by Alan Fenton
‘What would you suggest, then?’ said Gawain mischievously, ‘Bridge? Chess? Draughts?’
‘I see little point in prolonging this discussion,’ said Lancelot. ‘Whatever the nature of the contest, there is no doubt who the winner will be.’
‘There I agree with you,’ said Gawain.
News of the tourney generated enormous interest and excitement on the island. Bets were laid on the two men, most money on Gawain, considered a more approachable and less complex man than the aloof and introverted Lancelot. The majority approved the idea, though there were those who questioned whether such a competition was the right way to choose the Commander in Chief of Camelot’s armed forces.
‘Does winning a boat race or a boxing match qualify a man to command an army, a navy and an air force?’ complained Leo Grant.
‘There is more to a contest than winning.’ ‘Explain,’ said Leo.
Arthur regarded his father-in-law with affection. ‘Leo, my old friend, for you everything has to be rational and explicable. Not for me. There are times when we are all in the dark. And you know something? It’s not such a bad place to be.’
‘I like to see where I’m going,’ said Leo.
‘Not always possible,’ said Arthur. ‘We all want to believe we control our lives. But do we really? Are some things not best left to fate? I promise you, Leo, one way or another we shall find what we are looking for.’
Determined that the two men should compete without rancour, Arthur invited them to his apartment for dinner the day before the contest. Gawain was his usual genial self, Lancelot remote and taciturn. The more Guinevere saw of him the less she liked him, her antipathy heightened by the conviction that the feeling was mutual. The man treated her with indifference bordering on contempt, or so it seemed to her.
Arthur was disappointed and puzzled. He had hoped they would be friends, the woman he so passionately loved and the young man he thought so highly of. Apparently it was not to be.
‘Why don’t you like Lancelot, Ginny?’ he asked, when the two men had left.
‘No special reason, darling. He bores me, that’s all.’
Arthur sensed that it was not the whole story. ‘I’d rather you were frank with me.’
‘To be honest,’ said Guinevere, ‘I find the man insufferably vain. He struts around like a peacock showing off its tail, as if the whole world were there for no other reason than to admire him.’
‘Admittedly he is a little self-obsessed,’ acknowledged Arthur. ‘And there’s something weird about him.’
‘What are you saying, Ginny?’ said Arthur, looking concerned.
‘I didn’t mean that,’ she said quickly, seeing the hurt in Arthur’s eyes, and angry at having expressed herself so clumsily, ‘I am not suggesting he’s crazy or anything like that. But there’s something odd going on inside that man’s head, I’ll swear there is.’
As for Lancelot, he made it abundantly clear to Lanky that he found her friend haughty and cold, describing her more than once as the Ice Maiden. Were it not for his love and respect for Arthur, he insisted, he would refuse to speak to her. In fact, so adamantly did he protest his absolute indifference to Guinevere, that Lanky wondered why he bothered to mention her at all.
But then, as everybody knew, Lancelot was a strange man.
Five
The day of the boat race dawned overcast, threatening rain, but by midday a strong breeze had risen and blown
the clouds away. Under the blue sky the sea was choppy, though not enough to deter the umpires; to the spectators’ delight the race was on.
Arthur wished the two contestants well. ‘I expect you to fight hard,’ he said, his voice amplified to the watching crowds, ‘but I also rely on you to uphold Camelot’s high ideals. How the contest is fought is as important as who wins. May good fortune be with you both.’
Across the water the two rivals touched hands, neither, despite Arthur’s exhortation, in the mood to give an inch to his opponent.
Almost every man and woman on the island – fans of either Lancelot or Gawain – were down on the shoreline or up on the clifftops shouting encouragement to their heroes, whilst the two men struggled to keep their tiny rowing boats in line with the starting posts to which they were tethered. The umpire, George Bedivere, bellowed his final instructions through a hand-held megaphone; ‘You will start when I say go. The first man to complete a circuit of the island will be the winner. If neither of you reaches the finishing line, the race will be declared null and void and re-rowed tomorrow. Are you ready?’
Two nods. ‘Go!’
The two competitors pulled away trailed by a small flotilla of boats, headed by the umpire’s launch carrying Arthur and Guinevere, George Bedivere – Arthur’s old comrade in arms, Ian Duncan – Lancelot’s close friend, Ban – Lancelot’s father, and Guinevere’s father, Leo Grant. For nearly a kilometre they were evenly matched, first one then the other drawing ahead, though never by more than a boat’s length of clear water. The watching supporters cheered them on.
Then, slowly but surely, Gawain began to ease ahead, and after half a circuit of the island, was nearly twenty metres in the lead. With Lancelot struggling in the choppy sea, Gawain seemed certain to win the race, when suddenly, to the huge disappointment of his fans, disaster struck. In an effort to increase his lead, he rounded the island by Castle Rock too close to the shore and hit a patch of turbulent water. A wave struck his boat broadside on, overturning it. Struggling to stay afloat, he raised his arm as a signal that he was in trouble. In a few seconds the umpire’s launch was alongside, and Arthur and George Bedivere pulled him from the water.
Rowing a course further out to sea, Lancelot rounded Castle Rock, punching the air in triumph as he did so. Unable to contain himself, Gawain exploded with anger at what he felt was unsporting behaviour. Shivering with cold, his wet hair clinging to his scalp like a flame red skullcap, he screamed his rage into the wind. Arthur knew better than to say anything, preferring to let his nephew rant the frustration out of his system.
Now that the outcome of the race was a foregone conclusion, the crowds began to drift away. And then it happened. A kilometre from the finishing line a wave capsized Lancelot’s boat, and he was in the water. In the umpire’s launch Gawain could barely restrain himself. Guinevere had no such scruples, shouting and waving her arms in delight.
As the umpire’s launch drew alongside Lancelot, Arthur knelt by the gunwale and offered him his hand. ‘No, thanks,’ said Lancelot, ‘I’ll swim the rest of the course.’
Gawain said nothing. Lancelot’s gesture was an act of derring-do, pointless but brave, one he could not help but admire. ‘Water’s pretty rough,’ cautioned Leo Grant.
‘Not a problem,’ said Lancelot, rolling away in a slow, rhythmic crawl.
George Bedivere shrugged. ‘I doubt he’ll make it in this sea.’ ‘I wouldn’t bet on it,’ said Arthur.
Those few spectators still following the race had seen Lancelot overturn, though what came after was unclear. When they caught sight of his head bobbing in the water they waved and cheered from the cliffs and beaches, their cheers swelling and fading in the rising wind. Lancelot was swimming home, at least one kilometre to go, and in rough seas too! Why was he doing it? Sheer bloody-mindedness, or pride, or both, knowing Lancelot. Certainly he had nothing to gain. Sink or swim, he would have to row the race again tomorrow. But who cared! Not about winning but about character, this was the very stuff of drama, an audacious act that stirred their hearts. There was only one question now. Would he complete the course?
To their delight he did, and when finally he swam across the finishing line, he was given a hero’s welcome. Hauled dripping and shivering into the umpire’s launch, he was wrapped in blankets and congratulated in turn by Arthur, Ban, George, Ian Duncan and Leo Grant. Gawain, his anger quite forgotten, grabbed his rival’s hand and shook it. ‘Great stuff, Lance! Fantastic!’ he kept repeating, genuinely impressed by Lancelot’s gutsy swim.
‘I claim victory,’ he announced.
Gawain’s neck and face flared fiery red. ‘You what!’
The two men squared up to each other, Gawain’s head level with Lancelot’s chest.
Arthur moved between them. ‘Be calm, gentlemen.’ He spoke quietly. ‘As I understand the rules, Lance, the race is void. It will be rowed again tomorrow.’
‘With respect, sir,’ said Lancelot, ‘there is no need for that. I am the winner.’
‘How can that be?’
‘Correct me if I’m wrong,’ said Lancelot, ‘but before the race started did the umpire not say, “The first man to complete a circuit of the island will be the winner.”?’
In the silence that followed, Arthur looked thoughtful, Gawain muttered angrily.
‘Not the first boat,’ said Lancelot, with heavy emphasis, ‘the first man.’ Looking around, he raised his voice. ‘Does anyone here dispute that I was the first man to complete a circuit of the island?’
There was no response.
‘But that’s not how it was supposed to be,’ protested Gawain. ‘The race was about rowing, not swimming.’ He lifted his arms in appeal, looking around for support.
‘George,’ said Arthur, ‘you are the umpire. It’s up to you.’
After a few moments reflection, George Bedivere made his decision: ‘Lancelot is the winner!’ he declared.
Six
Climbing into the ring the master of ceremonies announced the main bout in the time-honoured manner. ‘And now, laydees and gentlemen,’ he intoned, ‘the event you have all been waiting for – a contest of six, three minute rounds, between these two superb athletes – Gawain and Lancelot.’ There were cheers and applause as first Gawain, then Lancelot, ducked through the ropes and danced round the ring, waving to their supporters. Then came even louder cheers and counter cheers, as, to the especial delight of the ladies, they removed their robes, Gawain exposing scarlet shorts, Lancelot royal blue. Physically they presented a great contrast: Gawain short and thickset, with prominent pectorals and biceps; Lancelot, tall and lean, his muscles less conspicuous. Both men, as everyone knew, were extremely fit, both experienced boxers, Lancelot a university boxing blue, and Gawain a former navy middleweight champion. It promised to be an entertaining fight. As the bell rang for round one Gawain caught Lancelot with two straight left jabs, followed by a wicked right hook that knocked him off balance. Dazed and confused, his legs buckling under him, it seemed he must surely go down, yet although he took severe punishment, he was still on his feet when the bell rang for the end of the round.
In the second round the match began to swing the other way. It was fighter against boxer, and the boxer was beginning to get the measure of his man. The second and third rounds were Lancelot’s. Gawain was fast and aggressive, and his right hook was a potential match winner; Lancelot, however, was the more skilful boxer and had the advantage of a longer reach. Time and again, as Gawain rushed in, Lancelot caught him with left jabs, then danced away, teasing his opponent into wild swings that rarely made contact. Though he never looked like knocking Gawain out, he was beginning to make him look clumsy, the crowd applauding this exhibition of boxing skill, even though most of them were secretly hoping that Gawain would win.
Lanky was in awe of Lancelot, and thought him ‘the dishiest man’. But if she was attracted to Lancelot, Gawain she found irresistible. Standing on her seat, she screamed encouragement, all the time blowing noisy kisses at him, much to the mortification of Guinevere. ‘Do sit down! The whole world will know you fancy him.’
‘What if they do?’
‘Really, Lanky, you are too much,’ said Guinevere, exasperated.
‘Who do you support, Ginny?’ asked Lanky, a glint of mischief in her eye.
‘Why should I care who wins?’ said Guinevere, her colour high, her breathing fast. Though she might feign indifference, there were some things one woman could not hide from another, especially one who knew her as well as Lanky.
The fourth round, too, was Lancelot’s, the fifth shared. That made it three rounds to Lancelot and one to Gawain, with one round even. Only one round to go. Waiting in their corners for the sixth and final round, the two men listened to their trainers. ‘Keep on jabbing and stay light on your feet,’ urged Ian
Duncan. ‘You’re odds on to win.’
‘Odds on? I’m a certainty,’ boasted Lancelot.
Gawain was in poor shape, his face bruised and swollen, his right eye rapidly closing, the cheek below it badly cut. Sponging his face tenderly, Gaheris, his younger brother, tried to stem the flow of blood. The big man adored everything about Gawain, his compact, sturdy frame, his red hair, his courage. If only the rules allowed it, he would have advanced into the ring himself, picked up Lancelot, lifted him high, whirled him round and tossed him into the crowd. The odds against Gawain winning were long, but one thing was certain, he would never give up, not till the final bell. Gaheris whispered deafeningly in Gawain’s ear, ‘Go for a knockout! One right hook and he’s down!’
Everyone in the audience knew that if Lancelot were still standing at the end of the final round, he would win not just the boxing match, but the tournament. They cheered and stamped their feet, many of them, appreciating his fightback, shouting Lancelot! Lancelot! Lancelot! It was music to his ears. True, he had never courted popularity, had in fact disdained it, but he was human. This was a new experience, and he was loving it. Raising his arms high in a victory salute, he acknowledged the applause, so that when the bell rang for the final round he was distracted by the crowd’s adulation, rising from his chair a fraction of a second too late. Charging across the ring like an angry bull, Gawain rocked his head back with a left jab and floored him with a savage right hook to the chin. Lancelot crumpled and fell. The referee stood over him and began to count.
‘One! Two! Three!’
The crowd was stunned to silence. ‘Four! Five! Six!’
Lancelot stirred . . . ‘Seven! Eight!’
. . . pushed himself up from the canvas on one knee . . . ‘Nine!’
. . . and fell back again. ‘Ten!’
Arms wide, the referee signalled that the fight was over. The crowd erupted, cheering, stomping and waving their arms. Long after the boxers had left the hall, they were still chanting – first Gawain’s name, then Lancelot’s – with cheers and stamping of feet from the two rival camps. Though it might not have been the greatest boxing match anyone had seen, it was certainly the most exciting.
‘I won fair and square,’ said Gawain later in the changing room, ‘though I admit I had a bit of luck.’
Lancelot sniffed. ‘I made it easy for you.’ Zipping up his holdall, he added, ‘A mistake I shall not repeat.’ And with that he stalked out.
‘I confess I was wrong and you were right,’ Leo told Arthur that evening. ‘The contest has certainly brought out the best in those two young men.’
Arthur was delighted to have the blessing of his old mentor. ‘Yes, it has, Leo. They have demonstrated all the qualities needed to be my Chief of Staff – except one.’
‘What is that?’ ‘Chivalry.’
‘An old concept, I would have thought.’ ‘No less relevant for being old,’ said Arthur.
‘You think chivalry is still relevant in the twenty-first century?’
‘Most certainly I do.’
‘When Lancelot swam to the finishing post, he was declared the winner in accordance with the letter of the law – certainly not the spirit. Was that chivalrous?’
‘It was not,’ said Arthur.
‘And when Gawain knocked out Lancelot when his attention was distracted, was that chivalrous?’
‘No.’
‘There you are, then. Chivalry is dead. In this remorseless age of ours,
Justice, Honour and Courtesy are worthy ideals, I grant you, but that’s all they are. There’s only one thing that counts.’
‘And that is?’ ‘Winning.’
‘I don’t agree.’
‘It’s what Camelot has to do, isn’t it?’
‘Not at any cost,’ said Arthur. ‘We must keep faith with our ideals. If we forget what we are fighting for, we lose the moral right to fight.’
‘Are you saying it is chivalry that distinguishes us from our enemies?’
Arthur considered his answer carefully. ‘Animals are programmed to do what they do,’ he said. ‘They have no choice. We do. And one of the choices we have is to show compassion and consideration to our fellow men, even to our enemies – in other words, to be chivalrous.’
Leo was not persuaded. Being both man of action and man of conscience – a rare blend – was what made Arthur so special, and set him apart from men like Lancelot and Gawain. Yet conscience was a heavy burden to carry into battle, one that could ultimately weaken the arm that held the sword. Though he admired Arthur above all men, he pitied him too, observing in him a reluctant hero, a man of peace compelled by destiny to become a man of war.
Seven
The hangar that housed Nimbles, Camelot’s fighter aircraft, had been specially adapted for the fencing match. Five banked rows of seats each side of the hangar overlooked the white strip known as the piste on which the contestants were to fight.
Briefly the referee summarised the rules. ‘As you will see, the fencer wears a mask to protect his face, a white jacket, and over it a silver-white metal mesh jacket, white shorts to below the knee, long white socks and soft shoes. On his back is a tiny radio that activates the light panel on the wall whenever there is a hit – that is when the tip of a foil makes contact with the opponent’s metal jacket. To assist identification, one competitor’s light is red, the other green. If there is a dispute, the referee’s decision is final.’
As the time of the match drew near, the crowd became increasingly restless and excited, the noise amplified in the echoing expanse of the hangar. Above the din the referee shouted; ‘The match will consist of three nine minute bouts, each bout divided into three sessions of three minutes each. The first contestant to make ten hits in a bout is the winner. If neither makes ten hits, then whoever has the greatest number of hits when time expires is the winner. If, at the end of the bout, there is an equal number of hits, the bout will be extended by one minute. Should that happen, I shall explain the rules that apply to the extension.’