Angevin empire, and carried a leather bag over one shoulder, taking great care to shield its contents from a summer rain. At the chapel door he lightly knocked and was ordered inside. The dingy stone walls were lit from the glow of candles that struggled in damp air to maintain life. On a threadbare divan lay His Majesty, Henry II. Where once this monarch stood tall, broad-shouldered, with the freckled face of a lion, he presently loomed sick and wretched, a mere shell of the giant he once was. Beside him stood the Archbishop of York, Geoffrey, Henry’s illegitimate son, and it was Geoffrey who directed the scribe to a table where he obediently removed from the satchel several sheets of vellum, a goose quill, and a small jar of black ink.
“Record whatever the king says,” the archbishop ordered in a quiet voice.
The scribe’s hand shook with a quake he found hard to control. Here before him was the ruler of a territory that stretched from Ireland, through England, across the channel to Normandy, then south to the Pyrénées. He was the first of the House of Angevin to claim the throne and for thirty-five years his armies had dominated France and England.
Yet his accomplishments seemed hollow.
Henry’s legitimate sons, Richard and John, had long schemed with their mother to subvert his throne. Over the past few weeks their treachery had climaxed with Henry’s armies suffering a series of humiliating defeats. Eighty knights and 100 men-at-arms had been taken prisoner at Tours only three days ago. Afterward, towns had been sacked and castles besieged. Henry’s commanders were surrendering at an alarming rate, and only yesterday Henry had been forced to make peace. The terms of surrender required him to place himself in the French king’s hands. He’d also been forced to acknowledge Richard as his sole heir, entitled to inherit all his dominions including England.
“Baseborn indeed have my other children shown themselves,” Henry slurred through labored breaths. He then motioned up to Geoffrey. “This alone is my true son.”
The scribe wrote furiously to memorialize what his sovereign had said. He was aided by Henry’s incessant coughing that seemed to tax whatever strength he still possessed. Droplets of blood spattered from Henry’s parched lips. The scribe wondered what malady had struck this seemingly invincible man.
“Now let things go as they may. I care no more for myself or for the world. Shame, shame on a conquered king.”
The scribe dutifully recorded the lamentations, which sounded like the onset of delirium. Never had he heard Henry speak with such pity. He glanced over at Geoffrey with a look that asked if it was wise to write any of this down.
“Do as he wants,” the archbishop mouthed.
“I have a message which I desire for you to deliver to my loyal servant Ralph FitzStephen, presently across the sea at Glastonbury Abbey,” Henry said.
The scribe brought a fresh sheet of vellum before him and gave his full attention.
“Tell him that I have long known the location for Arthur, King of the Britons. The information was bestowed to me by a Welsh bard who provided enough proof that I believed him. The king and his queen lie at Glastonbury. There was once a church of clay and wattles, where is unclear since it was long ago. Beside that church was a graveyard. There, many feet down into earth, they will find a stone slab. Beneath that slab lies the leaden cross for the King of the Britons. Farther down will be the mortal remains of Arthur and his Guinevere. They were placed there with great reverence with the intent they forever remain. Tell FitzStephen that I want the monks to know this and do with the information as they see fit. For, unlike Richard’s, my love for the church and God is absolute.”
The scribe wrote so quickly that it was difficult to keep ink in the quill.
“Let them know that I go to meet my God with a satisfaction that my traitorous son may perhaps meet his match. Bring the bones of the great king back into sunshine. Let them cleanse this world of lies. Use their power wisely.”
Henry stopped to catch his breath. Sweat poured from his brow, which Geoffrey dabbed with a damp cloth.
“Only yesterday, my beloved John, the son I thought above all others would never betray me, turned against me. I can only hope that somewhere within my realm another Arthur might rise and silence the voices of greed and deceit.”
Henry indicated with a