The Hour of Camelot

by Alan Fenton

  A nod from the two adversaries: they were ready to do battle. Circling each other warily, both men looked for an opening, Mujahid trying to distract his opponent with taunts – ‘How will you explain this to the Round Table? Sorry you didn’t Elimat me? – Arthur, his body perfectly balanced on the balls of his feet, conserving energy and breath, concentrating on his opponent’s movements, waiting for the right moment to strike. It was Mujahid, swaying from side to side, never taking his eyes off his opponent, who made the first move. Screaming dementedly he rushed at Arthur and swung his axe in a savage slice at his neck. Arthur jumped to one side, avoiding the sharp blade by inches. As the axe-head thumped the ground jolting Mujahid off balance Arthur brought his axe down with all his strength on his opponent’s head. Fast as he moved, Mujahid moved faster, leaping to his left and dodging the blow.

  As they circled each other, Mujahid shifted his axe constantly from his left to his right hand, trying to distract his opponent and catch him off guard. Arthur’s axe, now pointing at Mujahid’s head, now swaying from side to side, was always in his right hand. Both men launched simultaneous attacks, flailing their axes with such force that when they clashed sparks flew high in the air, the sound echoing along the clifftops. Suddenly the head of Arthur’s axe flew off and he was standing there defenceless with only the shaft in his hand. So astonished was Mujahid that for an instant he was transfixed, and in that instant Arthur wrenched the axe from his enemy’s hands and threw it over the cliffside. With a cry of rage Mujahid leaped at Arthur. Knives glinted in the rays of the rising sun, and in seconds both men were badly cut on arms and chests, their shirts stained with blood.

  Raising himself on his forearms, Gawain whispered, ‘I can’t bear this any more. I’m stopping it.’ Lancelot pushed him down. ‘No. He’d never forgive us. Wait.’

  Hoping to finish him off, Mujahid took another wild swing at Arthur. As he dodged the blow, Mujahid stumbled, his knife falling from his hand into the long grass. As Arthur stood over him, bloodstained hunting knife in hand, Mujahid raised his arms in surrender.

  ‘You win,’ he said, bowing his head.

  Clasping the handle of his knife in both hands, Arthur raised it high.

  ‘Do it, now,’ hissed Gawain. ‘Kill the bastard!’

  ‘Give me a minute to make my peace with Allah,’ said Mujahid meekly.

  Arthur lowered the knife. ‘You have one minute,’ he said.

  Gawain was nervous. ‘What’s happening? Why isn’t he finishing him off?’

  ‘Mujahid is praying,’ said Lancelot.

  As Arthur turned aside to grant his defeated opponent a last few moments of undisturbed prayer, Mujahid grabbed a rock he had spotted lying in the grass, leaped up and hit his opponent on the head with its jagged edge. Arthur fell back, stunned.

  ‘Fool,’ Mujahid muttered. ‘Stupid fool.’ Arthur stirred, his eyes opening and closing again.

  Gawain and Lancelot raised their portables, and almost immediately lowered them. The port’s positronic beam was less precise than a bullet. Even if the beam hit Mujahid, its residual power might seriously injure Arthur.

  Seconds later Mujahid had dragged the semi-conscious Arthur to the cliff’s edge, and now they had no choice. Yet again they aimed their ports. But before they could fire, the light of the rising sun was blocked out, as an eagle stooped in a near vertical dive, its deadly talons tearing at Mujahid’s eyes. Crying out in pain, he clutched his face, blood spurting through his fingers. As Lancelot and Gawain watched in amazement, the eagle soared far out to sea, wheeled, and sped fast as an arrow directly at its prey. As the predator’s talons ripped Mujahid’s face a second time, he fell backwards over the cliff edge, screaming all the way down to the rocks below.

  Recovering consciousness, Arthur rose unsteadily to his feet. Supporting him, Lancelot and Gawain searched the skies for the eagle, seeing nothing but a few clouds tinged with red by the rising sun. Suddenly it was hovering above Arthur, stroking the air serenely with its wings. Folding them, it landed on his shoulder. Reluctantly, the two men relaxed their hold on his arms, and backed uneasily away. For a full minute the eagle stood there, shifting its weight from one foot to the other, its head turning sharply this way and that, its yellow eyes peering angrily about, whilst Arthur, showing not a trace of fear, caressed its breast feathers. Then, with a flap of its great wings, the great bird rose a few feet in the air and circled Arthur three times, each time uttering a plaintive cry, “Kluee! Kluee! Kluee!” Banking left, right, and left again, it climbed steeply into the sky and disappeared.

  Arthur’s wounds, dressed in Camelot hospital, were fortunately superficial, and healed quickly. Like all the Round Table, Lancelot and Gawain were angry with him for risking his life, and wisely Arthur accepted their rebukes without attempting to justify himself, so that very soon, with no fuel to feed on, their anger cooled.

  The story of the hand-to-hand combat and its dramatic climax spread round the island. Some remembered hearing that Arthur had been attacked by an eagle when he was a boy, hence the scar on his left cheek; though what the connection was – if any – they could not say. Obviously this could not have been the same eagle, and besides, far from attacking Arthur, it had saved his life. Some, amongst them Leo Grant, were convinced that the great bird’s sudden appearance when Arthur’s life was in danger was no accident, believing as they did that his relationship with all creation was special, a thing of wonder and mystery, beyond human understanding.

  Whatever the truth, no one dared ask him for an explanation, nor did he ever volunteer one.

  Sixteen

  It was well known in Camelot that Lancelot, Gawain and Agravaine had played key roles in the success of Operation Sea Lord. Revelling in his newly acquired celebrity status, Agravaine, self-esteem at a new high, swaggered round the island sporting a single diamond ear stud, and a T-shirt decorated with a pirate hanging from a yardarm. Gawain shrugged off adulation in his customary gruff fashion, as, to the surprise of many, did Lancelot.

  His devoted friend, Ian Duncan, could not understand it. ‘You were the captain of Eclipse. You deserve the lion’s share of the credit.’

  ‘If you must praise someone,’ said Lancelot, ‘praise Gawain for captaining Kraken so superbly, praise Merlin whose inventive genius created the silver fish, the whale, and all the other extraordinary weapons in Kraken’s armoury, praise Arthur for his brilliant strategy, praise Agravaine for his cunning and foresight. But please, Ian, do not praise me. I don’t deserve it, really I don’t.’

  Dumbfounded, Ian searched his friend’s face for a clue, an indication that this might be nothing more than a strategic show of false modesty. Yet, looking into Lancelot’s eyes, he was certain his reaction was genuine, and that this was no ploy to court popularity. Besides, Lancelot was too honest to play that sort of game. Had he experienced some kind of spiritual revelation that would account for his newfound humility? Conceivable, though hardly likely. What, then, had brought about this extraordinary transformation?

  And then, one day, Lancelot dropped a casual remark that seemed to offer a clue: ‘People think better of a man who does not praise his own achievements,’ and on the face of it an innocuous statement few would disagree with. Coming from Lancelot, though, it made Ian sit up and take notice. Since when had Lancelot cared what people thought of him? How many times had he assured Ian that he found the price of popularity too high? Why, then, would such a man feel the need to impress anyone?

  In the days following Operation Sea Lord, Lancelot and Guinevere encountered each other from time to time, necessitating the exchange of a few politely formal words. Whereas before the operation Guinevere avoided him like the plague, she now acknowledged to herself that she found his company endurable, albeit in small doses. Had this unapproachable and taciturn individual undergone some kind of personality change? Such things were not unheard of. If so, was this new improved version here to stay? Or was it nothing more than a momentary break in the sullen clouds tha
t habitually overhung those haughty features?

  Curiously enough, Lancelot was asking himself very similar questions about Guinevere. Why was his former sparring partner sparring no more? Where were the steely looks, the acerbic retorts, the needling insinuations? Had she declared a temporary truce? Or was it a genuine change of heart? And if it was, what sun had melted the ice maiden?

  Ever romantic and ever watchful, Lanky was convinced she knew the answer. Something about Ginny was different; her eyes brighter and softer, her manner warmer. She had changed, not dramatically perhaps, yet enough to arouse her closest friend’s suspicions. Ginny was interested in someone, and a good thing too, a girl needed a bit of excitement in her life. Though undoubtedly she had the most gorgeous hunk of a husband, Arthur was out playing war games much of the time, and Ginny could be excused for getting restless. Besides, a mild flirtation never hurt anyone.

  For Lanky, the idea that some man had caught Ginny’s eye added a new and intriguing dimension to life on the island. Who could Mr. X be? Camelot was a small place with relatively few eligible men. She was enthralled by the thrill and challenge of it all. One by one she eliminated the suspects, until finally there was no one left – no one, that is to say, except the one man Ginny loathed. So not by any stretch of the imagination could it be him.

  More counting and recounting, more eliminating and re- eliminating. But if not him, then who? Oh, my God! Surely not! What a deliciously wicked thought! Well, there was only one way to find out. She would have to test the waters.

  ‘Is it my imagination, or has Lancelot changed?’ she asked Guinevere innocently.

  ‘Who, darling?’ ‘Lancelot.’

  A languid lift of the right eyebrow. ‘What about him?’ ‘Has he changed, do you think?’

  Guinevere could not have appeared more bored. ‘In what way?’

  ‘Don’t you find him a lot friendlier these days? Rather endearing, actually.’

  ‘Sorry, darling,’ said Guinevere, ‘who are we talking about again?’

  Lanky suppressed a smile. ‘Lancelot.’ ‘What about him?’

  ‘He seems friendlier, wouldn’t you say?’ ‘Friendlier to whom?’

  Was Ginny reacting a touch testily? ‘No one in particular.’

  Guinevere stared abstractedly into the middle distance. ‘How would I know?’

  Lanky was by now convinced that she was on to something. Ginny’s reaction was too studiedly indifferent to be genuine; she had to be hiding something. ‘You haven’t noticed that he’s been behaving differently lately?’

  Guinevere sighed. ‘Really, darling, it’s of no interest to me how Lancelot behaves.’

  Lanky decided to have some sport. ‘Do you ever wonder why such a divinely dishy man hasn’t found himself a girlfriend?’

  ‘I certainly do not. Why should I?’

  ‘You don’t think,’ suggested Lanky provocatively, ‘you don’t think he might be gay?’

  There was more than a touch of exasperation in Guinevere’s voice. ‘Why would you even ask me such a question?’

  Lanky pouted an apology. ‘Me and my big mouth, darling. I didn’t mean to pry into your private life.’

  The inference of those words provoked Guinevere, as they were intended to. ‘My private life! What are you suggesting?’

  ‘Nothing, darling. Nothing at all.’

  Guinevere knew instinctively that the sensible thing to do would be to change the subject, except that she was too angry and too impetuous to be sensible. ‘You are surely not insinuating that Lancelot and I are . . . ?’ – she stopped in mid- sentence, aware that she had allowed herself to be trapped into an indiscretion.

  ‘Are what, darling?’ enquired Lanky, her expression infuriatingly coy.

  Guinevere considered walking out on her friend, and decided against it; for that would only confirm her suspicions. Better to make light of her preposterous hints. She threw back her head and laughed what, in the trying circumstances, was the most convincingly scornful laugh she could produce. ‘What an absurd idea. Me and Lancelot! Why, he is the very last person in the world I would ever be interested in, if . . . if I was ever . . . which,’ she said quickly, ‘I most certainly am not. How could I be when I have the best husband in the world?’

  Lanky acted contrite, the two friends hugged, and Guinevere congratulated herself on her handling of what might have been an awkward business, little knowing that at that very moment Lanky too was congratulating herself. She had her answer, no doubt about it, Ginny was soft on Lancelot. Well, good for her. It was high time she stopped being so goody-goody and had some fun. For that was all it could be, harmless fun. Lanky hugged herself in anticipation of exciting things to come. As it happened, she did not have long to wait.

  The following day, she and Guinevere were in The Meeting Place, a combination of social club and coffee bar, popular with off-duty men and women, when Lancelot appeared in the doorway. The room was suddenly quiet. Lancelot, known to be the least sociable person in the world, was rarely seen here, and when he was, would invariably sit brooding alone in a dark corner munching a sandwich or sipping coffee and avoiding all eye contact. If he spoke to anyone, it would be to his father, Ban, or to Ian Duncan. What made his presence here today even more surprising was the fact he seemed to be focusing his attention on Guinevere and Lanky. For as everyone in Camelot knew, Lancelot and Guinevere shared a mutual antipathy, their encounters at best tense, at worst cantankerous. Not surprisingly, therefore, there were whispered comments and puzzled looks, some directed at Guinevere, some at Lancelot. Embarrassed, she shifted her chair so that she faced away from him.

  ‘Why is he staring at me like that?’ she hissed. As Lanky swung round to see who ‘he’ was, Guinevere grabbed her arm. ‘Don’t look! He’ll think I’m encouraging him!’

  Too late. At the perimeter of her vision she was aware that Lancelot was approaching, sensed that he was close, that he was standing by their table. A pulse throbbed in her neck.

  ‘Good morning, ladies.’ Lancelot’s voice was jovial, the expression on his face positively pleasant. To Guinevere’s horror, Lanky fluttered her eyelashes and patted her hair into place. For her, Lancelot was just the most handsome and romantic man in Camelot – after Arthur of course. And perhaps Gawain. And possibly Ian Duncan. ‘Great to see you, Lance,’ she said enticingly, as Guinevere cringed.

  Since Lancelot was now standing in front of her she could hardly ignore him. ‘I have to congratulate you,’ she said, making it sound like an obligation. ‘Arthur says we all owe you a great deal.’

  ‘I was a mere cog in the wheel,’ said Lancelot. ‘Arthur is an inspirational leader. I am proud to serve him. We all are.’

  So unexpectedly humble was this disarming response that both Guinevere and Lanky stared at Lancelot, not knowing what to say. Before either of them could think of anything, he made a slight bow, murmured his goodbyes and was gone.

  ‘That was impressive,’ said Lanky, nodding her head solemnly. ‘So chivalrous, so modest.’

  Guinevere could not but agree, if somewhat grudgingly. ‘He behaved correctly,’ she conceded.

  Lanky was more generous ‘He behaved like the gentleman he is,’ she said, and could not resist adding, ‘Whatever happened to Mr. Nose-in-the-Air?’

  Guinevere’s compressed lips and a lifting of her chin indicated that this particular discussion was at an end.

  It was the first of several such “chance” encounters. For weeks, Guinevere refused even to consider what they signified, indeed if they signified anything at all, other than that she and Lancelot were now more at ease in each other’s company. When unwelcome questions began to insinuate themselves into her head, she had her answer ready; Lancelot had become a friend, and that was all there was to it. No subconscious issues were allowed to break the surface of her conscious mind.

  Despite which, as the days passed, she and Lancelot began to meet, sometimes in The Meeting Place, sometimes on an island walk, first fortuitously then
by pre-arrangement, though an arrangement so delicately and casually contrived that it had all the appearance of being accidental. No one had the slightest reason to suspect that their interest in each other was anything more than social. Their conversation continued to be as innocent as it could possibly be, shy glances and occasional sighs conveying to themselves, if not to others, what words dared not.

  From one day to the next Lancelot would disappear without warning, and she would learn that there had been a military operation – a “party”. To her own surprise and embarrassment she found herself worrying about him when he was away, and unable to conceal her delight when he returned. Excited and fearful, they were soon wandering happily in a magical no-man’s-land, a blissfully uncommitted country bordering on love, enjoying the secret thrill of knowing, yet pretending not to know, acutely aware that it would take no more than a careless word to propel them both across that border, a step neither of them was ready to take.

  Lancelot’s peace of mind had always depended on everything in his life being neat and tidy; his clothes, his lists, his daily agenda, everything in its place, everything ready for use at the right time and for the appropriate occasion. His future was mapped, his course plotted, no deviations or distractions tolerated. His commitment was to Arthur and to Camelot, and he had no intention of betraying either.

  For Guinevere, the matter was equally straightforward. She was a married woman. Besides, as she told herself, love ‘of that sort’ was not for her; by which she meant that she never had been, nor ever could be, passionately in love with anyone. Passion controlled, passion deceived, passion disrupted a woman’s life, turning her into a silly, helpless fool. Arthur was her husband, lover and friend: her love for him was sensible, the kind of love that endured. So it was clear as a crystal ball that whatever she felt for Lancelot did not now, nor ever could, amount to love.