by Alan Fenton
The Hour of Camelot
Alan Fenton
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© Alan Fenton 2015
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Born in London, Alan Fenton was educated at Mercers’ School in the City. Having won an open scholarship to Oxford he did two years National Service in the Royal Air Force, becoming a Pilot Officer, before going up to St Edmund Hall to read English Language and Literature.
On graduating, he worked as a trainee in business for a couple of years before writing a sketch for a children’s television programme starring Ronnie Corbett. This led to a career writing comedy sketches and scripts for T.V. comedy series, Saturday Night Spectaculars and Sunday Nights at the London Palladium for most of the top comedians of the day, including Ronnie Corbett, Bruce Forsyth, Dickie Henderson, Roy Castle, Arthur Haines, Jack Douglas and Joe Baker, Dick Emery, Irene Handl, Des O’Connor and many others.
After several years of comedy scriptwriting, he drifted back into business. Working for a large American trading organisation he travelled the world, until he and a few friends set up their own company trading in metals and minerals, and ultimately in oil.
Leaving business a few years later, he wrote the Shadow of the Titan, his first novel, based loosely on his business experiences. Subsequently he wrote The Call of Destiny, the first book in the Return of Arthur cycle, and its sequel, The Hour of Camelot.
Alan Fenton lives in London with his wife and nine Pekinese dogs
THE SWORD IS DRAWN
Prologue
Rising from the edge of the world the full moon laid a silver trail across the sea. A knight on a white horse trotted along the path that skirted the clifftop, turning his mount inland by Castle Rock, through fields of long grass, across the drawbridge, and into the courtyard of Camelot Castle.
From the shadows came a soft whinnying; hooves clattered, striking sparks on the cobblestones. A black horse moved into the flickering light of flaming torches, on its back a knight clad from head to foot in black armour.
‘I challenge you to a joust,’ he said, his voice expressionless. ‘Who challenges me?’
‘The Black Knight.’
‘That tells me nothing.’ The knight on the white horse raised his visor and removed his helmet. His hair, like his suit of armour, was the colour of gold, his blue eyes sparkled in the torchlight. ‘At least let me see your face.’
The black knight hesitated, motionless on his horse. Then he too raised his visor and removed his helmet. In the light of the moon the eyes in the bearded face were cold.
‘Why do you challenge me?’ asked the knight on the white horse.
‘Men say you are a great champion.’ ‘That is no reason for us to fight.’ ‘Reason enough for me.’
‘You and I have no quarrel,’ said Arthur. ‘Instead of trying to kill each other, let us drink wine together in Camelot’s feasting hall.’
‘Never. We are enemies.’
‘How so? I never saw you before in my life.’
The black knight laughed scornfully. As if sharing its master’s contempt, his mount snorted, its hooves clopping restlessly on the cobblestones, horse and rider moving together as one.
‘It is written,’ he said. ‘We must fight.’ ‘I will not fight you.’
‘If you do not,’ said the black knight, ‘the world will know you are a coward.’
Arthur gripped the pommel of his sword. ‘So be it,’ he said. Beckoning the black knight to follow him, he guided his horse through the portcullis, across the drawbridge, and down the steep path that led to the foot of the cliffs.
Taking up their positions on the beach, the adversaries lowered their visors and levelled their lances. Moonlight glinted on gold and black armour as they hurtled towards each other. In the same instant both spear points struck home, and the two knights, jolted sharply back by the impact, fought to regain their balance even as they wheeled round and sped away before turning to face their opponent.
A second time they spurred their horses to a gallop, a second time lances battered armour. For a moment it seemed they both would be unhorsed, but again they pulled themselves upright, spun their mounts round and trotted back to the starting point. Yet again they raced towards each other, and this time the clash of spears on breastplates was so fierce that their lances shattered into a myriad of shards that floated in the darkness, transformed to silver by the moonlight. Hurled to the ground the two adversaries lay stunned, their horses steaming in the cold night air, pawing the sand impatiently.
Arthur, the first to recover, struggled to his feet, raised his visor and removed his helmet, waiting patiently for his opponent to do the same. ‘I congratulate you, sir knight, on your skill and valour,’ he said. ‘The contest is even. There is no victor and no vanquished. Honour is surely satisfied.’
Slowly the black knight nodded, as if in agreement. But instead of taking the hand held out in friendship, he drew his sword from its scabbard, swung it high and whirled it in a circle of scything steel. At the last instant Arthur dodged the terrible blow, though not entirely, the sharp blade cutting through his shoulder armour, slicing the flesh and splintering the collarbone above his left arm. Crying out in pain and rage, he staggered and almost fell. Then, swift as lightning, Excalibur flashed in the moonlight, and the black knight’s head rolled in the sand.
As the warm blood oozed from the headless trunk, the black knight stooped and grabbed his head by the hair. Cradling it in the crook of his right arm, he grasped the bridle in his left hand, stepped into the stirrup and pulled himself up and onto his horse. The cold eyes in the decapitated head looked down, the lips moved. ‘This day is yours, Arthur. My day will come.’
And turning his horse away, he disappeared into the night.
Table of Contents
Part One
To Save the World
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thrity
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Chapter Forty-four
Chapter Forty-five
Chapter Forty-six
Chapter Forty-seven
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br /> Chapter Forty-eight
Chapter Forty-nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-one
Chapter Fifty-two
Chapter Fifty-three
Chapter Fifty-four
Chapter Fifty-five
Chapter Fifty-six
Chapter Fifty-seven
Chapter Fifty-eight
Chapter Fifty-nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-one
Chapter Sixty-two
Chapter Sixty-three
Chapter Sixty-four
Chapter Sixty-five
Chapter Sixty-six
Chapter Sixty-seven
Chapter Sixty-eight
Chapter Sixty-nine
Chapter Seventy
Chapter Seventy-one
Chapter Seventy-two
Chapter Seventy-three
One
The island of Camelot lies in the middle of the ocean, its white buildings shimmering in the bright morning sun – pyramids, squares and pentagons, columns and spires, rectangles, hexagons and spheres – each structure unique, yet each blending with the others in perfect harmony. At intervals of a hundred metres around the island’s perimeter clusters of white columns soar, tall and slender, crowned with a halo of antennae moving silently and purposefully, like the feelers of giant insects probing the sky. This could be a city far out in space, light years into the future, if there were not one notable exception to the scrupulous order of its layout and the geometrical precision of its architecture – the ruins of an ancient castle, with one surviving ivy-covered corner tower, crumbling walls, a dry moat, and the remains of a gateway and drawbridge.
Along a path that led from Transport Maintenance to Command Control two men strolled – one in his mid-fifties, tall and spare, with shoulder-length white hair and robe trailing behind him in the breeze, his companion in his early-thirties, slim and of medium height, with sapphire blue eyes and blond hair. On the chest of his dark blue uniform embroidered in gold was the insignia of a hand drawing a sword from a stone.
Eclipse, a huge cigar-shaped aircraft, rose vertically from its launch pad, flashed in the sunlight and vanished.
In Merlin’s smile there was more than a hint of the inventor’s pride. ‘An operation?’
Arthur shook his head. ‘War games.’
Three man-size robots rushed by, eyes winking furiously.
Merlin’s eyes asked the question.
Arthur touched the metal disc on the lobe of his left ear, activating his earcom. ‘Robot technicians,’ he said, ‘back from servicing Nimble fighters.’
A hovercart, the island’s favourite means of transport, floated towards them a few feet off the ground, the troop of soldiers on board saluting Arthur smartly as they passed.
‘Actives on their way to Kraken,’ said Arthur, anticipating the next question. The ocean equivalent of Eclipse, Kraken was a sub and supra-marine Titan. Again the corners of Merlin’s mouth lifted in a self-satisfied smile.
Overhead, four ungainly looking craft with stubby wings appeared from nowhere and bumbled playfully about the sky like giant puppies before disappearing again as they mantled.
‘I love my Scuttles,’ chuckled Merlin, ducking only just in time as three technicians sped inches above his head powered by mini-backpacks known in Camelot as seven league boots.
‘Military operations?’
‘So far only two,’ said Arthur. ‘The first to eliminate a stockpile of chemical weapons in the Middle East, the second to stop militias massacring refugees in North Africa.’
‘World reaction?’
‘We have the people’s support, and compliments from the media too, all with the usual exceptions of course.’
‘How about world leaders?’
‘They’re sceptical,’ said Arthur. ‘They don’t really trust us.
We need to convince them we’re on their side.’ ‘And how will you do that?’
‘Talk to them,’ said Arthur.
Merlin’s lips twitched. ‘That should be interesting.’
A harsh screech echoed from Castle Cliffs as a barn owl swooped and perched on Merlin’s shoulder, dangling a dead mouse in front of his face. Merlin’s nose wrinkled distastefully as Virgil squawked, swallowed the mouse in one gulp and glided off to look for more.
Command Control was flanked by a gently sloping grass verge on which the two men, comfortable in each other’s company, relaxed for a time without speaking. ‘Now tell me about this dream of yours,’ said Merlin without preamble.
Scouring his memory for every detail, Arthur recounted the story of the black knight’s challenge, the jousting contest and the ghastly end of the dream that still haunted him.
‘Is that it?’ Merlin enquired. ‘Yes.’
His head drooped on his chest, his big green eyes shuttered, Merlin, to Arthur’s dismay, began to snore loudly. A couple of minutes later he opened his eyes, yawned and stretched. ‘What is it you want to know?’
‘Who was the knight in golden armour?’
Merlin directed a baleful look at his beloved protégé. ‘Please do not insult my intelligence. Or yours.’
Arthur blinked. ‘Then who was the black knight?’ ‘The personification of evil,’ replied Merlin.
‘Why did he challenge the knight in golden armour?’ ‘Because evil sees good as competition.’
‘The black knight didn’t die,’ said Arthur, ‘even when his head was severed from his body. He picked it up, and the head spoke.’ His forehead furrowed. ‘I’m trying to remember his exact words.’
Merlin’s green eyes glowed. ‘This day is yours, Arthur. My day will come.’
Even after all these years Arthur could still be astonished by the powers of the Magus. ‘How did you know that?’
‘It was on your monitor.’ ‘You read my mind?’
An airy wave of the hand. ‘Something like that.’
‘Tell me, Merlin. Why didn’t the black knight die when I – when the knight in golden armour – cut off his head?’
‘No one can destroy evil,’ said Merlin, adding softly, ‘not even you.’
‘Why not?’
‘If good were able to destroy evil, there would be no people left on the planet.’
One of Merlin’s riddles.
‘Because…’ murmured Arthur, his mind grappling with the answer, ‘because all men are part good, part evil. Is that it?’
‘Exactly,’ said Merlin. ‘And that is the mystery and the tragedy of creation.’
‘Are you saying good can never overcome evil?’
‘There will be an end,’ said Merlin, ‘but who knows when, or how it will be. Your dream showed you the road you must take, but it did not show you what lies at the end of it. How could it? Only one thing is certain; man can never change his nature. No one can do that – no one but God.’
‘Then why doesn’t He?’
‘Who knows? Perhaps He isn’t ready. Perhaps He doesn’t want to.’ The green eyes were sombre. ‘Perhaps he can’t.’
As the two friends sat in silence, Arthur’s thoughts ebbed back to the days when he and his brother, Keir, fished by the stone bridge at Ponterlally – or rather when Keir fished, and he lay on his back reading his future in white wisps of cloud strewn across the sky by the fitful wind. What dreams he had dreamed! How many alien invaders challenged in a beam of sunlight! How many enemies overcome in mortal combat! How many spaceships flown to galaxies at the outermost extremities of space and time! If only life were as simple now as it was then. What use was it to fight the forces of darkness if God did not, or could not, change man’s nature? ‘My dream,’ said Arthur, ‘is that the meek will inherit the earth. Is that all it is, Merlin, just a dream?’
Merlin’s green orbs softened. ‘Listen to me, Arthur,’ he said. ‘You were born at the winter solstice, the time when the sun is at its lowest point, the longest, darkest night of the year, when the world lies in waste and people long for redemption. So were the
solar gods, like Mithras, the god of light and truth; so was the saviour, Jesus Christ. In that time of greatest despair new hope is born and will be born again and again.’ He laid a loving hand on Arthur’s shoulder. ‘You are that hope, Arthur.’
A young woman appeared from behind Command Control. Beckoning Merlin, she called him by name. As he hesitated, unwilling, it seemed, to obey the summons, she tossed her head and was gone.
‘Who was that?’ ‘Nimue.’
‘Who is Nimue?’
‘The one who has me in her spell.’
Surely the Magus was joking. ‘You are the one who casts spells,’ said Arthur.
Merlin’s eyes gleamed. ‘Nimue is possessive. She wants to imprison me in a cave and roll a boulder over the entrance.’ To Arthur’s surprise the Magus sounded more than a little intrigued by the prospect.
He looked to the sky and raised a hand. Virgil flew down, spread his wings and landed softly on his master’s shoulder. ‘I must go,’ said Merlin, avoiding Arthur’s eyes.
‘Stay, Magus, I have so many questions.’
‘They will all be answered in the circle of time.’