fish islanded by juices on the
Abbot's plate looked - although she squashed the thought at once - like some grisly
organic remains on a surgeon's tray.
The curious thing was that Verity had searched through all the
records, the Church histories, the local histories - and there had been many of
them, as writer after writer sought to explain the holy glamour of Glastonbury
- without ever finding documentary evidence that Abbot Richard Whiting had
eaten such a meal, or indeed that his last, sombre night upon this earth had
been spent at Meadwell.
Colonel Pixhill, you see, had always said it was so. After the Dinner, relaxing a little with a small
Panatella, the Colonel would ruminate on the Abbot's fate.
Of course, quite apart
from his differences with the church over, er, marital matters, Henry VIII was
an extravagant blighter. Never had enough money. And there was, Glastonbury,
wealthiest religious house in Britain outside Westminster. Had to get his hands
on that wealth somehow. Greed - that's the orthodox version. That devil Thomas
Cromwell, Henry's hatchet man, as it were ... only a matter of time before he
was ordered to focus his scheming brain on Avalon...
The Colonel would pour red wine, brought up that evening from
the cellar. Tonight Verity also had a bottle ready. Such a terrible waste, she
drank hardly at all and hated the cellar. She'd taken the biggest flashlight in
the house, but its beam down there had been but a flimsy ribbon. A cobweb was
still laced around the bottle of vintage claret she'd snatched from the nearest
rack, ramming it under her arm to grope for the iron handrail to the cellar steps.
But, of course, it was
more than money. Henry was capturing Jerusalem, do y'see? Jerusalem Builded
Here, as Blake was to put it, on England's green and pleasant land. How could the
king break from Rome, establish himself as the head of the Church, if he didn't
smash the power of the place where ... where those Feet walked in ancient
times. And old Whiting would've realised this, of course he would, and suspected
his own days were numbered, poor chap. But he stayed, and he waited. For a
miracle. How could God possibly permit the very Cradle of Christianity to fall?
For Verity, the Colonel had illuminated the history of Glastonbury
as no book ever had. She pictured the great Abbey soaring, in all its golden
splendour, into a flawless blue heaven. Who, indeed, could have imagined it
then as broken and derelict? Certainly not the Abbot.
At last, laying down her knife and fork - she could not eat with
only a knife, like the Abbot - Verity composed herself and said, in a tiny,
tremulous voice like the tink of china,
the words enunciated for so many years by Colonel Pixhill.
'Have courage, have fortitude, My Lord Abbot. We are…'
She paused to correct herself, nervously fiddling with the
lace handkerchief in the sleeve of the woollen pinafore dress she wore against
the cold in here. For November, it was quite a warm night. Outside.
'I mean, I am ...'
No! She had to believe that Major Shepherd was here at the
table and so was Colonel Pixhill himself. Had to believe she was not alone.
'We are with you
this night.'
The candle flame swayed to the left, as if a fresh draught had
spurted into the room. Verity sat very still and did not See.
... no
possible escape, of course. Royal Commissioners searching the old boy's chamber
and coming up with writings critical of the king's divorce - as if anyone would
commit such things to parchment. Plus a book about - Ha', that other famous
cleric with the temerity to criticise his kind, Thomas Becket. And then they
find a gold chalice hidden away and accuse Whiting of robbing his own abbey!
The first time she heard this, Verity had asked hesitantly, Might
this not have been ... ? I
Abbot's plate looked - although she squashed the thought at once - like some grisly
organic remains on a surgeon's tray.
The curious thing was that Verity had searched through all the
records, the Church histories, the local histories - and there had been many of
them, as writer after writer sought to explain the holy glamour of Glastonbury
- without ever finding documentary evidence that Abbot Richard Whiting had
eaten such a meal, or indeed that his last, sombre night upon this earth had
been spent at Meadwell.
Colonel Pixhill, you see, had always said it was so. After the Dinner, relaxing a little with a small
Panatella, the Colonel would ruminate on the Abbot's fate.
Of course, quite apart
from his differences with the church over, er, marital matters, Henry VIII was
an extravagant blighter. Never had enough money. And there was, Glastonbury,
wealthiest religious house in Britain outside Westminster. Had to get his hands
on that wealth somehow. Greed - that's the orthodox version. That devil Thomas
Cromwell, Henry's hatchet man, as it were ... only a matter of time before he
was ordered to focus his scheming brain on Avalon...
The Colonel would pour red wine, brought up that evening from
the cellar. Tonight Verity also had a bottle ready. Such a terrible waste, she
drank hardly at all and hated the cellar. She'd taken the biggest flashlight in
the house, but its beam down there had been but a flimsy ribbon. A cobweb was
still laced around the bottle of vintage claret she'd snatched from the nearest
rack, ramming it under her arm to grope for the iron handrail to the cellar steps.
But, of course, it was
more than money. Henry was capturing Jerusalem, do y'see? Jerusalem Builded
Here, as Blake was to put it, on England's green and pleasant land. How could the
king break from Rome, establish himself as the head of the Church, if he didn't
smash the power of the place where ... where those Feet walked in ancient
times. And old Whiting would've realised this, of course he would, and suspected
his own days were numbered, poor chap. But he stayed, and he waited. For a
miracle. How could God possibly permit the very Cradle of Christianity to fall?
For Verity, the Colonel had illuminated the history of Glastonbury
as no book ever had. She pictured the great Abbey soaring, in all its golden
splendour, into a flawless blue heaven. Who, indeed, could have imagined it
then as broken and derelict? Certainly not the Abbot.
At last, laying down her knife and fork - she could not eat with
only a knife, like the Abbot - Verity composed herself and said, in a tiny,
tremulous voice like the tink of china,
the words enunciated for so many years by Colonel Pixhill.
'Have courage, have fortitude, My Lord Abbot. We are…'
She paused to correct herself, nervously fiddling with the
lace handkerchief in the sleeve of the woollen pinafore dress she wore against
the cold in here. For November, it was quite a warm night. Outside.
'I mean, I am ...'
No! She had to believe that Major Shepherd was here at the
table and so was Colonel Pixhill himself. Had to believe she was not alone.
'We are with you
this night.'
The candle flame swayed to the left, as if a fresh draught had
spurted into the room. Verity sat very still and did not See.
... no
possible escape, of course. Royal Commissioners searching the old boy's chamber
and coming up with writings critical of the king's divorce - as if anyone would
commit such things to parchment. Plus a book about - Ha', that other famous
cleric with the temerity to criticise his kind, Thomas Becket. And then they
find a gold chalice hidden away and accuse Whiting of robbing his own abbey!
The first time she heard this, Verity had asked hesitantly, Might
this not have been ... ? I
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