by Mike Ashley
Mewan paused and seemed to search for an answer in the air before him. At last he noted, in an uplifting tone, “I believe that Galahad saw what no earthly eyes can see and live. If that is so, then his passing was glorious and a matter for celebration, not mourning.”
“But so many of my knights suffered in the search for the Grail,” Arthur responded. “And the land is still split asunder and ravaged by blight. My search for perfection has led only to corruption.”
“Such is the fate of those who strive for something which no human can achieve without the aid of the Lord,” the holy man was quick to note. “Remember Icarus who flew too close to heaven and was cast down. Mankind is imperfect because of sin, and there is no way that you can change that, king or no. That was why our Lord Jesus came to earth as a ransom sacrifice.”
The company considered this for a time, though the lesson seemed to trouble Arthur the most.
“Tell me, Merlin,” he said heavily, “how can I save my kingdom without striving for perfection? What must I do?”
Mewan was quick to answer. “You must look to your heart, my king, and beseech others to do likewise. No one is perfect, and the more perfect they seem, the more dangerous they will be to you. Beware he who betrays perfection, for there is the destiny of your soul.”
The king rose to his feet. “Who, Merlin? Galahad was the only perfect soul. He is gone. Surely he can no longer be a threat to my kingdom.”
“I cannot help you there, my lord. You will know this seeming perfection when it displays itself before you. And when you recognize it, you must face your fate.”
Arthur struggled for words. Gawain could see a range of emotions contorting his face.
“I still cannot understand how perfection can be a danger,” the king said. “Surely, Merlin, you of all men have seen the miracle of perfection on earth. Can you not tell me more?”
“I cannot say what Merlin has seen. I can tell you that I have never witnessed true perfection – and do not expect to in this life.”
Suddenly Arthur reached for his sword and drew Excalibur from its scabbard. The sword shone and sparkled in the dappled light. Gawain even fancied he saw a shaft of light expand from the blade and cleave through the acrid smoke from the fire, as if banishing anything vile that lurked nearby. Instinctively, with the drawing of Excalibur, both Gawain and Agrivaine reached for their own swords, but the king motioned them to relax.
Arthur turned to the holy man. “You know this sword. Is it not perfection?”
For the first time a look of childlike wonder came over the face of Mewan. He even reached for the sword but Arthur protectively – perhaps even possessively – held it just out of reach.
“I have never seen this blade before,” Mewan responded, almost in a whisper. “But I know of it, as do all in your kingdom. It is a sword of beauty, I cannot deny that, but an instrument of death can never be perfection. Also . . .” Mewan hesitated, knowing that what he was going to say next would find little acceptance.
Arthur leaned forward, straining to hear, hoping, waiting for an answer.
Mewan continued slowly, weighing each word with great care. “This sword, as well as the scabbard that you once had but lost, are intended to protect you. Without Excalibur you are vulnerable, but you are human. With the blade you may be invulnerable to physical pain, but you pay the price in spiritual pain. In this way, the sword drains you of your humanity.”
“Are you saying I would be better rid of the sword?” the king exclaimed over the shocked gasps of his knights. “You gave Excalibur to me, Merlin. Did you not know then it endangered my soul?” Arthur’s voice turned from bewilderment to anger. “Was this a plot from the very start – a plot to damn my soul? Have you been in league with Morgan all along?”
Mewan did not move, but trapped Arthur with his eyes. Moments passed, then the anger fled the king and he slumped slowly back to the ground. He looked again at Excalibur, but now as if it were nothing but useless metal. Mewan spoke, softly and reassuringly.
“Excalibur was, and is, important to you. It gave you strength and allowed you to believe in yourself. Without Excalibur would you have risen to such might and fame? But can anything be perfect that causes its master such anguish, brings him to concentrate more on himself than on his subjects?”
Gawain found himself tensing and was aware that Agrivaine steeled himself, as well. Mewan’s words wandered perilously close to treason. Even if the king would not silence the old man, he was not about to let him speak so treacherously against the throne.
Yet it was Constantine, silent all the meal long, who intervened.
“My lord,” he interjected calmly, “I believe Mewan has said enough. He can help you no more.”
There was no question in Gawain’s mind that the hermit’s words had not helped Arthur at all; they had, in truth, wounded him far more grievously than might any sword. The king seemed unable to move, unable to stand. It was from that moment on, Gawain noticed, that a melancholy settled over Arthur, a dark mood that haunted them all for many miles on the road.
“We’ll stop here.”
Gawain looked cautiously at Arthur. These were the first words the king had spoken in several hours, but they were no more encouraging for that. He remained slumped in his saddle, his face as sullen and dour as it had been when they left Mewan’s cave.
It was cold and damp up here on the moor, and Gawain had hoped they would have reached shelter farther to the north. But it was growing dark and Tintagel was at least three hours distant.
“Sire, should we not seek to reach the castle, even after nightfall?”
Arthur pulled his horse round and raised his eyes to Gawain. His shoulders slumped with all the weight and responsibility of his years and his crown. This was the Arthur Gawain had grown used to, though the demeanour was all the more troubling for the joy the king had shown just a few hours before.
“I wish to rest.” Arthur paused and looked toward the setting sun, already lost behind a haze of dark clouds. He sighed. “And there is something I wish to do.”
Arthur urged his horse forward. Gawain started to follow, but the king held up his hand.
“Get Kynan to prepare a camp for the night. I shall be back before it is full dark.”
With that, Arthur set off over the brow of a low hill and was soon lost to sight. Despite his uncle’s words, Gawain made to follow, but Agrivaine halted him.
“Let him go, brother. He’s safe enough here.”
“How do you know? You heard Mewan’s words.”
Agrivaine snorted. “For what they’re worth. To me, they were just the ramblings of yet another mad hermit. This is Arthur’s country, Gawain. He grew up here. He knows it far better than us.”
Gawain remained hesitant. “I still think someone should keep an eye on him.”
“His orders were for you to see to camp, Gawain, not me,” Constantine offered. “Let me follow him – from a distance.”
Without waiting for an answer, Constantine spurred his horse on, but did not follow Arthur directly. Instead, he took a route slightly to the south. Soon he, too, was swallowed up by the terrain. Agrivaine watched him go.
“He’s a strange one, that Constantine.”
“This is his land as well, Agrivaine. Let him be.”
“I’m not sure I trust him. You’ve seen how he fawns on Arthur. I’m certain he sees himself as the next high king.”
“What – Constantine?” Gawain snorted. “He’s no high king. Have no fear there, brother. No one would support him.”
“Constantine may not think that. We all know Arthur’s days are numbered, and there’s only one fit to succeed him.”
“Our bastard brother Mordred, I suppose.”
“And Arthur’s son and rightful heir,” Agrivaine noted. “Arthur may have disowned him, but the high king’s blood flows in Mordred’s veins and he can trace his descent from the great Caractacus.”
“So do we all, Agrivaine.” Gawain started to t
urn away. “Stop being paranoid, and help me get a fire going. The wind’s getting cold.”
With bad grace, Agrivaine snatched up some dried bracken. “This expedition was doomed to disaster from the start,” he pouted, “and I think it has tipped Arthur over the brink into madness. You saw how he reacted at Mewan’s cave.”
Gawain withheld his answer until the fire started to take hold. Finally, he wrapped his cloak around him and looked deep into Agrivaine’s eyes. “I, too, fear for Arthur’s mind. That was why I wanted to follow him. God knows what he intends to do.”
Arthur had not gone far. Less than a mile from the camp, but hidden by a crown of trees and tucked just below a ridge, lay the Dozmary Pool. In his youth, Arthur had fought and killed a monster here. With that battle, that victory, Arthur had become a man – at least in his own mind.
The pool had served as the stage for another important moment in Arthur’s life, too. Soon after he became king, Arthur returned there with Merlin. That was when he was presented with Excalibur by the Lady of the Lake. He had not returned since that fateful day, though the pool of Dozmary often haunted his dreams.
Now, in the gathering gloom of evening, the pool looked even darker and more secretive than he recalled. Nothing reflected from its abyss-black surface. Even the wind scarcely raised a ripple. It was almost as if the lake mocked him – mocked anyone and everything. Merlin had told him that the dark pool of Dozmary had existed since the dawn of time. As he gazed upon its sinister, impenetrable depths, the king could finally believe that to be true.
Arthur stood at the edge of the lake and stared across the waters. He was still uncertain of his course. Ever since seeing Merlin he’d been full of doubt – if it had even been Merlin at all. The king banished that thought almost as quickly as it formed. He had to believe he’d seen his mentor; otherwise, his whole world would collapse.
Arthur had hoped the meeting with Merlin would provide an answer, but if the mage had offered one, it was not the one the king wanted. Was his whole life a sham, a fabrication dependent upon the power of Excalibur? Had he no authority of his own? The sword had saved his life countless times, but was each rescue won at the cost of his kingdom?
Arthur had pondered this dilemma for hours, ever since leaving Merlin’s cave, and the only action to which Merlin’s advice pointed was one he hesitated to take. He must return Excalibur from whence it came. Yet the sword had been part of his life – maybe it had even been his life – for over thirty years. How could he part with it now?
If he cast Excalibur back into the lake, the king knew that he could never retrieve it. The sword would be gone forever. Instead, he might bury it here, at the lake’s edge; then he could return for it one day, when he had regained control of his kingdom, of his life. But someone else might find it in the meantime. Would it make them all-powerful? Arthur wondered bitterly.
Once again the king remembered Merlin’s words and knelt in prayer. He remained with head bowed for some while, but no inspiration came. Perhaps Merlin was right, he concluded. God would forsake him so long as he clung to the Old Faith. To the sword.
His mind was made up. Before he could hesitate again, Arthur stood, drew Excalibur from its scabbard, and held it high above his head. The bright blade turned as dark as the lake. For a moment, it seemed to Arthur that the blackness of both blade and water threatened to swallow the world. “But you will not swallow me,” the king whispered and brought his arm back.
“Are you sure this is what you want?”
Arthur glanced back to find Constantine standing right behind him.
“Leave me, Constantine. This is no concern of yours.”
“It is the concern of the whole kingdom, my lord.” Constantine’s voice was calm and reassuring. For a moment, Arthur almost relaxed his arm. But that urge quickly passed.
“Do not persuade me otherwise. This sword is the source of all my pain and anguish. It has severed my kingdom in two.”
“Has it, my lord? Or has it spliced the kingdom together? The sword has protected you, and in that it has certainly protected Logres. Without Excalibur, how will your realm survive?”
Arthur wheeled round to glare at his would-be comforter. “That is precisely the problem. Excalibur rules, not me. Why do you think Morgan tried to rob me of the sword all those years ago? So that I would crumble and falter. If I am to be at peace with God, it must be me that rules, with His grace. I can no longer rely upon this crutch of the Old Faith.”
Constantine could see the weakness in Arthur’s argument, but was cautious of what to say next for fear of provoking the king. In that hesitation Arthur saw vindication of his words. “You understand now,” the king said. “This is the will of God.”
“Or the will of Morgan.”
Arthur paused again. “What do you mean?”
“How do you know that this – the meeting with the hermit, the doubts assailing you, the conspiracies you perceive – do not form part of another of Morgan’s schemes to rid you of the sword?”
Arthur struggled again with his thoughts, not wanting to have to admit how powerless he might be. “How could she plan this, Constantine? She did not send me on my quest for Merlin. She was not there when he told me of the sword’s evil.”
“I would tend to agree, my lord, and yet I hesitate to underestimate the deviousness of Morgan.”
Suddenly Arthur slumped; the energy drained out of him. He stabbed Excalibur into the ground and leaned upon it.
“You have served only to remind me of all of my problems,” Arthur sighed. “How can one tell reality from illusion any more in this world? Morgan is not behind every fault, every disaster, every shadow in the world. If I credit her so, I am not fit to rule. Yet she has tried and tested me again and again. Her designs fail, but I must wonder now if I am unknowingly aiding her against me. All the time I cling to the Old Faith by relying upon Excalibur, I am denying God, and that is the one weakness Morgan can still exploit.” He looked down at the sword. “Once I am rid of Excalibur, she will have no hold over me.”
“Yet has not Morgan tried to gain the sword?”
“To protect it, perhaps,” the king suggested, “or to tap its dark power for her own purposes.”
“Sire,” Constantine said softly, “if I may be so bold, might I suggest you consider this another way?” At Arthur’s silence, he continued: “Perhaps Excalibur draws its power from you, not the other way round.”
Arthur beckoned Constantine to continue.
“I have no knowledge of such wonders, but it seems to me that you and Excalibur are linked in a special way, that the sword is only powerful in your hands. Has anyone else ever been protected by it?”
Arthur strained to remember. “Gawain used it once to devastating effect, but he is such a powerful knight and a brilliant swordsman he would likely triumph whatever the blade. No, I cannot say with certainty that anyone else has wielded its true power.”
A pleased smile flashed across Constantine’s lips. “Then might I suggest that Excalibur is not a crutch of the Old Faith at all. The sword reveals its power only in your hands. And if you draw your power from God, then it is God that wields Excalibur. That is the perfection we all glimpse in its working – the touch of the Lord.”
This conclusion surprised even Constantine, who marveled a little at the inspired logic of it all. The words had the desired effect upon Arthur, too. The king’s eyes visibly brightened, although his brow remained knit with concern.
“It would be so wonderful if you were right, Constantine. It would mean the Lord has recast the Old Faith as a tool, that even Merlin could be a servant of God, even as I had once thought.”
“And it would explain, too, why Morgan wants to destroy Excalibur – it is an instrument of God.”
Arthur clapped Constantine on his back and sheathed Excalibur. “You have resolved my enigmas, my friend. In that, you’ve shown that you are wise enough to be high king one day.” Smiling still, he started back toward camp.
Constantine untethered his horse and paused, glancing out over the lake. Was that a shimmering he saw on the surface? A white glow in the centre? Perhaps it was merely a trick of the wind and the dying sun. The son of Cador shuddered a little at the mysteries of Dozmary Pool. But even those dark thoughts were soon overcome by the deep glow of pride he felt at Arthur’s parting words.
Spurred on by Arthur’s newfound vigour, the company returned to Camelot in just two days. Gawain was astonished at the sudden change in the king’s character and though pleased, both he and Agrivaine wondered what part Constantine had played in this. Despite their questions, Arthur chose to remain elusive, saying only, “All is well.” It left Gawain uneasy. He wondered if the king’s transformation were built upon shifting sands.
Events moved fast upon their return. Arthur was determined to reassert his authority and so he sent out messengers to summon kings, lords, and the Round Table to Camelot for a major council. News of the gathering spread throughout the land, luring many who sought help from the court.
So it was that there arrived at Camelot a small procession of a lady with a litter and two horses, accompanied by a demoiselle and a page. The lady asked to see King Arthur, and she and the litter were brought into the keep’s great hall. Here Arthur and Guinevere prepared to have audience.
“My lord, I seek your help to cure my son, who lies in this stretcher,” the lady began, her voice quiet and quaking with age. “I have a story to tell.”
“Pray tell us, my lady,” Arthur responded. “But first, what is your name?”
“I am the Lady Philomela from Hungaria. My son is Sir Urfrey of the Mount, a valiant and brave knight who has been the victim of a curse.”
A gasp went round the hall, as much at the stricken man’s identity as in fear of his curse. Sir Urfrey had vanished early in the days of the Quest for the Grail, and many had pondered his fate. The whole court leaned forward to catch what came next.
“Seven years ago my son was challenged to single combat by the vengeful knight, Sir Alphegus of Iberia. Sir Alphegus was envious of my son’s victories in a tournament. And when they finally met on the field, the battle was long and hard, lasting from noon to dusk. My son was triumphant and at length slew Sir Alphegus, but not before he, too, was severely hurt. He received seven wounds – three about his head; three about his body; and one on his left hand. Seeing those injuries, Alphegus’s mother thereupon cursed my son that his wounds would not heal until he was touched by the best and most perfect knight in the world.”