The Hour of Camelot

by Alan Fenton

  To resounding cheers from their supporters, Lancelot and Gawain took up their starting positions, saluting each other with their foils.

  ‘Ready?’ asked the referee. Two nods.

  ‘Fence!’

  The first to score ten hits was Gawain. It took him seven minutes, and in that time Lancelot scored only four. Of the two, Lancelot was the more elegant fencer, but Gawain was fierce and fast, most of his points being scored not in attack but in parry and riposte.

  ‘First bout to Gawain!’

  After a rest of fifteen minutes the second bout began. This one was much closer, and at the end of a tense struggle, Lancelot scraped home by ten hits to nine.

  ‘One bout all!’

  During the rest period the two men sipped water and listened attentively to the advice of their fencing masters.

  ‘It seems a pity,’ said Leo, leaning across to Arthur, ‘that either one has to lose. There really is nothing to choose between them – as sportsmen or as men.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Arthur. ‘But the fact is, there can only be one Chief of Staff.’

  ‘Final bout,’ announced the referee. The crowd fell silent. ‘Ready?’

  Two nods. ‘Fence!’

  The hits were confirmed with a brief explanation from the referee as red or green lights flashed on the electronic score board. ‘Halt! A hit to Lancelot. Attack from the right on target. Fight on!’ Engrossed in the fight, the crowd was hushed. ‘Halt! A hit to Gawain. Attack from the front, parry septime and riposte. Fight on!’ Then almost immediately, ‘Halt! A hit to Gawain. Attack from the left on target, parry quatre and riposte. Fight on!’

  It was a fascinating contrast in styles and temperament, almost as though their natural roles had been reversed, Lancelot now daringly aggressive, Gawain biding his time, waiting for his opponent to make a mistake. The first three minute session ended with a dazzling sequence of moves – Lancelot leaping into an audacious attack, Gawain’s parry, Lancelot’s riposte, counter parry by Gawain, counter riposte and hit! Gawain’s point. Three hits to Gawain, two to Lancelot.

  While the two fencers huddled with their fencing masters, the crowd stomped their feet, making such a din that even people sitting next to each other could barely make themselves heard.

  The referee signalled the end of the brief rest period. ‘Time!’

  Silence. ‘Ready?’ Two nods. ‘Fence!’

  When the second session ended, the score was Gawain, six hits, Lancelot four.

  Two minutes into the third and last session of the final bout, the score was seven hits to Gawain, five to Lancelot. The noise was deafening, cheers and counter-cheers reverberating around the hall.

  ‘Attack, disengage, counter-attack, riposte octave. Halt! A hit to Lancelot! Fight on! Attack from the right, parry quatre, riposte, counter-parry, counter-riposte, attack from the right, riposte septime. Halt! A hit to Gawain. Fight on!’

  Thirty seconds to go. Eight hits to Gawain, six to Lancelot. The seconds ticked by. The crowd was silent again, so silent that they could hear the contestants’ heavy breathing, the slap and squeal of soft-soled shoes on the piste, and the scrape of their foils as they clashed. Lancelot had abandoned all caution. With nothing to lose, he was constantly on the attack, the blade of his foil a blur of movement in the air.

  ‘Halt! Hit to Lancelot! Fight on! Halt! Hit to Lancelot.

  Lancelot eight hits! Gawain eight hits! Time!’

  There was not a sound in the great hangar, the crowd hardly daring to stir in their seats.

  Lancelot and Gawain removed their masks and wiped their foreheads with the back of their hands.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, because the contestants are even at eight hits all,’ said the referee, relishing the drama, ‘the final bout will be extended by one minute.’ There was a sudden flurry of excitement in the audience, and then, in response to the referee’s admonishing hand, silence. ‘I shall now toss a coin. Who will call?’ Lancelot pointed at Gawain.

  Gawain called, ‘Heads!’ as the coin spun in the air. The referee bent to pick it up. ‘Heads it is,’ he confirmed.

  The crowd was chattering again. Once more the referee held up his hand for silence. His deep voice boomed round the big hangar. ‘Gawain has won the toss. According to the rules of fencing he now has the advantage. The two contestants will fence for one minute. When the minute is up, if no hit has been scored, Gawain will be the winner. If there is a hit, or several hits, whichever contestant is ahead will be the winner. If both fencers score the same number of hits, the bout will be extended by a further minute.’

  In the audience neighbour consulted neighbour, reminding each other that it was not just this session, not just this bout, not just this match, but the whole tournament that hung in the balance, and, as everyone knew, the winner would be Camelot’s Chief of Staff.

  The referee took up his position. ‘Ready?’

  Both men nodded. ‘Fence!’

  Lancelot immediately launched a fierce attack, driving Gawain back to the end of the piste and scoring with a lunge. To everyone’s surprise the red light did not flash on the electronic screen. Lancelot flung his arms wide. ‘I claim a hit!’

  The referee nodded. ‘A hit to Lancelot. Nine hits, Lancelot.

  Eight, Gawain. Fight on!’

  Row after row of spectators sat still as statues. Forty seconds to go. Another frenzied attack from Lancelot. As Gawain retreated, the point of his foil touched his opponent’s chest, and this time there was no green light on the wall screen. Gawain stuck out his jaw and looked at the referee.

  ‘A hit to Gawain. Nine hits all. Fight on!’

  Thirty seconds to go. Now Lancelot was more cautious, compelling Gawain to launch an attack. Lunge, riposte, attack from the left, parry quatre. Yet another attack. Gawain’s blade was inches from Lancelot’s chest, a swift disengage, a flick, and the point of his foil slid past his opponent’s right arm as the tip of Gawain’s blade appeared to make contact with Lancelot’s chest. Yet again there was no green light on the wall screen. Gawain looked expectantly at the referee who shook his head. ‘Time up! Nine all. Final session will recommence in one minute.’

  There were a few subdued boos. Looking troubled, Arthur shifted in his seat. Lancelot removed his mask. ‘It was a hit,’ he said.

  The referee looked dubious. ‘Are you sure?’

  Lancelot looked down his nose at the referee. ‘It was a hit,’ he repeated.

  The referee hesitated. And then . . . ‘A hit to Gawain!’ A brief pause to milk the moment . . . ‘Gawain is the winner! Ten hits to nine!’

  The audience rose to its feet clapping and cheering, though whether for Lancelot or Gawain it was impossible to tell. As Arthur descended the stairs to the piste, the two contestants shuffled their feet and avoided each other’s eyes.

  ‘A good fight,’ said Gawain gruffly. ‘It was,’ said Lancelot.

  And then a strange thing happened; the crowd began to chant, ‘Lancelot! Lancelot! Lancelot!’ whilst Lancelot looked at the floor in embarrassment.

  ‘What’s all this about?’ asked Lanky.

  ‘They like what he did,’ said Guinevere. ‘Conceding the hit, you mean?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘I imagine they think it was chivalrous of him.’

  Lanky was appalled. ‘The hell with being chivalrous! Gawain won, didn’t he? They should be cheering him, not Lancelot.’

  A reproachful glare from Guinevere. ‘Really, Lanky,’ she said, ‘sometimes you can be so insensitive.’

  Lanky directed a searching look at her friend and held her peace.

  As the chants of Lance-e-lot! Lanc-e-lot! Lanc-e-lot! continued, Gawain and Arthur were huddled in earnest conversation, and Lancelot, standing to one side, looked ill at ease. The crowd was silent, guessing that something unusual was happening.

  ‘It’s your decision, sir,’ said Gawain. ‘If you order me to do the job, I’ll do it to the best of my ability. I have to
be honest, though, I can live quite happily without it. All I ever wanted was to show that I’m as good a man as Lancelot, and I think I’ve done that. Frankly, I think he’d make a better Chief of Staff than me. Besides . . . ’ – A rueful grin – ‘he’s taller and better- looking. He looks the part. I don’t.’

  Arthur observed the two young men: Gawain and Lancelot, Lancelot and Gawain. Little to choose between them: both intelligent, fearless and loyal, both dedicated to Camelot, both honest and chivalrous, as they had proved by their behaviour in the fencing match. Not an easy choice to make. Far from it. Yet, as he looked at them, he knew what his decision had to be. Gawain was right. Lancelot would make the better Commander in Chief. He did indeed look the part. It was not a matter of being tall or short, handsome or ugly. Lancelot had an air of purpose and conviction about him, and that unmistakable stamp of authority that distinguished him from other men, marking him out as a born leader.

  ‘These last days,’ said Arthur to Gawain, ‘you have demonstrated that you are a superb athlete and a great competitor. But nothing you have achieved compares with what you are doing now.’ Turning to Lancelot, he said, ‘The job is yours, Lance – that is, if you want it.’

  The truth was that Lancelot had never wanted anything as much. Choked with emotion, he was quite unable to speak. Words, though, were unnecessary, for Arthur understood very well what was going through his mind. Beaming, he laid his hands on the two men’s shoulders. ‘Friends,’ he told the crowd, ‘today there is no loser. These magnificent competitors are both winners – Gawain, who won the contest and surrendered the prize, and Lancelot, Camelot’s Chief of Staff!’

  Lancelot bowed his head, the knuckle of his index finger lightly brushing first the corner of one eye, then the other. Arthur, who missed nothing, noted the gesture and found it not at all surprising. Guinevere, who also saw it, was astonished and confused. Was Lancelot not an unfeeling and arrogant man? Of course he was! So what had it signified – that swift movement of the hand? Could it possibly have meant what it appeared to mean? Surely not. The very idea that such an insufferably conceited prig, such a monstrously vain and unfeeling creature could shed a tear at such a time – why, it was preposterous!

  Or was it? Had she misjudged him? Could chronic shyness explain his distant and ungracious manner? Not, of course that it was of any consequence what she thought of Lancelot, nor he of her. Still, Arthur had such obvious affection for him and was so anxious for them to be friends that she felt under some pressure at least to make an effort. A chance meeting as Lancelot was leaving Arthur’s observatory that same afternoon gave her the opportunity she was looking for. For an uncomfortable moment the two stood face to face, neither of them knowing what to say.

  Finally, Guinevere blurted out, ‘Congratulations on your appointment.’

  ‘Thank you, ma’am.’

  ‘And of course,’ she added, after some hesitation, ‘on your fine performance in the contest.’

  Lancelot inclined his head in grateful acknowledgement.

  Reflecting on it later, there must have been, Guinevere told herself, something about that mute response that encouraged her to offer one compliment too many. ‘You were unlucky to lose.’

  ‘The best man does not always win,’ replied Lancelot with a condescending smile, frozen instantly on his face by Guinevere’s icy response.

  ‘True,’ she said, ‘though in this case he most certainly did.’

  Eight

  When arthur suggested that the time had come to talk to world leaders, there were some prominent members of the Round Table, notably Lancelot and Gawain, who disagreed with him.

  ‘Why do we have to talk to anyone?’ said Gawain.

  ‘We don’t need the world,’ said Lancelot. ‘The world needs us.’

  ‘We may not need the world’s military assistance,’ said Arthur. ‘What we do need, though, is its moral support. Our mission is about more than winning a war, it is about winning hearts and minds. It seems to me we have no choice; we must take the nations into our confidence and convince them of the justice of our cause.’

  Arthur’s view prevailed and preparations were begun. It would be impracticable and probably counter-productive, Arthur decided, to attempt to talk to every world leader. A shortlist was therefore drawn up of those who wielded global power and influence to a greater or lesser extent, and whose political agendas were very different: Russia, China, the US, Iran, France and the UK.

  The first to appear on screen in Arthur’s observatory was Winslow Marsden, the President of the United States. By nature sceptical, he was deeply suspicious of Arthur’s motives. ‘What exactly is in it for you guys?’

  ‘It’s not about money or territory or personal aggrandisement, if that’s what you mean,’ said Arthur.

  ‘Then what is it about?’ ‘Defeating terrorism.’

  ‘Terrorism is not a politically correct word these days.’ ‘I can live with that,’ said Arthur.

  There was a distant look in the President’s eye. He was recalling many a verbal duel with Arthur. ‘OK, so how do you define terrorist?’

  ‘Terrorists,’ said Arthur, ‘are those who promote their cause by murdering and maiming innocent men, women and children, whose primary purpose is to create divisions between races, religions and nations. A worldwide, co-ordinated attempt to undermine social order constitutes terrorism, and those involved are terrorists.’

  ‘I hear what you’re saying, and I don’t disagree with you,’ said Winslow Marsden. ‘I just don’t see how you can help. I suggest you leave it to the big boys, Arthur.’

  ‘The people have lost confidence in the big boys. They haven’t done the job.’

  ‘Not yet,’ admitted Winslow Marsden, ‘but we’re getting there.’

  ‘No, you’re not,’ said Arthur. ‘With every year that passes, the terrorists are becoming more active. From time to time you win battles, but they are winning the war. The Islamists, for example, have access to plutonium, uranium, and all sorts of chemical and biological nasties. They have already used them. Not so long ago the Angels of Mercy tried to contaminate eight capital cities and murder countless innocents.’

  ‘I haven’t forgotten,’ said the President grimly.

  ‘If we don’t act decisively now, it’s only a matter of time before they decide to use nuclear weapons and inflict huge casualties and immeasurable economic and psychological damage on the world.’

  ‘Even if you’re right,’ said Winslow Marsden, ‘what can you bring to the table? You’re talking to the President of the greatest power on earth.’ He waved a dismissive hand. ‘What can you do that we can’t? You have neither the weapons nor the manpower.’

  Arthur was too experienced and too wily to allow himself to be riled by the President. Calmly, he told him about Eclipse, the fastest, most advanced and powerful aircraft in the world, appearing and disappearing at will, capable of destroying enemy aircraft, warships and submarines at a range of a thousand kilometres, of transporting troops and their weapons within hours to any trouble spot on the globe, or, if the need should ever arise, with enough firepower to destroy an army or a city. ‘So you and your buddies are going to save the world with one aircraft!’ said the President with a mocking smile.

  ‘And then there’s Kraken,’ continued Arthur undaunted. ‘A massive surface and submarine craft, faster and more deadly than any vessel afloat or likely to be afloat for many years, with the same power and potential for destruction as Eclipse, plus some very special tricks of its own.’

  ‘You scare me,’ said the President.

  ‘Nimbles, our fighter aircraft, are capable of flying in excess of Mach five,’

  ‘Impossible. No human being could survive that kind of gravitational pressure.’

  ‘That’s why every pilot is a robot,’ said Arthur.

  A derisive snort. ‘Of course he is,’ said the President. ‘And the navigator is Peter Pan.’

  Without reacting, Arthur spoke briefly about Camelot�
�s most devastating weapon. He was not trying to frighten the President, but it was vital he understood how deadly Excalibur was, and how far ahead of its time. ‘Now let’s talk energy,’ he said.

  ‘Be my guest,’ said the President gloomily.

  ‘In the late twentieth-century,’ continued Arthur, ‘the maximum energy achievable was one hundred Tesla per millisecond. Our energy source generates something in the region of eighty Giga Tesla.’ A wry smile. ‘I don’t expect you to understand all this – I don’t myself – but let’s say that Tesla is equal to ten thousand units of magnetic induction. Giga is equivalent to ten to the power nine. What’s more, we have succeeded in containing this enormous energy in the magnetic field. With it we bombard Space-Time and break it down. Experiments have been going all over the world for years – at Cern in Switzerland, and other places – but until now now no one has succeeded in producing sufficient energy to break down and reassemble matter. We have. We use the magnetic field as a giant battery to fuel our air, land and sea craft, and to power Excalibur. Eclipse and Kraken carry Excalibur, and every active carries an Excalibur portable.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said the President, ‘but this has to be hooey.’ ‘You saw Excalibur in action in 2026 when we dealt with the

  Angels of Mercy,’ Arthur reminded him.

  The President chuckled. ‘The disappearing buildings! Crap, Arthur! An illusion – a clever one, I’ll give you that. The shrinks put it down to mass hysteria, didn’t they? Whatever. One thing for sure – those buildings did not disappear. It never happened. ’ ‘It happened, I assure you,’ said Arthur. ‘Excalibur can dematerialise matter in any form – buildings, weapons, air and sea craft, and yes, people. It has three modes – Demat, when matter is disassembled and Remat, when it is reassembled. The third mode is Elimat. It’s the ultimate mode, when matter is permanently destroyed.’