stand mute while a dark hooded executioner prepared the ropes. In his final moments the old man gazed lovingly across the green pastures. A ray of sun broke through the clouds in the distance. His eye first fell upon the serpentine hedgerows defining the horizon and then followed the River Brue, past the apple orchards to the spires of the mysterious abbey at the foot of the hill. This vista revealed the legendary Vale of Avalon, the traditional location of King Arthur’s final days, the place where his wounds caused the land to wilt, and where many believe he lay buried within the abbey grounds. This vast plain and its abbey also tell of the legend of Joseph of Arimathea who supposedly brought the Holy Grail from Jerusalem. Somehow, over the centuries the two legends grew into one. The old man, gripped a vial of anointing oil he was able to secret away in his robe and broke the glass pressing it into his skin, causing his leg to bleed through his robe. A few flakes of snow fell upon his lips as he spoke aloud: “I shall be whiter than snow.” The black-cloaked slayer pushed him off the platform with a wooden pitchfork before he could speak the final words of the testament of James, chapter 5 verses 14-15, but he managed to complete the act of attrition and gave himself extreme unction. The monk’s lifeless body remained for three days and nights. Finally, he was cut down and taken back to the village, past the labyrinth and the gawking onlookers. This man was executed for refusing to reveal the whereabouts of the legendary treasures of the abbey, the gold and silver and especially the books laden with jewels supposedly buried and sealed up in walls. The pillagers had already carted away tons of loot, but now they were after the more esoteric, items…the sainted artefacts that formed the breathing soul of the abbey. Several villagers were interrogated with disappointing results. Henry the VIII would not be rewarded for his crushing blow to the abbeys and, so he thought, to the Catholic Church. To make a further statement, and to strike fear into all who would defend the remaining monks and their missing treasures, the old mans body was butchered and dragged through the streets. Nevertheless, even that gruesome scene proved insufficient to extract the desired information. It is probable that the villagers simply did not know what happened to the treas-ures, and certainly the novice monks were not yet entrusted with such damaging secrets. But to make a final comment, the Kings collectors, struck off the bloody heads of the hanged monk and his several companions, fixed them to pikes and displayed them promi-nently on the abbey gate? One wonders why that particular monk was singled out for such vile treatment. Perhaps the reason lies in his identity. The old man was no simple monk; in fact, he was Richard Whiting, the Abbot of Glaston-bury, the last in a long line of Abbots. The next day, the remaining monks were driven out at dawn and the abbey was stripped of everything that could be thought of as pawnable wealth. Plaques were prised out of walls over a period of weeks, and carted to London to be auctioned off, but an amazing list of items were left behind, some buried, some simply undiscovered, things like books and charts of no immediate value to the exchequer. Centuries went by with constant vandalism and yet items still survived, plain books, wooden chairs, angelic carvings hanging in the rafters, tables, pews, strips of leather, curtains of no apparent value, a few plain windows. In this way, the most famous abbey in England, and probably in Western Europe, stood abandoned for at least 200 years until Oliver Cromwell and his roundheads, hating the gargoyles and aware that some form of paganism was practiced here, did a final job with ox teams and gun-powder. The hand-formed stones, window frames, and shards of stain glass, many things once lovingly sculpted with prayerful hands, were quarried, and in time, the abbey crumbled into ruins. After the death of Abbot Whiting, Glastonbury Abbey became a ghost, its soul gone, its few remaining windows reflecting nothing but mist and yet curious travellers did come to this haunted place, a few scholars, some mystics, and the historical detectives to whom we now owe a debt of gratitude. The precious relics of the saints which adorned the gilded high altar, the vases, gold and silver chalices and the crosses encrusted with a dazzling array of gleaming emeralds, sapphires, topaz, chrysolite, amber, jasper and onyx are all lost to us. Gone are the serene painted images of the Virgin Mary, and Mary Magdalene seated in majesty in niches coated with gold leaf, along with woven tapestries depicting the portraits of the Apostles and St. Michael. Only a few hints remain to remind the onlooker of a former glory. In spite of the rapine and destruction and the jealous hatred levied against the place—it remained bathed in a supernal light. The corner stones showing us how the architects and master masons built the church in the first place. In addition, more knowledge lies deep in the ground. The high altar, now missing, was marked by bits of stone and was measurable in the early twentieth century. Some quartz fragments would have glistened in the sun and moonlight as recently as Elizabethan times. Between 1189 and just before WW I the abbey stood isolated. It had already been violated beyond repair, the haunted cemetery was overgrown with thorns and brambles and, no one had yet considered the meaning of the oddly placed stones marking what was once the outline of the high altar. We now realize this was the location of the marble tomb that once stood resplendent in the exact centre of the exquisite mosaic floor, a tomb illuminated, on certain days, by light beams, was still very real, making Glastonbury, in spite of its pillaged state, a place of extreme mystery. This was supposedly the tomb of the legendary King Arthur and his queen. At the height of its glory, in the 12th century, the cross vaulting above this tomb impressed everyone. The figure eight shaped arches copied from the fabulous abbey at Cluny, arches of a type still on view at Wells Cathedral, convinced everyone that God was indeed present here. The vault reaching almost as high as a cathedral resounded with the angelic voices of cherubic-faced novices, the older monks in the stalls, chanting psalms and intoning the Te Deum. The perfectly tuned voices rose to embrace the carved angels affixed to the pillars and, in typical Benedictine fashion, the scents of frankincense and myrrh, wafted around the stones and across the mosaic labyrinth to entrance the congregation. Sadly, the week after Abbot Whiting’s martydom, the renowned portable altar, a small reliquary wrapped in silk and linene, was found buried beneath floor tiles in an archway, and was unceremoniously carted away. This was the relic that St. David, the patron saint of Wales, (c. 519-601) donated to Glastonbury, the relic, originally from Jerusalem, lost and miraculously found again in the time of Abbot Henry Blois. In its rededication Bishop Blois, donated a huge cabochon sapphire— from his own treasury—to adorn the altar ever after. This small but sacred relic, said to be connected with hundreds of healings and other miracles, was originally a beautiful wooden object adorned with “gold, silver, and precious stones.” Luckily, parts of it remain on display in the British Museum, but it has lost its power, the huge Sapphire is believed to be part of the Crown Jewels and its spiritual value as the beating heart of Glastonbury is gone, it’s meaning misun-derstood. Even the legend of Joseph of Arimathea coming to Glastonbury carrying the Holy Grail and other magical artefacts no longer seems cogent. Can it ever be reconstructed? Can the power ever return? Finally, was King Arthur a real king, did he ever exist? Some of these questions can be answered through study of the works of three men, Saint Dunstan, Abbot Henry Blois and John Dee, all with direct links to Glastonbury, but beyond them stretches a long and intertwining road of unanswerable mysteries.