by Alan Fenton
‘No?’ said Mordred. ‘Well let me tell you, there are those here in Camelot who are already losing faith in our mission, people who think we are just a bunch of vigilantes. Already the vultures are up in the trees. A case like this would bring them down, and they would tear us to pieces.’
Mordred had sown a seed of doubt in Gawain’s mind. ‘Is there an alternative?’
‘Let’s at least wait until we hear what the British police have to say. If they issue arrest warrants for Agro and Gaheris, we shall have to hand them over. If they don’t . . . ’ A lift of the shoulders. ‘Why not let sleeping dogs lie?’
Gawain had some sympathy with Mordred’s point of view.
Undoubtedly the revelation that Agravaine and Gaheris had committed these terrible murders would be highly damaging to Arthur, indeed to the whole family. Yet what Mordred was proposing was equally unpalatable. To conceal the truth – would that not be to betray the very principles on which Camelot was founded?
‘Let me get this straight. You are suggesting that we cover up murder?’
‘Gawain, my dear brother,’ said Mordred, ‘I am suggesting we do what is best for Arthur and for Camelot. Let’s look at the facts. How can we be sure it was murder? Were Agravaine and Gaheris truly responsible for what happened? Was it not rather a cruel accident of fate? Gaheris is not a full deck of cards as we know, hardly responsible for his actions. Is he to blame? Or are we? Should we not have looked after him better? As for Agravaine, he has always been – shall we say – attached to mother, something which, by the way, she encouraged. He was maddened by jealousy. And a madman cannot be convicted of murder.’
‘So what is your conclusion?’
‘Men die every day, and women too,’ said Mordred, ‘some deservedly, some not. We are dealing here with killings carried out by two mentally unstable individuals, killings, moreover, that were to a great extent provoked by our mother, and by the callous way she betrayed her husband over the years. I hate to say it . . . ’ Mordred’s voice dropped to a dramatic whisper, ‘but in many ways mother was responsible for her own death.’ Had he gone too far?
Gawain was shocked. ‘That is a terrible thing to say.’ ‘Believe me,’ said Mordred, ‘it breaks my heart to say it.’ ‘Even if it were true,’ said Gawain, ‘it is not for us to make
that judgement. It is for the courts to decide whether our brothers are guilty.’
‘At the very worst,’ said Mordred, ‘this is a crime of passion.
They would probably both walk free.’
‘I respect your opinion, Mord, but it changes nothing,’ said Gawain. ‘It’s my duty to report this matter to Arthur.’
‘Your duty?’
‘Yes.’
‘I am puzzled,’ said Mordred, withdrawing to his second line of defence, ‘why you, a man of principle and integrity, feel it your duty to report this crime of passion when . . . when there are other crimes . . . ’ His eyes slid away from Gawain’s hostile stare.
‘What crimes? What are you talking about?’
Mordred’s face was a theatre of conflicting emotions. ‘I spoke too hastily. Forget what I said.’
Gawain’s jaw set firm. ‘Explain.’ ‘I would prefer not to.’
Gawain was fast losing patience with his brother. ‘I insist you explain what you just said.’
‘Do you not consider adultery a crime of passion?’ said Mordred in a rush of words which he appeared instantly to regret. ‘Forgive me, I should not have said that. I beg you, Gawain, please don’t be angry with me. It’s just that there are times when an honest man feels compelled to speak his mind.’ From the window of his apartment Gawain looked out at Camelot. A few hundred metres to the east was Command Control, dazzlingly white in the afternoon sun. Command Control. He had always believed that a man could control his actions, his thoughts even. It seemed he was wrong. With all the technology and weapons and brains in the world, what could anyone control? Nothing. Control was an illusion. ‘I believe you may be referring to certain mischievous and unfounded rumours,’ he said.
‘I do hope you are right,’ said Mordred, ‘and that they are unfounded. Because there are those who might be tempted to – um – communicate their suspicions to Arthur.’
Gawain felt the hairs rise on his spine. ‘Spread malicious gossip? Why would anyone do such a contemptible thing?’
‘They might feel it was their duty to do so,’ said Mordred, directing a sly look at Gawain.
‘Duty? To what?’
‘To the truth,’ said Mordred.
Gritting his teeth, Gawain could barely control his anger. ‘Are you saying that you could be the one to report these filthy stories to Arthur?’
Eyes wide with indignation, Mordred stepped back a pace. ‘Me!’ Another backward step. ‘Me!’ And yet another . . . ‘Me report them!’
‘Perhaps I misunderstood you,’ said Gawain, impressed by the fervour of his brother’s outrage.
‘I swear to you,’ said Mordred, ‘that I would never betray my family,’ adding in a faltering voice, ‘and I must say you disappoint me, brother. I thought you had more faith in me. This is where being honest gets you – being slandered by your own. I should have known better than to speak the truth.’
‘I apologise.’ said Gawain, genuinely contrite. ‘Then who do you think would do such a thing?’
‘I prefer not to name names,’ said Mordred. ‘In any case you can rely on me to persuade them not to do anything foolish.’
Gawain regarded his young brother with some astonishment. The introspective, solitary child he remembered had grown into a young man of strong character, with the integrity to go with it. ‘Forgive me, Mordred, I misjudged you. For a moment there, I thought you were – well – gunning for uncle.’
‘Uncle?’ For a moment Mordred was caught off guard. ‘Far from it,’ he said. ‘I love my uncle.’ A glint of mischief flashed in his eyes and was gone. ‘I couldn’t love him more if he were my own father.’
‘Arthur is Camelot,’ said Gawain earnestly. ‘We need him.
Without him we are lost. We must never do anything to harm him. If he knew about . . . about Lancelot and Guinevere, it would break his heart.’
‘It would indeed,’ said Mordred. ‘Which is exactly why I suggest we say nothing about it.’ A sly look. ‘And for the same reason – though only with your consent, of course – we should say nothing about our brothers’ confession.’ He held out his arms.
As the two brothers embraced, Gawain was feeling unaccountably ill-at-ease.
Two days later the British police announced at a press conference that the late Lennox Lotte had been heavily in debt when he committed suicide, and that his wife had disowned his debts. In their view, therefore, it was likely that Margot Lotte had been murdered by a paid hit man. As for the unfortunate Mr. Pellinore, he had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Mordred was content to bide his time. By his contriving, truth had gatecrashed the party, and brought down Agravaine and Gaheris. One day it would do the same for Lancelot, Gawain and the rest of them. And Arthur. Oh, yes, above all, Arthur. What fools they were, the lot of them! Let them brandish their swords and strut their ramparts. He would lay siege to their citadels as Joshua once did. And when he sounded the trumpet, the walls would come tumbling down!
Thirty Two
Camelot was a small island, and despite Gawain and Mordred’s pact, disturbing stories circulated that Arthur found hard to ignore. At first, like most people in Camelot, he was certain that neither Agravaine nor Gaheris had anything to do with the murders. Later, talking to Mordred and Gawain, he was less sure. Gawain, normally forthcoming, appeared defensive as if he were hiding something, and Mordred simply claimed that he knew nothing. Summoning Agravaine and Gaheris, he hoped they would convince him of their innocence, but in that hope he was disappointed, their protestations of innocence a touch too vehement for his liking, and their accounts of their movements after the funeral inconsistent.
> Leo Grant, man of law, and George Bedivere, man of action, each had their point of view. In order to try and settle their differences, they requested a joint meeting with their leader.
‘I say clear the air of these poisonous rumours, Arthur,’ said George. ‘Arrest Agravaine and Gaheris and summon them before the Round Table.’
‘On what grounds?’ ‘Suspicion of murder.’
‘Without evidence there is no case to answer,’ objected Leo.
George thumped the arm of his chair with his steel right hand. ‘These stories need to be investigated.’
‘You cannot charge a man without evidence,’ insisted Leo. ‘It would make a mockery of justice.’
‘Then I say the hell with justice!’ said George. ‘What legal evidence did we have against the Sea Lords before we took them out? None that I know of. And what about Sadiq and Khalid? I don’t remember anyone reading them their rights.’
‘Whether there is due process or not,’ said Arthur, ‘justice must be seen to be done, and if not justice that is strictly in accordance with the letter of the law, then at least justice that is morally defensible. That is crucial, and that is what distinguishes us from vigilantes. If we abandon the aims and ideals of Camelot, we lose our moral authority. If we lose that, we lose the war against the terrorists.’
‘I agree with Arthur,’ said Leo. ‘How do we know Gaheris and Agravaine committed this terrible crime? We don’t. Neither we nor the British police have any evidence against them. All we have is rumours, and you can’t prosecute people on the basis of rumours.’
‘Then we are agreed?’ said Arthur. ‘We do not arrest Agravaine and Gaheris.’
A quick nod from Leo and a reluctant growl of assent from George Bedivere.
In his heart of hearts, though, Arthur knew it was not the end of the story. Until the truth was established, the murder of Margot Lotte and Adrian Pellinore would remain an indelible stain on the integrity and reputation of Camelot.
Mordred was frustrated. Things were not proceeding according to plan. Those whom he had marked out as potential allies appeared to have no stomach for the fight. Determined though he was to bring Arthur down, he knew he could not do it alone. Moreover it was not in his nature to lead from the front. Let others have that dubious honour and assume the risks that went with it. As a child he had observed his older brothers from dark hiding places, sheltering behind chairs and tables, a habit that had not altered when he became an adult; except that now, instead of tables and chairs, he sheltered behind people, manipulating others to do his work for him. He needed an ally to front the palace revolution he was planning.
Keir had at least one qualification for such a role. He was, as Mordred knew, jealous of Arthur, jealous of his many friends and admirers, jealous of his standing and reputation in Camelot and the world.
‘How long have you been in Camelot?’ he asked him. ‘A few years,’ said Keir. ‘Why?’
‘No special reason,’ said Mordred. ‘It’s just that in all that time you have never been offered a position of authority, and I can’t help wondering why.’ Keir reddened, sensing an implied criticism. ‘I mean,’ Mordred clarified hastily, ‘why your obvious talents appear to have gone unnoticed.’ Keir relaxed, reassured by the comment. Cautiously, Mordred developed his argument. ‘I know it’s none of my business, and who am I to find fault with my elders and betters? but I do find it odd that you have been overlooked for so long. And I can assure you,’ he added for good measure, ‘that I am not the only one who thinks it strange.’
Mordred’s words had struck a chord. He was right, Keir was thinking. Arthur had never given him the recognition he deserved.
‘There are those who feel,’ went on Mordred, observing with satisfaction that his words were prodding the slumbering beast awake, ‘that Arthur needs to be guided, and that you are just the man to do it.’
It was obvious to Keir that Mordred had a high regard for him, and that he saw him participating in secret and vital discussions, offering his advice, making suggestions that might affect the very future of the world, earning the respect and admiration of his peers.
Mordred expanded on his theme. ‘There are so many key positions up for grabs. Let’s face it, even I have been given something to do – only Tich’s assistant in NIWIS, but at least it’s something. You deserve better than some obscure job in transport, Keir, a great deal better. You’re a top man. You should be Head of Command Control, or Commander of Robots, or perhaps running Medical Services.’
Keir received the accolade cautiously, like a dog nosing an exotic titbit. It was tempting, if a shade too rich for him. Sitting at the councils of the great was one thing, having to make decisions was something else. Vulnerable to flattery, he had, nevertheless, like many vain men, a more realistic perception of his own abilities than he conveyed to the world.
‘It troubles me,’ said Mordred, ‘that men of quality like you with so much to offer, are ignored, when lesser talents – and dare I say it, less honourable men – are rewarded.’
Keir was intrigued. ‘Such as?’
‘Please don’t ask me that question,’ said Mordred. ‘As everyone in Camelot knows, I am a plain, straightforward sort of man. With me what you see is what you get. I am not one to stab people in the back, or spread rumours.’ With a sharp glance at the target of his machinations, he added, ‘There is already far too much tittle-tattle in Camelot as it is.’
‘There are certainly some pretty unpleasant rumours floating round the island,’ agreed Keir.
Mordred raised his hands as if to fend off evil spirits. ‘I don’t listen to gossip.’
‘Have you not heard them?’
‘I told you, I never listen to rumours,’ said Mordred, ‘never.’ He looked away and quickly back again at Keir. ‘What rumours?’
‘About the murders.’
‘Loyalty,’ said Mordred unexpectedly, ‘is the most precious and wonderful thing – especially loyalty to friends and family.’
For a moment Keir was confused, wondering what loyalty had to do with rumours.
Mordred’s voice was low and intense. ‘But, important as loyalty is, it must never be used as an excuse for concealing the truth.’
Keir’s eyes brightened. ‘So it is true!’
‘What is?’ said Mordred.
‘That Agravaine and Gaheris killed your mother and her boyfriend!’
‘In heaven’s name,’ said Mordred, ‘what makes you say such a terrible thing?’
Keir smiled, congratulating himself on his cleverness, ‘That comment of yours about loyalty to friends and family. It gave the game away.’
‘I am too gullible in these matters,’ said Mordred, clapping an admonishing hand to his forehead. ‘Promise me you’ll keep it to yourself.’
Keir’s eyes flickered. ‘I swear I won’t breathe a word to anyone,’ he said.
If the skill of dissembling were measured on a scale of one to ten, Mordred was thinking, Keir would barely make a two. ‘What grieves me more than anything,’ he said, ‘is the thought that Arthur might be covering up wicked deeds out of a misguided sense of loyalty. Believe me,’ he said, his eyes shining fervently, ‘I am the most loyal of his followers. But there are some things even more important than loyalty. These rumours raise vital issues.’
‘What sort of issues?’
‘Issues that affect our right to call ourselves a democracy,’ said Mordred, ‘issues that cast doubt on our enduring commitment to the ideals of justice and honour. Arthur is powerful, perhaps too powerful. As someone once said, power tends to corrupt and absolute power corrupts absolutely.’
It was easy to tell from Keir’s expression that he was not displeased with what he was hearing. The moment had come, thought Mordred, to put him to the test.
‘Someone should do something about it,’ he said, making it sound like an invitation.
Keir’s pulse quickened. ‘About what?’
‘About double standards in Camelot. About the fact th
at murder is covered up, that good men are cast aside and bad ones flourish.’ He laid a hand on Keir’s shoulder. ‘Some might say it was time for change.’
‘What can I do?’ Keir’s dubious tone suggested he had little faith in his ability to change anything.
‘Has it ever occurred to you that perhaps you too have a destiny, like everyone says Arthur has?’
‘Me? A destiny?’
Mordred rubbed his hands together in a way that conveyed both humility and apprehension. ‘May I speak frankly?’
‘Please.’
‘Someone should deliver Arthur a warning, a friendly warning, of course, nothing excessive, but firm, you understand, firm enough to ensure that the message gets through.’ Mordred opened his arms to Keir as if he were offering him the keys of the kingdom. ‘What better man to do it than his own brother?’ Keir flinched and drew back, a wary look in his eyes, and Mordred knew instantly that he had picked the wrong man. Keir hated his brother, but he feared him too; he would never openly oppose him. When Mordred’s rebels laid siege to the palace, he would not be in the vanguard urging them on, he would be at the back of the crowd.
Unless of course Arthur was lying on the ground mortally wounded, in which case, thought Mordred disdainfully, Keir would be the one to finish him off.
Thirty Three
Working out in Camelot’s gymnasium, Lancelot shared his concerns with George Bedivere. ‘George, you know Arthur as well as anyone. Why isn’t he doing anything about Agravaine and Gaheris?’
George sweated and groaned as he lifted the barbell with huge weights on either end. Lancelot watched fascinated. George, they said, had lost his hand fighting insurgents in the Middle East. Not a man to let a minor handicap like a steel hand frustrate him, he had the machine shop fit a claw- like contraption that snapped onto his steel hand and locked around the barbell.
‘Because there’s no evidence against them.’ Grunting, he heaved the barbell high. ‘Not yet, anyway.’
‘Then why doesn’t he order an investigation?’