“His words were a history of post-Roman, pre–St. Augustine Britain, a clear denunciation of secular and ecclesiastical authority. Most historians, though, regard his observations as more fiction than fact. But they remain the only firsthand account of 6th-century Britain.”
He caught Goulding’s excitement.
“There are about seventy editions of his work still around. I’ve seen the one in the British Museum. It’s a 10th-century handwritten copy of an 8th-century text.”
“Double hearsay?”
“Exactly. Who knows if it’s accurate. It’s also badly burned in places, and less than half the pages are legible.”
“You think this is an original?”
“If this tomb was fashioned in the 6th century, it’s entirely possible. Gildas lived during Arthur’s time. He was an ardent observer, a political critic at a time when criticism was not tolerated. He was learned in Latin and could read and write.” Goulding caressed the top sheet, as if carefully probing a sore. “Vellum. Much better than parchment or papyrus, and this giant refrigerator has preserved it. So, yes, Mr. Malone, this could be an original.”
“Go ahead.”
“Disturb it?”
“Why not? You know you want to. Frankly, I’m curious, too.”
Goulding reverently lifted the book from its container, balancing it on one palm, studying the pages, which rested on top of one another with no binding. A quick count revealed about sixty, and the vellum was waffled from time. The professor laid the bundle across one corner of the chest and carefully lifted off the top page, using both hands from underneath, cradling the sheet before setting it aside. Each one possessed a creamy white patina, an almost unused look, the writing faded to a light gray, the penmanship small and tight, words running the entire length with no paragraphs or punctuation.
Malone knew about Dark Age manuscripts. Writing materials were scarce, so every bit of surface was used with no margins.
“Can you translate?”
Goulding read in silence. “It’s Latin. But readable.” A pause. “It’s a bloody record of Arthur’s life. I’ve read some of the other Gildas translations. Nothing like this was ever part of those interpolations.”
“Maybe because you’re reading the true edition.”
“There’s actually another explanation. Gildas was the son of Caw, king of Scocie, one of twenty-three siblings. His brothers were, to a man, warriors. One in particular, Huail, plagued Arthur by pillaging and burning villages. Finally, Arthur pursued and killed Huail. When Gildas was informed of the murder he reportedly threw into the sea all of his writings that mentioned Arthur.”
“Which explains why there are, to this day, no contemporary accounts of Arthur’s life. The only reporter of the time purged the record.”
“But this manuscript survived,” he said. “And if it’s authentic, this represents the proof historians have long sought regarding Arthur.”
Goulding returned his attention to the words, lifting off more sheets as he scanned the pages. “It’s decipherable. The punctuation is nonexistent. So are paragraphs. But I can adjust the prose. Listen to this.”
A summer’s night brought a gathering of nobles in Wessex forest, near the river. They sat upon a litter of straw and the fleece of wolves and dogs. Cauldrons and spits overflowed with meat and children served elders. The bravest of warriors, as was tradition, received the finest portion of flesh. Arthur led the talk, though he was not a man given to stories. His mustache hung long and thick and milk soaked the mane, at times making it difficult for him to eat. There was laughter from his attempts to keep the hairs clean, which he did not seem to mind. He neither rejoiced in victory nor was downcast in defeat. Both states be but temporary, he was given to say. His was of only one purpose. To rid the land of Saxons. On this night he spoke of the battles at the River Glein, three at the River Dubglas, and another at the River Bassas. At another nearly a thousand Saxons fell in one day from one charge, he alone standing at the end. There is no doubt that Saxons fear him. His voice echoes of a man who long ago abandoned family for the sake of nation. When one of the nobles challenged his account of a battle he was quick to confront the objector. Their disagreement led to combat and he drove the breath from his challenger with a thrust of his sword. All agreed the fight was fair, the insult satisfied. After, he sat alone and no attempt was made to include him in conversation. His solitude stands him apart, but also makes others follow. He is the will of Briton.
“Amazing,” Goulding said. “Absolutely amazing. Some of this can be found in scattered references we have to Arthur in other writings. But here is a complete, contemporary, historical text. Finally, Arthur is no more the exclusive province of poets.”
Goulding scanned more pages and read aloud.
Warriors gathered in the Gorsedd woods, crowded around a slab of oak shaved flat by swords. Mead was drunk to continued victory. Arthur was there but did not participate. He stood alone and watched with silent satisfaction. One of the nobles approached him with a full tankard and he accepted the offer. When asked what troubled him, he said their fight was in vain. He foresaw a day when Saxons ruled their land. When Britons will speak in the rough Saxon language. He said a people without language is only half a nation. To be forced to learn another’s tongue was the worst badge of conquest. He suddenly stopped speaking. Cuckoos sang from their perches. A group of calves with their mothers grazed in a distant field. The harvest would soon be ready, he finally said. Winter was coming not only to the land, but to the people. His fondest desire was to be in the afterworld when that happened.
“He sounds like a patriot,” Malone said.