always are in uncertain times – and the book was published, copies going to the libraries of the rich. With this success under his belt, he was encouraged to write another. Geoffrey was at first bereft of inspiration for he could not say where such ‘voices’ came from. He had no more control over them than an epileptic does with his fits.
Then he remembered Myrddin and returned to the tree. This time, he was careful with his footing and managed, after some trial and error, to find a way to ‘hear’ the voice of the oak. Adopting a more methodical – and less hazardous – approach, he managed to note down the lineage he received, relating right back to Brutus. Every day he would return to the castle with a new scroll of beech bark upon which he had scribbled in Brythonic the words of the wizard. Then, in the scriptorium, he would set about translating them into polished Latin. The wealthy and powerful like to read about … the wealthy and powerful. When he had finished his ‘histories’ he dedicated it to Robert, Earl of Gloucester and Lord of Glamorgan – who was also the natural son of Henry I and a contender for the throne; Bishop Alexander of Lincoln, Waleran Count of Mellent; and King Stephen. It was a shrewd move that paid off. He had learnt in his time at court that flattery gets you everywhere.
Tomorrow, he would be made a Bishop – but whether it was a blessing or a curse he could not say. St Asaph’s was a tainted chalice, an obscure bishopric in the middle of nowhere. Perhaps they just wanted him out of the way. He wouldn’t miss the castle, or any of its inhabitants, whom Geoffrey had grown weary with.
Only his friend.
On this day, sacred to Saint Brighid, the festival the pagans call Imbolc, Geoffrey came to say farewell to Myrddin. The tree brooded darkly over him in the white wood. Emotion choked him, so that all he could utter was a terse, ‘Thank you’. He placed the rolled-up scroll, covered in wax to protect it from the damp, inside a slot in the tree’s split bough; then, laying his hand softly upon the rough bark one last time, he turned and walked away into the snow.
Geoffrey of Monmouth’s influence looms large in both early English literature and the oral tradition. He was a consummate storyteller who took obscure sources and wove them into a tantalising tale of Britain’s legendary past. He told the rulers of the land what they wanted to know – that they were descended from a long line of kings stretching back to Brutus himself, descended from Aeneas. Apparently landing in Totnes in Devon, Brutus brought ‘civilisation’ to these ‘endarkened isles’, lost in the mire of the Dark Ages. He is stated as founding New Troy, or Trinovantum – modern London. The book Geoffrey cites as his source no one has ever identified.
Eight
T HE T HREE P LAGUES
King Lludd had three brothers, but the one he loved best of all was Llevelys. Whereas Lludd was mighty in battle, Llevelys was mighty in wit and cunning. They were as thick as thieves together, until Llevelys took for a wife the daughter of the King of France, and crossed the Channel to rule there.
Then calamity struck. There fell upon the isle of Britain Three Plagues, the likes of which were never seen before.
The First Plague was this: a race called the Corannyeid infested the land, and they were able to hear the lightest whisper on the wind, so no one could plot against them.
The Second Plague was this: every May Eve a great scream went up, heard across the land – so terrible it was that it turned men’s hair white and weakened their sword-arms; it caused women to miscarry; children to go wild; and livestock, crops and trees to become barren.
The Third Plague was this: however much was held within the King’s stores, the fat of the land gathered from the tithe barns of Britain was gone after one night.
The people were desperate. Things could not continue like this!
Lludd consulted his council, and they advised
Then he remembered Myrddin and returned to the tree. This time, he was careful with his footing and managed, after some trial and error, to find a way to ‘hear’ the voice of the oak. Adopting a more methodical – and less hazardous – approach, he managed to note down the lineage he received, relating right back to Brutus. Every day he would return to the castle with a new scroll of beech bark upon which he had scribbled in Brythonic the words of the wizard. Then, in the scriptorium, he would set about translating them into polished Latin. The wealthy and powerful like to read about … the wealthy and powerful. When he had finished his ‘histories’ he dedicated it to Robert, Earl of Gloucester and Lord of Glamorgan – who was also the natural son of Henry I and a contender for the throne; Bishop Alexander of Lincoln, Waleran Count of Mellent; and King Stephen. It was a shrewd move that paid off. He had learnt in his time at court that flattery gets you everywhere.
Tomorrow, he would be made a Bishop – but whether it was a blessing or a curse he could not say. St Asaph’s was a tainted chalice, an obscure bishopric in the middle of nowhere. Perhaps they just wanted him out of the way. He wouldn’t miss the castle, or any of its inhabitants, whom Geoffrey had grown weary with.
Only his friend.
On this day, sacred to Saint Brighid, the festival the pagans call Imbolc, Geoffrey came to say farewell to Myrddin. The tree brooded darkly over him in the white wood. Emotion choked him, so that all he could utter was a terse, ‘Thank you’. He placed the rolled-up scroll, covered in wax to protect it from the damp, inside a slot in the tree’s split bough; then, laying his hand softly upon the rough bark one last time, he turned and walked away into the snow.
Geoffrey of Monmouth’s influence looms large in both early English literature and the oral tradition. He was a consummate storyteller who took obscure sources and wove them into a tantalising tale of Britain’s legendary past. He told the rulers of the land what they wanted to know – that they were descended from a long line of kings stretching back to Brutus himself, descended from Aeneas. Apparently landing in Totnes in Devon, Brutus brought ‘civilisation’ to these ‘endarkened isles’, lost in the mire of the Dark Ages. He is stated as founding New Troy, or Trinovantum – modern London. The book Geoffrey cites as his source no one has ever identified.
Eight
T HE T HREE P LAGUES
King Lludd had three brothers, but the one he loved best of all was Llevelys. Whereas Lludd was mighty in battle, Llevelys was mighty in wit and cunning. They were as thick as thieves together, until Llevelys took for a wife the daughter of the King of France, and crossed the Channel to rule there.
Then calamity struck. There fell upon the isle of Britain Three Plagues, the likes of which were never seen before.
The First Plague was this: a race called the Corannyeid infested the land, and they were able to hear the lightest whisper on the wind, so no one could plot against them.
The Second Plague was this: every May Eve a great scream went up, heard across the land – so terrible it was that it turned men’s hair white and weakened their sword-arms; it caused women to miscarry; children to go wild; and livestock, crops and trees to become barren.
The Third Plague was this: however much was held within the King’s stores, the fat of the land gathered from the tithe barns of Britain was gone after one night.
The people were desperate. Things could not continue like this!
Lludd consulted his council, and they advised
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