by Jacob Sannox
‘And that will never change,’ said Arthur. ‘We are closer than brothers, and it is not right that I should be set apart on high any longer. Each of you has as much wisdom as do I, has seen this country change and quicken as the weary years rolled by. We have spilled much blood for Britain, and it is time that each of you took some joy for yourselves.’
He held up his hand to quieten Tristan before he could object further.
‘I will not turn away from this decision,’ said Arthur. ‘It is done. You are all free to go where you wish and do as you desire. Carve out lives for yourselves. Love. Have families, if that is what your heart wants.’
He took up his coffee and sipped again.
‘The company will continue our work, but we will not take up arms any longer. Let us enjoy this England. To that end, I have divided our funds amongst us, transferred it to each of your accounts equally. I will not turn you out into the cold as beggars,’ said Arthur.
Tristan shook his head.
‘This is not an end to friendship or brotherhood, nor am I dismissing you from this house or my company. But you are no longer beholden to me. And that is how true friendship should be,’ said Arthur. ‘How family should be.’
Silence.
Tristan sat scowling at Arthur, while Gareth could not raise his eyes from the surface of the table. Bors was clearly wrestling with some emotion that he could not articulate, and, quietly, as was his way, Dagonet spoke for them all, even if they did not realise it yet.
‘Thank you, Arthur,’ he said. And smiled.
All of them needed time to take a breath in private, and so Arthur retreated to his drawing-room. He built the fire, poured himself a brandy from a decanter and sat in his wingback chair, listening to the ticking of the clock and the crackling of the fire. Where once his arms from across the centuries had arrayed the walls, now there were mounted photographs of landscapes in black frames, his weapons donated or sold, all save for his Colt, secured in a gun safe.
His eyes settled on the empty chair on the other side of the fire, and he thought of Merlin. He sipped his brandy and indulged reminiscences of times gone by with the old man, who had been so much more than a mentor and a guide to him. Arthur drank to the wizard’s memory.
In time, he drifted off to sleep, warmed by the fire.
When he awoke he found the house had a lazy Sunday feel to it. The air was still, and one could believe that time made no progress on a day such as that.
Arthur pulled on his coat, gloves and boots, wrapped a scarf around his neck, grabbed his case and put on a wide-brimmed hat which he took from a hook behind the door. Arthur stopped to check his reflection in a mirror, and knew that his growing suspicion had been correct.
There were new wrinkles lining his forehead, marked crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes, and he would need to buy a nose-trimmer, he decided, shaking his head in amusement. He did not know why he was ageing now, but suspected that his prolonged vigour had been Merlin’s work. And with the wizard gone? It seemed in time he would once again have the release of death, and in some strange way, that comforted Arthur.
He snatched up a rifle case from where he had set it in the hall, and headed out into the snow to fetch the dogs. They wagged their tails and jumped up at him when he opened the doors. He stooped and fussed them for a moment until his leg cried out, and he straightened up, leaning on his cane.
‘Come on then. Come on,’ he said to them as he walked towards the gate, and the hounds bounded after and then ahead of him, so that he followed their trail of paw-prints in the snow.
His feet knew the way through this white landscape in which all features and points of reference were masked by ice and snow. Arthur walked slowly and noticed after a while that he was smiling while he did so, bundled up against the cold. The dogs led him across the road and into the trees, where he had to duck below branches until he found a deer path to follow.
Arthur stopped only when he reached the edge of a frozen pond at the centre of a small glade, surrounded by ancient oak trees, twisted and magnificent.
Arthur stood in silence. His breath escaped as clouds of vapour, and he smiled, remembering how he pretended to be a dragon as a child, scorching all around him.
The trees creaked overhead, the occasional twig snapped, and a branch fell in the middle distance. A squirrel ran up one of the oaks, and somewhere overhead, a buzzard mewed.
Arthur closed his eyes, searching inside his heart and mind. The decision was made.
He let his cane rest against his hip and used both hands to unzip the rifle case. From within it, he withdrew Excalibur, and held it aloft, admiring the craftsmanship and, in some way, yearning for the sword. He rested the blade across his gloved hand, and looked over the weapon from tip to pommel – the sword of the king, bound to the land.
Arthur stepped forward and cast Excalibur into the deep water at the centre of the pond.
Arthur had expected to feel regret after relinquishing the sword, but he felt lighter as he walked away from the pond, whistling to himself while the dogs trotted beside him, stopping only to sniff at hidden items or chase creatures on the path. He knew he had a world before him to explore, and the coming certainty of an end to his long days. He would bask in them, he decided, take pleasure in existing in the here and now. He would honour the past, but walk away from it.
His feet crunched the virgin snow as he walked down a sloping path between the trees until he stood before a thatched cottage. Lights twinkled in its windows and smoke billowed from its chimney pots that Christmas morning, ivy disguising its walls and a wooden gate before him with ‘Hunter’s Cottage’ etched into the wooden crossbeam.
He pushed the gate open and walked up the path to knock three times, rapping on the wooden door with the head of his cane.
Arthur waited, almost patiently, wondering how he would be received, arriving unannounced on today of all days. He heard nothing, not even Caitlyn’s dog barking, and wondered if she was visiting family, or maybe working.
He sighed and departed, closing the gate behind him, and as he walked back up the path, he no longer whistled. And although his new life was still an edifying prospect, the excitement had diminished somewhat, as does the excitement of waking on Christmas morning with each year that passes.
But then Arthur saw Caitlyn ahead on the path, and she was smiling at the sight of him. His heart kindled once more.
‘Merry Christmas,’ said Caitlyn.
‘I was walking the dogs, and I thought I’d stop by,’ he said. ‘I hope you don’t mind.’
His face flushed, and he wondered if the snowflakes would sizzle as they touched his skin.
‘Don’t be silly,’ she said, and she took him to her in an embrace, just briefly, but with a little squeeze that shortened his breath. Her perfume ignited his senses, and he smiled fully as they drew apart.
‘Have you got time for a hot chocolate?’ she asked, pushing the gate to her home slightly open, and Arthur pushed it the rest of the way.
‘All the time in the world,’ he said.
THE END
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Acknowledgements
Thanks to Mum, Dad, Anna and Sami for being my first readers!