The Grail Delusion

By Christopher Webster

It is 20 years since the Hengest and his followers were driven out of Britannia by Aurelius Ambrosius, and Childric, his kinsman, wants revenge and the reconquest of what he calls "Angleland", but he realises that it will be impossible while Merlin, lives, so he asks Angle wise woman, Morwei, to create an illusion of the Holy Grail to bring about the death of Merlin and lure Arthur's marchogion to their destruction - but will it fool the sagacious wizard? 

English Dawn, the book to which this is a sequel, contained a core of history.  By contrast, there is very little historical basis for this sequel, though there is a huge amount of legend, told and retold in different ways over many centuries. After reviewing all this, the author made the important decision to see Arthur as a post-Roman Brythonic king, not a medieval "knight in shining armour", and to retell the story from the point of view of the Saxones. The result is a truly original account of the grail legend.

• Language: English
• Publisher: EKP
• Release date: Jul 18, 2023
• ISBN: 9798224303984

Christopher Webster

In Conisbrough, in the West Riding, I spent most of my childhood, where there's an old castle, presiding over the local neighbourhood. The castle teased me with its mystery and got me interested in history. Later, at University, I took a Literature degree, choosing an option on Jane Austen and Regency Society, and also one on poetry: worlds which I loved to get lost in – and now I show appreciation by trying my hand at narration.

Book preview

Britain c. 540

THE island of Britain is situated in almost the furthest limit of the world, towards the north-west and west, poised in the so-called divine balance which holds the whole earth. It lies somewhat in the direction of the north pole from the south-west. It is 800 miles long, 200 broad, not counting the longer tracts of sundry promontories which are encompassed by the curved bays of the sea. It is protected by the wide, and if I may so say, impassable circle of the sea on all sides, with the exception of the straits on the south coast where ships sail to Belgic Gallia. It has the advantage of the estuaries of two noble rivers, the Thames and the Severn, arms, as it were, along which, of old, foreign luxuries were wont to be carried by ships, and of other smaller streams; it is beautified by 28 cities, and some strongholds, and by great works built in an unexceptionable manner, walls, serrated towers, gates, houses, the roofs of which, stretching aloft with threatening height, were firmly fixed in strong structure. It is adorned by widespread plains, hills in pleasant situations adapted for superior cultivation, mountains in the greatest convenience for changing pasture of cattle. The flowers of divers colours on these, trodden by human footsteps, gave them the appearance of a fine picture, like a chosen bride adorned with various jewels. It is irrigated by many clear springs, with their full waters moving snow-white gravel, and by shining rivers flowing with gentle murmur, extending to those who recline on their banks a pledge of sweet slumber, and by lakes overflowing with a cool stream of living water.

—On the Ruin of Britain, Gildas, c. 540

I Want Bard!

The Saga of Hengest was sung. The last words still echoed among the rafters and last chord still trembled on the gleewood when Childric’s fist came crashing down on the mead bench.

...and still he is not avenged! he shouted.

Childric, king of the Angles, was a descendant of Hengest of the house of Wihtgils. He was a man in late middle age, with grey streaks in his blonde mane, though still a force to be reckoned with. His hard face, square-jawed and craggy-browed showed him to be a hard man; demanding, unforgiving, quick to anger

The warriors stared in uneasy silence, and the scop, Axel, a fresh-faced youth, barely out of his apprenticeship, was robbed of his applause.

But not through want of trying! It was Cerdic, his son, a dreng of 15, untried in battle and eager for glory. His hair was the colour of ripened wheat, and he had a strong jawline and a sharp chin, very like his father’s, but his sky-blue eyes hinted at a very different nature, that of a poet, almost, or a dreamer. He was certainly an idealist, though, as yet, was not certain what his ideals should be. At that moment, his ideals were centred on martial matters, with his father as the model of Nordic manliness that he strove to emulate.

Perhaps Axel should sing a saga of your battles with the Britons! suggested Uhtric, Childric’s war-chief, a battle-scarred bear of a man.

No! said Childric, with a dismissive wave of his hand, It is King Arthur who deserves the saga not me! Britannia – Angleland, I should say – was ours until Arthur turned the tide at Bede-es-Dune. And what a song that would make! Even Colgrim, our greatest leader since Hengest, was no match for him. Remember how, at the battle of Badon, Arthur sought him out and killed him in single combat with one blow. So mighty was that blow that his sword split Colgrim’s helmet and the coif of mail beneath, and the sword cut through to his chest!

There was silence in the hall. Everyone had heard of the deeds of King Arthur, and of his court at Camelod, where he had gathered together the finest warriors from all Britannia. Many had fought against him, but that was years ago before Arthur’s position was assured.

Sing of Natan Leaga! shouted one of the thegns, a rough and tough warrior named Aethelhard.

Natan Leaga was Childric’s last successful battle against the Britons when he had killed one of Arthur’s vassal kings, Natanleod, and five thousand of his men.

Axel took up his harp to begin, but Childric raised his hand to stop him.

That was eleven years ago! he said gloomily, and since then we’ve suffered defeat after defeat and Arthur is stronger than ever – so strong that he is the undisputed overlord of the whole island. Even the Picts pay tribute to him!

His chin sank onto his chest and his eyes clouded over as he sank into a deep gloom, and the great warrior king, looked like nothing more than a shrivelled old man. He drained horn after horn of beer, but without pleasure, with each hornful, sinking deeper and deeper in despair. His thegns murmured quietly among themselves, fearing to disturb their leader and invoke his wrath. Perhaps dreaming some dream of the glittering court of King Arthur, where men spoke noble words and did great deeds instead of suffering this perpetual gloom.

Childric looked up, bleary eyed. Sing of Hengest, he commanded, the part where he slays King Finn in his own hall.

There was silence. No-one wanted the same saga again, especially Axel, who had to chant it, but none dared gainsay him. After a long pause, Axel took up his gleewood and began. Childric frowned as he listened to the words, as though he sought in them the answer to his problem.

The hall fire began to burn low and the tallow candles smoked and guttered in their sockets, and, one by one, Childric’s thegns retired to their own halls, or sought their bed spaces under the eaves. All that was left was Axel, his voice going hoarse, Guthred, an old greybeard who had fought beside Hengest at Bede-es-Dune, and Childric’s son, Cerdic, who listened to the tales of battle with a youthful eagerness to play his part.

Amesbury is the site of Stonehenge,

a place of mystery and romance.

Its trilithons go in a circle,

hence its name, ‘The Giant’s Dance’.

It looks as if the race of giants

that lived here once, but are long dead

(as told by ancient scops like Widsith,

or so my master, Bard, once said)

were lumbering in a weird mazurka

around the place where ley lines meet –

the mystic eye of ancient Albion,

still powerful beneath their feet,

when some old wizard, maybe Merlin,

cast a spell to make them freeze,

and they were paralysed for ever,

some standing, some upon their knees...

Enough! growled Childric. I don’t want to hear that...

It was one of the few dishonorable episodes in Hengest’s career, in which he is said to have slaughtered hundreds of unarmed Britons.

I was going to sing the Anglian version, protested Axel.

The Anglian version told it the other way round, in which the Britons slaughtered hundreds of unarmed Angles.

Never mind that, said Childric. You sang it well.

My master taught me well.

Your master was Bard. Am I right?

"Yes, hlaford."

"Hengest’s scop, mused Childric. He witnessed the events he sang of, most of them, anyway. And he gave good counsel to his master... can you give counsel?"

Axel, barely out of his apprenticeship, didn’t know how to reply.

Childric answered for him: No, of course you can’t! Bard had lived long and seen much! He knew all the sagas and could quote their wisdom.

Axel wanted to protest that he, too, knew all the sagas – most of them, anyway – but he was wary of the war-weathered old king, especially when he was in this strange mood.

Childric stroked his beard as he wrestled with an idea that was forming in his mind.

I want Bard!

Guthred protested, "But, hlaford, he must be long dead. He was already old at the battle of Bede-es-Dune, and that was 20 years ago!"

Childric, shook his head, as if to shake away an unpleasant truth, and continued to cross-examine Axel.

When did you last see him?

"It was a long time ago, hlaford, in Burgh Conan, which Arthur’s people call Camelodunum ..."

Shortened now, to Camelod. That’s where Arthur’s stronghold is, added Guthred.

He lived in Arthur’s stronghold! exclaimed Childic.

It was Hengest’s once. Bard stayed there after his last battle to sing his threnody and to care for the old, sick and wounded who were left behind when the Angles fled the field. He was spared by the Britons because he was a minstrel.

I was but a boy at the time, added Axel. My father was killed in the battle and my mother died soon after. Bard took me in and taught me his art.

When did you last see him?

"I was 15 at the time, so it must be nine years go. It was just after he gave his last performance. He went to the highest hill in Burgh Conan, where the windmill is, and recited the whole of his saga, which he called, Englisc Dagung (English Dawn). It took five days, one long episode a day, beginning with Hengest as a nithing and ending with the Hengest’s death after the battle of Bede-es-Dune."

I’ll bet that went down well with the Britons! laughed Guthred. I’m surprised they let him!

"The way he tells it is even handed, giving praise where it is due, and blame where it is deserved – not like the Anglian version, which is the one our warriors prefer. That’s all blood and glory!

What happened then? prompted Childric.

We went back to his cottage in Crow Lane, tired, weary and hoarse-voiced from that supreme effort, and announced that he had just sung his swan-song and that it was time for him to retire; and time for me to go out into the world and find a ring-giving lord. Eventually I found my way here.

You must go back and bring him to me, said Childric decidedly.

"But, hlaford! protested Guthred. It will be a journey for nothing! Surely his old bones will have been cremated years ago!"

It’s worth a try, said Childric.

And, anyway, continued Guthred, how can a doddering old saga-singer possibly help?

By giving me wise counsel, as he did to Hengest. He will know how to bring Arthur down, I’m sure of it!

Guthred stroked his grey beard and considered the matter. It is true that he had an otherworldly wisdom as though he could see the Norn’s Tapestry of Time. Some even said he was Woden come among the Angles to help them in their time of need.

He certainly looked like Woden in his cloud-grey cloak and hood, said Axel.

But he had both his eyes. Woden has only one. He gave the other in return for the gift of wisdom.

He may not have been Woden, but he was wise enough, said Childric, then quickly corrected himself: "‘Is’, I should say, for I hope and trust that he is still alive – and you, my scop, will go and get him."

Axel breathed a heavy sigh. Having found his ring-giver after many wanderings, the last thing he wanted to do was to suffer salt spray and seasickness, followed by a perilous trek through enemy territory, but his hlaford wished it and he had no choice but to obey.

Cerdic saw things differently. The chance of an adventure in another land was too exciting to pass over, and he blurted out, And I will go with him!

Childric, who had forgotten he was there, glared at him and said, No you won’t! Though he will need a companion... he paused while he thought about it.

Guthred guessed what was coming next.

Guthred will go. An old man like himself will pass unnoticed. No-one will see him as a threat...

I was threat enough last time I was there! Guthred fired up. There’s many a Briton who has gone to his Waelhall – what do they call it? ‘Heaven’ – because of me...

...and he knows Burgh Conan well enough, Childric continued, ignoring him.

And so it was settled. Axel and Guthred would travel to Britannia to try to find Bard – an impossible mission, but just the thought of it cheered Childric up so much that he topped up his mead horn and cried, Bring on the dancing girls!

Too late! laughed Guthred. They’ve gone home.

The Call

It was a hard crossing and a long one. Childric advised them to transfer to a fishing vessel off the Humber and then to transfer to a barge to sail down the River Don to Burgh Conan. That, way, they were less likely to be harassed by suspicious Britons.

They passed by the old Roman town of Danum and sailed through a beautiful valley with rolling wooded hills on either side, and occasional glimpses of lush green meadows that stretched for miles into a dim distance. Then, rounding the bend, the valley wall fell away revealing a panoramic view of the dinas. Dominating all was the hillfort, which stood on a towering natural eminence so high and steep that it hardly needed walls, though Hengest had built massive walls of stone and Arthur had added to them.

Guthred let out a gasp of surprise. It’s twice as big as when I last saw it!

Shhh! warned Axel. Brought up as a child in Burgh Conan, he could speak fluent Brythonic, in the local Brigantian dialect too. They had arranged that he should do all the talking, and that Guthred, whose name would be given as the Brythonic-sounding Guthus, should pretend to be deaf and simple minded.

Nobody took any notice of an unarmed old man and his son, a minstrel carrying a harp on his back (he had left his gleewood in Angeln as it was a Nordic instrument). They made their way around the south of the fortress towards the main gate, passing a little lane as they did so.

That’s Crow Lane, said Axel. Bard’s cottage is along there.

Let’s go then, said Guthred.

"I think we ought to announce ourselves at the dinas first."

Is that wise?

I think it is best. There is no danger. I am known in these parts, even though it is many years since I was here.

The Pax Artorius (Arthurian Peace) was well established, and the guards, though watchful, were not inclined to be suspicious. In reply to their challenge, Axel said, My name is Axel. This is my father, Guthus. I am a minstrel and am seeking my master, Bard.

I know him, said one of the guards, though I have not seen him in many a long year.

Are you that young whippersnapper who used to hang on to his cloak? said the other.

That’s me! said Axel.

Pass, said the guard.

Axel headed to the Roundhouse, but they were stopped at the door. Axel told them his business, but the guard replied that only King Arthur and his marchogion were permitted to enter. He pointed to another building, which he called the Longhouse, saying that they might get news of Bard there.

The Roundhouse was for the marchogion and the Longhouse was for everybody else. They were shown around by the steward, Bryn, a plump and homely character who, by the look of it, spent too much time sampling his own handiwork.

"The marchogion used to come here, but they were always arguing about who should sit at the high table, and who should sit closest to the king. Cador – that’s Cador of Kernow, and the richest lord in the land – thought that he should sit at the king’s right hand, but Beduer, Cupbearer to the king, insisted that the honour was his. The king solved the problem by placing 24 seats around the walls of his roundhouse, and allocating them by lot, so that they were all equal, from Borel of Brycheiniog (who is as poor as I am) to Cador himself. Did it work? All I know is that they still argue, but perhaps not as much!"

He remembered Bard, and after staring at Axel until Axel blushed with embarrassment, he claimed to recognise him too, but he said he hadn’t seen Bard in a long time.

"I was there at Windmill Hill when he gave that last, magnificent performance, and it was said that he retired after that, though he came here every now and again to perform short lays – nothing Nordic, of course. Usually, they were stories from the Brut, you know the kind of thing; the giant, Albion, Brutus founding Brutenne, Leir and his daughters, King Lludd and the three plagues of Lundem, Merlin and the dragons of Dinas Emrys – that was my favourite, though I find it hard to believe. After all, Merlin is often seen around the place and he’s about my age, so how can he have imprisoned dragons 300 years ago? Perhaps it was another man of the same name."

Bryn suddenly stopped his rambling when he noticed the weary and travel-stained appearance of his guests.

You look done in! he said, "and you, syr..., he was addressing Guthred, ...look as though you need to get the weight of your legs. So come. There is a good fire and good food in the kitchen. Come to think of it, I’ll join you. Alys will brush your cloaks while you eat."

When Bryn had gone to see about the mead, Axel whispered, It’s not looking good. Nobody has seen him for a long time.

I feared as much, said Guthred. But we must see it through. We’ll go to his cottage when we have finished eating, and if we draw a blank, we’ll head back tomorrow.

It was getting dark by the time they arrived at the old cottage, but there was no light in the window. The thatch was rotten, and part of it had slipped off, leaving a gaping hole in the roof. Gnarled fingers of ivy crawled along its crumbling walls, and moss-coated stone steps led to a door so worm-eaten that Axel was afraid to knock in case it caved in. Instead, he called, gently at first, then louder and louder: Bard! Bard! Bard!

BARD (IN FULL, BARD of Burgh Conan, a pen name for aspiring author, Christopher Webster) had retired from his teaching job in a European School in August of the previous year. He had completed what he liked to think of as his masterpiece, a pentalogy entitled English Dawn earlier that year, often working into the early hours and, if the truth be told, during lessons when his pupils were at work on their own stories. He had planned to write it in his retirement, so he found himself with time on his hands and nothing much to do.

He would rise late, enjoy a leisurely breakfast, then go for a walk around his beloved home town, exploring the byways that he had first discovered as a youth, for example, that path parallel to Low Road which was the original road around the castle and went past the ruins of the old Castle Mill. In the evening, he would, perhaps, visit one of his favourite pubs, The Eagle and Child, The Alma, The Fox, The Star Hotel or The Red Lion. There, he would see, among the young folk of Gen Z, a few old faces from his schooldays, and, over a pint of Samuel Smiths, would reminisce about old times, when all was right with the world and tracklesses instead of buses took you to Rotherham.

But something was missing – not his job, though he missed teaching sometimes. It was the absence of a greater goal; a project. He had filled that void in the first months of retirement by writing a prequel to his masterpiece, but that book, Dreng, was just a 100 page novella. What he needed was the next masterpiece – something big – something challenging!

On his way home from the Castle Inn that evening, Bard, passing a darkened castle, felt its mysterious presence, eloquent of a thousand of years of history, and another thousand before the present walls were built. It had inspired his English Dawn and it would inspire its sequel. After all, the dawn in that book was really a false dawn, because the Angles had been driven out by Aurelius. But that wasn’t the end of the story, the Brut, his main source, had much more to tell, and it was time to delve into it again.

Shunting off the effects of three pints of Samuel Smiths with a mug of strong espresso, he went to find his copy of the Brut, and settled down to read it. He reread the account of King Arthur where English Dawn left off, and was reminded why he hadn’t written about before – it was a hopeless muddle, detached from any historical record and told differently by every author who had touched on it from Geoffrey of Monmouth to Tennyson. He fell asleep in his chair while trying to make sense of it.

HE WAS AWOKEN BY SOMEBODY calling his name: Bard! Bard! Bard!

Who could that be at this time of night? He heaved himself out of his chair and fumbled for the light switch. Unable to find it, he groped towards the door and opened it. There was just light enough to see, not the familiar terrace houses of Old Hill, but another thatched cottage, and two men in cloaks, one young, one old.

Bard! exclaimed the young one.

What do you want? said Bard crossly.

Childric has sent for you.

Childric. He had fallen asleep reading about Childric, so he knew who he was. He also knew that this was the call – the call to that greater goal, that new masterpiece. He had known it would involve total immersion – and the immersion had begun.

Arthur’s Roundhouse

It was 20 years since the Battle of Maes Belli, which took place in 12 th year of of the emperor Zeno. In that battle, Aurelius Ambrosius had driven Hengest back to his land of dank pine forests and dark tarns. Many of his people held out, however, and, after Aurelius’ assassination by an Angle called Eopa, Uther took on the task of driving them out until he, too, was poisoned. For a while, Britannia was prey to every wolf that roamed the land: particularly the Picts, the Scots and the remaining Angles, Saxons and Jutes.

But Arthur, after proving himself to be the rightful king by drawing the sword, Caliburn from the stone at Roche Abbey, fought against them in 12 great battles:

The first was the Battle of Glein against the Picts, who had long had ambitions to dominate the country as far south as the Humber, and, after Uther’s death, saw an opportunity. The second, third fourth and fifth were fought in Linnuis against the resurgent Angles, led by Hengest’s son, Octa. They were hard-fought battles, with Octa struggling to hold on to what his father had won, and Arthur desperate to drive him out. The sixth battle was fought near the River Bassas against the Jutes, who were trying to hold on to Ceint, but hadn’t the numbers to stand against Arthur’s Roman-style legion. The seventh battle, the Battle of Celidon Forest, known as Cat Coit Celidon, was indecisive. Arthur was victorious on the battlefield, but failed to drive the Angles out. They retreated to the south-east and took shelter in the marshes of the lands of the Iceni. So many Angles from this and previous battles settled here that the region became known as Anglia. Heading south, Arthur engaged the Saxons at the Battle of Guinnon and made great slaughter. It was in this battle that he adopted his custom of painting the inside of shield with an image of the Virgin Mary, to act as an inspiration and remind him of the Christian values he was fighting for. Then he headed west to take on the Scots. King Gillomaur, king of Ierne, had ambitions to annex Cambria to his growing empire. He met them at Caer-Gwent and at Caerleon, and, once again, the barbarian hordes proved no mach for his well-trained and well-equipped marchogion. But the Picts were never still, and, taking advantage of Arthur’s campaigns