If there’s one thing you can rely on in this world, its that James would find a way to lie. Any time of day, for any reason at all – even if he didn’t have to. As he ran onto campus, late yet again for lectures, he was already formulating the next lie he hoped would get him out of whatever trouble he was facing for being late to Professor Derricks class. It was the third time this week.
Maybe the dead relative excuse? No, he’d used that a couple of times, and he could never remember which relatives had already been killed off.
What about a sick pet he had to take to the vet? No, if he used that one any more he’d be facing animal cruelty charges.
Car trouble it is then. James didn’t even own a car, but by the time he entered the lecture theatre, he had worked out what part of the car had malfunctioned, which garage he was going to blame, and how much he was going to complain about spending a huge amount of money to fix the broken part just a few weeks earlier.
“Nice of you to join us” called the professor, as James tried sneaking in the back of the room.
“Sorry professor, I-“
“Stop! I don’t care”.
“But honestly, it was-“
“Silence! Sit!” said the professor, pointing to an empty seat right at the front.
James walked down the stairs from the back of the hall, avoiding the angry gaze of all his classmates.
Professor Derrick taught a class on the history and legends surrounding King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table. Many of James’ classmates were “proper” scholars. Academics who already held at least one degree, some with doctorates. James didn’t have a degree – he barely made it though school. He was only doing this class as he was born and lived in Tintagel, Cornwall, the legendary home of Camelot.
You can’t walk anywhere in the town without being bombarded with Arthurian images, stories, and tourist tat like wizard costumes or plastic swords for the kids. He figured it was his duty to actually learn everything there was to know about Arthur, as it would give him an advantage over almost everyone else in town when looking for a local job. He might even get one of the coveted jobs at the castle itself.
“If it’s ok with you, young master James, I’d like to continue?”
The professor turned back to his whiteboard, upon which was being projected several different images of the King, from varied times throughout history.
“As you can see, there are many descriptions of Arthur, and artists have taken those descriptions and produced very different portraits.
“What we have here is a classic tale of Chinese Whispers. I choose to believe Arthur existed. I don’t believe he was the mighty King some of the legends and – ahem – movies make him out to be, but he was real, nevertheless.”
“This is the most often cited description of Arthur” said the professor, pointing at the image at the top of the screen. “This description was given by Geoffrey of Monmouth in his 12th century Historia Regum Britanniae, stating Arthur was a man of muscular stature, at least 6 feet tall, with blonde hair, piercing blue eyes and a small, tidy, beard. Look familiar?”
The professor pressed a button and the images on screen were replaced with an image of Christ on the Cross, painted by Rembrandt, and a modern photo of a bearded hipster. There was a ripple of stifled laughter amongst the students.
“What we do know for sure is the Geoffrey was influenced by work centuries earlier written by Gilda the Wise in the 6th century and other historic Welsh texts, although it wasn’t until the French writer Chretien de Troyes, writing in 1177, that we learned of Lancelot and the Round Table.
“Then suddenly, nothing. We didn’t hear about Arthur again until the beginning of the 19th century. Why? That’s the subject of our next lesson – for those of you who want to turn up”, turning to look directly at James as he said it.
As the students shut down their laptops, put away their notebooks and made their way out of the room, Professor Derrick turned off the projector and pulled out the memory card, placing it into a pocket in his filofax. Gathering together the rest of his papers he called out his office hours to the few students left to hear him, and left the room himself.
The history department was supposedly the pride of the University, but John Derrick certainly wasn’t. His colleagues looked down on the maverick lecturer with disdain at his insistence on teaching myth and legend rather than historical fact.
To say Derrick was obsessed with Arthur would be the understatement of a lifetime. His poky little office at the edge of campus was crammed full of textbooks, all claiming to be the one definitive tome on Arthur and his knights. Virtually all of them spouted the same nonsense which Derrick had long since discounted. And despite his hatred of the films he mentioned to his students, he owned multiple copies of every one. There were resin busts of Arthur, Guinevere and Lancelot, cups and mugs with caricatures of Merlin and his pride and joy, a replica of Excalibur, Arthurs sword. A very basic sword, it was Johns pride and joy precisely because it wasn’t the sword from a movie, but rather from the first written account of Excalibur, the Mabinogion texts from Wales. Many early descriptions came from Welsh scholars and monks, and being Welsh himself – although he had long since lost the accent, John Derrick was more than slightly biased.
He dropped his briefcase on the ratty old chair in the corner of his office and walked over to his desk, turning on his ancient computer as he sat down. Yet again he wondered if he would be found by his assistant, dead, after waiting what seemed like an eternity for his computer to boot so he could check his emails. There was nothing wrong with him physically, but every time he turned it on, his computer got slower and slower.
John opened his filofax and wrote another note to call IT and get a new computer, knowing he never would as he didn’t trust them with all his many files, created, collated and collected over 20 years.
As the professor waited, his eyes wandered around the room, looking at various artefacts collected over a long career, eventually settling on his wall of filing cabinets. Every one was a different colour and size, and each one in a state of disrepair, having been taken from various dumpsters around campus and carried to his office by giving a few pounds to porters or telling students like James that he had to help in order to keep his grades up where they needed to be to graduate.
None of the cabinets closed properly, but over the years he had become accustomed to the raggedy nature of his office furniture. There was paperwork covering every surface, stickers and posters on the walls, Arthur-related toys all over the place. Emails and other information was printed and meticulously collated and stored in files. The cleaning staff at the university refused to enter his office as he would always shout at them if he was there, and make formal complaints if they emptied the wastepaper basket when he wasn’t around.
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
As soon as he looked at his wall of filing cabinets, Johns heart started racing. Within seconds, his blood was boiling. Someone had opened one and rifled through the contents. He immediately jumped up and rushed over, pulling out the drawer to see what had been removed. Just this morning, every file contained papers and photographs. Now, one was empty, save for a bright yellow post-it note with a phone number.
Professor Derrick didn’t care about the files that had been taken as that particular cabinet was filled with conspiracy nonsense. John liked to think of himself as a serious academic. He only kept the ridiculous stuff more for amusement than anything else. Looking at the file number written on the outside of every single file he owned, he pulled a notebook out of his desk and checked the contents. The Congregation of Guinevere was supposedly a secret society of women, directly descended from Arthurs wife herself, charged with the protection of the heirs to Arthurs throne. It was all rubbish of course, only an idiot would give credence to such fanciful notions. He thought nothing more about it after filing it away several years before.
Picking up the phone, Professor Derrick dialled the number left in the file. He had no idea what to expect, but what he heard on the other end of the phone changed everything.
“Its all true. Every word of it.”
The voice on the other end of the phone was female, and French.
“Who is this? Why did you steal my files?” demanded the professor.
“Turn around. Look outside” said the womans voice.
The professor turned to his window, overlooking a small courtyard. It was empty, save for a lone figure, sitting on the edge of a long disused fountain. A young woman looked up at him, holding the documents taken from the professors office. As soon as he saw her, she hung up the call and sat back down.
The professor grabbed his jacket and bag and rushed down the stairs and outside into the courtyard. He was convinced she would be gone by the time he got there. As he walked towards her, she stood up and held out the stolen files. The professor snatched them back and started looking through them.
“Don’t worry” said the woman, “they’re all there”.
“I’ll be the judge of that. Who are you?” demanded the professor again.
“My name is Therése. I traced you from your postings about Arthur on the internet. Tell me professor, what do you know of the old tales of Arthur and his knights?”
“You were in my office. You’ve seen my files. There is nothing I don’t know about him. What did you mean when you said “its all true”?”
Therese started moving in the direction of the park alongside the university.
“Walk with me and I’ll tell you” she said.
The professor didn’t have any more classes that day, and figured he had nothing to lose. It was a nice day and Therese was an attractive young woman. At worst she would just tell him the same old stories and legends he had heard countless times before. At best, she would tell him something he didn’t already know, and give him another rabbit hole of research to follow up on.
“So…”
“Tell me what you know about Arthur, no myth and legend, just the actual man”
The professor stopped and looked at Therese. “Well that’s going to be a short conversation. Everything about Arthur is myth and legend. There is no physical evidence he actually existed. Scholars have long thought that Arthur is an amalgamation of several warriors, noblemen and leaders throughout history. He has been English, Cornish, Welsh and French. There’s no doubt that some of the people who could have been Arthur had advisors, but the whole “Knights of the Round Table” fable is exactly that – a fable. There were no mentions of it in the original texts, and it wasn’t until one of your own countrymen, Chretien de Troyes, wrote about them centuries later that they became part of the Arthurian legend”.
“What do you know about the Congregation of Guinevere?”
“Everything there is to know was in those files you stole”
“And gave back”
“Yes, and gave back.”
“To quote the distinguished Professor Derrick – “So…”?”
“So what? That’s it. There is nothing else to know.”
“Humour me…”
The professor sighed. “The Congregation of Guinevere started off as a few lines in a 12th Century Arthurian text. They were supposed to be a group of women, directly descended from Guinevere herself, charged with protecting the Arthurian legend. Nothing more was heard of them for several hundred years until 2003 when a resurgence in secret societies, spurred on by the internet, began to take root. A video was posted online, supposedly showing a secret ceremony being conducted by people claiming to be the Congregation. Since that video, nothing.”
“Have you seen the video?”
“Yes, I have a copy of it somewhere. Its poor quality, shot on a mobile telephone. 15-20 people, all covered in mysterious robes, standing in a circle chanting some nonsense you cant really hear.”
“What did you think?”
“I think its crap. If the Congregation was real, there would be more information out there about them. Think about it – in nearly 900 years, there are no property records, no taxes, no receipts, nothing except 2 lines in an ancient text and one video, which is probably fake anyway. And considering almost everything about Arthur is nothing but legend, it stands to reason his wife, the woman they all claim to be descended from, is also a fabrication.”
“What if I told you I knew what they were chanting?”
Therese handed the professor an old illuminated manuscript from her bag. Derrick looked at it and recognised the text.
Attraction with pron ðe ic, wægn ofspring un−l¯æd Guinevere, âræfnan ârweorðlic bisenian âðswarumundian wægn blôd from sægen un−l¯æd dôð ðêod un−l¯æd Arthur
“This looks like Anglo Saxon. My old English is a bit rusty, I guess you’ve had this translated?”
“Yes” replied Therese, as she handed the professor a sheet of paper torn from a notebook.
We, the descendants of Guinevere, do solemnly give oath to protect the blood and legend of the men of Arthur
“Where did you get this?” asked the professor.
“I work at the Archives Nationale du Normandie. We hold one of the largest collections of medieval French manuscripts in the world. I’m the Assistant Curator of the archive.”
The professor looked suitably impressed.
“Oh please, professor, its not nearly as impressive as it sounds. Our collection is huge, but not particularly important. Most people don’t even know we exist, and those who do think we only hold records from the war because of where we are.
“About eight weeks ago one of my assistants noticed some of the volumes she looks after have been going missing.
“Three days ago, this page was hand delivered to my office. I looked up the translation and what it could mean and your name was mentioned several times. I found your address and got on the first Eurostar.”
The professor handed back the pages as they sat on a bench overlooking a childrens play area.
“But why come and find me? You have the translation already. Surely you don’t think I have anything to do with your stolen books?”
“No. At least, I hope not. I wanted to talk about the Congregation of Guinevere. I think they’re real.”
The professor started chuckling to himself. Things were going so well, but here we have it, this attractive young woman was nothing but a crackpot.
“The whole Arthur story is almost completely a myth. Nothing but stories handed down family to family. He was many different people all rolled into one, over a period of several hundred years. The congregation is 100% fiction.”
“Are you sure?”
”Absolutely.”
The professor stood up and offered out his hand.
“It’s been an interesting conversation, but I feel its time for me to take my leave of you. Please don’t contact me again.”
Therese stood and blocked the path.
“Professor, wait. I know it sounds ridiculous, but I can prove it. Please, hear me out.
“I received these pages three days ago. It took me all of a few minutes to get your address. I spent the rest of that time reading as much as I could about the Congregation.”
”It took you three days to read what cant be more than 10 times of text at best?”
“That’s the thing, professor, I read there were only a few short stories, but I found a lot more.”
This piqued the professors interest and he sat back down.
“That’s not possible. I have copies of every bit of info there is about them. You had it all in your hands. I researched them for months and I didn’t get anything other than a grainy video and a few pages of conspiracy theories.”
“Well, you don’t have my archives…”
“Explain”
“When we started noticing the books being stolen, we did a thorough investigation. At first we thought it was just random books, so we looked in all the usual places to see if they would surface for sale. Nothing. Then we noticed a pattern. All the stolen books are illuminated manuscripts coming from one place – the Abbaye des Dames du Roi – the Abbey of the Kings Women. Up until about two hundred years ago it was called the Abbaye de le Reine – The Abbey of the Queen.
“The nuns at the abbey are not aligned to the Vatican, nor the French state. They are extremely private, almost insular.
“At the beginning of the war, the nuns smuggled all their records and manuscripts out of France to Canada, to save them from Nazi book burning and theft. In 1972 these works were transported back to France, but the abbey was bombed during the war so they were given to us. It was quite fitting as the archive was built on part of the old abbey site, so its like they came home. Then they started going missing.”
“What was the pattern?”
”I was getting to that. The texts are like a diary. The nuns detailed every part of their day, in minute detail. Every nun, from the newest novice to the Mother Superior herself was expected to keep a record. There are thousands of volumes. Every 150 years there are several pages of extra information, then it returns to the same “woke up, prayed, made dinner, prayed, went to sleep”.”
“What is the extra information?”
”It was quite hard to read, but on every extra page I could see the name Guinevere.
“Every word written by the nuns was in medieval French, but the extra information mentioning Guinevere was written in old English – Anglo Saxon to be precise.”
“Its extremely unlikely that nuns in France would know how to write Anglo Saxon.”
”I know, but its there in any case.”
If there was more information about an aspect of the Arthur legend, the professor had to see it.
“Can you get me in to see the archive?”
“Of course, the archive is open to everyone. I doubt another visiting scholar would even be noticed.”
The professor was excited. He got up and started running back to his office.
“Professor! Where are you going?” called Therese.
“I need my things” he shouted over his shoulder. “We’re leaving this afternoon”.