The Hour of Camelot

by Alan Fenton

  George lowered the barbell to the ground and unsnapped the gadget. His first loyalty was to Arthur. What Arthur said to him in private was just that – private. ‘If I were you, Lance, I would leave it to Arthur. He’s a wise man. Don’t ask me how he got to be so wise. Maybe because he listens a lot more than he talks.’

  Lancelot attacked the step machine savagely. ‘Arthur is under pressure. I should hate to see him crack.’

  With his left hand George lifted a massive dumb-bell and held it high. ‘This will crack before he does,’ he said, dropping the weight with a crash to emphasise his point. ‘And just because he’s not acting now doesn’t mean he won’t when the time is right.’ Removing his peaked cap, he wiped his balding head and bulldog neck, and put the cap back on. His end of work-out ritual complete, he pulled on his tracksuit bottom, stumped across the gym’s wooden floor and opened the door. Without turning his head, he said quietly, as if he were talking to himself, ‘Don’t kid yourself, Lance, there’s nothing in Camelot that Arthur doesn’t know about.’ And he was gone, leaving the gym door swinging.

  Slowly Lancelot eased himself off the step machine. Don’t kid yourself. Why would he kid himself? And about what? He didn’t like the sound of that, didn’t like it at all. Nothing in Camelot that Arthur doesn’t know about. Was George talking about the murders, or was he talking about Guinevere?

  How often had they agreed to end the affair. Fantasy, of course. They were inextricably linked; hearts, minds and bodies. There were times when he was certain that Arthur suspected something: a look in his eye perhaps, or an uncharacteristic stumble of words. Ginny was convinced he knew nothing. Was that what she truly believed? Or was it what she needed to believe?

  For a while he sat in his apartment thinking of the last time he made love to Ginny – and the next. Though his conscience troubled him from time to time, he tried not to see his ongoing affair as an act of betrayal. Rather it was his fate, something over which he had no control. Most other things in his life he had managed to control; not this. It was meant to be, and there was little point in soul-searching when there was nothing he could do about it. What made it more difficult was not being able to share his secret with anyone but the person who shared his guilt. The need to unburden himself was overwhelming.

  In the House of Prayer Arthur was kneeling, head bowed. Lancelot took a seat a few rows behind. He had never seen Arthur in the act of prayer before, and wondered whom he was praying to, and for what. For a time he waited, hoping he would notice him. But he did not. Ginny always said that Arthur had one happy and one sad eye. Was that true? Or did he have one ear open and one closed, so that with his good ear he heard what he wanted to hear, turning his deaf ear to all the rest? No, that couldn’t be true either. If he knew, he would do something about it, and in a way he wished he would; at least it would end this torment of uncertainty, this void of unknowing. As Arthur walked back down the aisle of the House of Prayer, he stopped and looked at Lancelot. Impossible to tell by his expression what he was thinking. It was as though his mind had disappeared into some remote corner of his being. Lancelot’s heart beat fast as he waited for the axe to fall. Arthur’s face was suddenly alive with recognition. ‘Lance! Good to see you!’ he exclaimed, and then, face drained of expression once more, passed by without another word.

  Lancelot sank to his knees, his whole body trembling, as it did every time he went into battle; though no one else in the world knew that. Composing himself, he walked slowly to the exit. As he stepped outside, he stopped, shielding his eyes, blinded by the light of the midday sun.

  Thirty Four

  The cottage door was opened by a beautiful young woman with brown eyes and long black hair.

  ‘I’m Nimue.’

  ‘Arthur,’ he said, extending his hand. She took it gravely. So this was Nimue, the mysterious young woman who had stolen the great man’s heart. Never would he forget the sight of the Magus trotting along the beach behind her. It had made him angry, and perhaps a little jealous too.

  They sat in high-backed Windsor armchairs opposite each other. ‘Merlin’s playing with his computers,’ she said. Her English was fluent, with just the merest hint of an accent. What was it? Spanish? South American? ‘He’ll be down shortly. Can I get you anything?’

  ‘Thank you, no.’

  He looked directly at her, trying to tease out a comment, but she did not speak. No doubt she suspected he was here to check up on her – which was partly true – and was trying to protect herself. For a long time neither of them said anything. Both his body and his spirit felt the weight of silence. There were many kinds of silences, he was thinking; relaxed, comforting, guarded, threatening. At first this was a guarded silence, transforming itself by degrees to a threatening one. Nimue sat demurely, hands in lap, showing no sign of being under strain. What was this power she had over the Magus? Was it love? So why had Merlin fallen for her? Because she was beautiful? Because she was so much younger than he was? She would be – what? – in her late twenties or early thirties, and Merlin well into his sixties.

  He began to feel claustrophobic, and then to sense an ominous presence in the room, as if some creature were trying to draw him into its embrace to be inspected, as a spider inspects a fly before sucking its blood. He was imagining things, he told himself. She was a perfectly harmless and very attractive woman with olive skin, high cheek bones, almond eyes and white teeth. Yet strikingly beautiful as she was, there was something about her that made his spine tingle.

  ‘You miss Merlin?’ she asked suddenly, smoothing the tights on one leg. She had wonderful legs.

  ‘I do, yes,’ he admitted.

  ‘You would like him to come to Camelot?’ ‘I came to see an old friend.’

  He knew by her expression that she did not believe him. ‘It’s for him to decide. I won’t stand in his way.’

  He did not respond.

  ‘I only want what’s best for him,’ she said, and looked as though she meant it.

  He felt himself believing her, being drawn to her, wanting her to befriend him. She really was the most fascinating creature, possessing that seductively elusive quality that drew a man to a woman and held him in her thrall.

  Then she was gone, and Merlin was in the room, smiling that special smile that lit up his face whenever he saw Arthur again. Virgil hopped onto Arthur’s shoulder and gently nibbled his ear, whilst the Magus sat upright in his chair and focused his green eyes on his protégé in a benign but inquisitive stare.

  ‘Nimue is very beautiful,’ said Arthur. ‘Were you under her spell just now?’ ‘I believe I was.’

  Merlin chuckled. ‘I’ve taught her a thing or two.’

  ‘What exactly have you taught her?’ Arthur could not resist asking.

  Merlin looked sheepish. Virgil inflated his feathers, uttered a harsh shriek and flew back to his master’s shoulder. ‘Some of my secrets,’ said Merlin. Seeing the concerned look on Arthur’s face, he added quickly, ‘Not all of them, of course. Not the secrets of Camelot, I promise you.’

  One day, Arthur was thinking, when Merlin was old, Nimue might trick him and rob him of his powers. What then? ‘Why Nimue?’ he asked.

  ‘You are thinking I am stupid to throw away my power for the love of a woman.’

  Arthur nodded. Useless to deny it when the Magus could read his mind.

  For a while Merlin was silent, stroking Virgil’s breast feathers. ‘Perhaps I am stupid. But what can I do? When I look at Nimue, I hear the sirens singing those sweet melodies that they say lure passing sailors to their deaths. And you know something, Arthur? I really don’t care.’ A mischievous look. ‘We are both in denial.’

  ‘What are you denying, Merlin?’

  ‘That Nimue does not love me,’ said Merlin sadly, ‘that she has something else on her mind – something she does not share with me.’

  ‘And me?’

  ‘How is Guinevere?’ enquired Merlin pleasantly.

  His fingers straying to the s
car on his left cheek, Arthur looked away, unable to face those challenging green orbs. What was Merlin hinting? That Guinevere, like Nimue, had something on her mind she did not share? Trying vainly to dismiss thoughts too painful to be confronted, his mood darkened.

  ‘You are troubled, Arthur,’ said Merlin. ‘I am having doubts, yes.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About myself. About what we do.’

  ‘Why now? Operation Sea Lord and NIWIS were triumphs.’ ‘We win battles,’ said Arthur, ‘but what about the war? Will we ever win that? Things change for a time, and then . . . ’ A despairing shrug. ‘nothing really changes. And the cost to us and the world in human lives and misery is so high. I can’t help wondering if the price is worth it.’

  ‘Let me tell you a story,’ said Merlin after a while. ‘A true story.’ He leaned back in his chair, the glow in his eyes dimming as his mind retreated into his head.

  ‘Once, years ago, I too was having doubts. It was the winter of the year the Master of Camelot died, and it was cold as cold could be. I went to a remote island in the Hebrides to meditate. There, by chance, or so I thought at the time, I met a sculptor who carved life-like figures of animals, birds and sea creatures; wolves and rabbits, foxes and polar bears, dolphins, seals, sharks, whales and porpoises, sunfish and turtles, penguins and gulls, cormorants, guillemots and kittiwakes, eagles, herons and kites – all of them so perfectly sculpted that it seemed as if the birds were ready to fly away, the animals to pad off across the ice, and the sea creatures to slip into the ocean.’

  Engrossed, Arthur leaned forward in his chair, even though he had no idea what all this had to do with him.

  ‘And you know the most extraordinary thing about those figures?’ said Merlin. ‘They were carved in ice! Every year when winter came, the sculptor fashioned them with hammer and chisel. When they were done, he lived with his family of ice creatures, cherishing and loving them until the spring came and they melted in the sun, water streaming down their bodies and faces as if they were weeping at their own fate. At first I found that strange; inexplicable, in fact. Why did the sculptor not work in stone or marble? Why did he sculpt in ice, knowing his creations could not last?’

  A long silence. Arthur hardly dared breathe for fear of disturbing the Magus.

  ‘And then it came to me. That sculptor deliberately chose to work in ice. In his own humble way, like every creator, he was mimicking the greatest Creator of all. Life is transient, Arthur. Nothing lasts. We are born, we live a brief moment and we die.

  All God’s creatures melt in the sun. But though life is finite, the process of creation is without end. That is why, every year when winter returns, the sculptor gathers his ice family around him again, reaffirming his faith in the circle of life.’

  Arthur was moved. Tears stung his eyes.

  ‘You and I have every reason in the world to share that sculptor’s faith,’ said Merlin, ‘for we both know that death is not an end, or we would not be here.’

  For a while there was no sound in the room but the ponderous ticking of the longcase clock in the corner, and a few subdued squawks from Virgil catching a mouse in his sleep. ‘I know you are right, Magus,’ said Arthur, ‘and I understand why you are telling me this. Still, I can’t help but mourn the many victims of terror who have died so cruelly and needlessly. And the pain is all the greater, because in a way I feel responsible for their deaths.’

  ‘That is part of the burden you must bear,’ said Merlin. ‘The road you have chosen is hard and lonely.’

  Arthur smiled sadly. ‘If only I had known how lonely.’

  ‘You have stolen the fire,’ said Merlin. ‘As I told you long ago, the pain of loneliness is the vengeance of the gods. It is the price you must pay.’ His green eyes glowed tenderly. ‘Remember, I am always with you.’

  ‘Is that a farewell?’ said Arthur.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Merlin, ‘but I fear it might be.’

  Thirty Five

  Mordred was puzzled and frustrated. Was everyone in Camelot deaf, blind and dumb? Didn’t they know that Lancelot and Guinevere were lovers? So why was no one doing anything about it? Didn’t they care? Was it downright stupidity? Or a conspiracy of silence to protect Arthur? Well aware that the prolonged affair could bring down Lancelot, and perhaps Arthur too, he was uncertain how to exploit it to his best advantage. One option would be to denounce the two lovers at the next session of the Round Table, a high risk strategy that could well rebound on him.

  Not a man to take unnecessary risks, he preferred to let someone else get their hands dirty. Keir had been found wanting. Who else could do the job? There was Ian Duncan, Lancelot’s close friend. It was possible he already knew about the affair, and then again he might not. There were still many who didn’t. How would he react if he discovered that the idol he worshipped had the proverbial feet of clay?

  He dropped in on him. ‘Some time ago I heard something that shocked me deeply. I’ve been keeping it to myself, but it’s driving me crazy, and I don’t know what to do.’

  ‘How can I help?’ asked Ian, concerned.

  ‘Let me first assure you,’ said Mordred, ‘that I despise gossips. It’s just that sometimes . . . ’ He hesitated, seeming lost for the right words to express his predicament. ‘The fact is I am desperate. I can’t keep quiet any longer. I simply have to confide in someone I can trust. And I would trust you with my life.’

  Ian Duncan, extrovert and uncomplicated, was touched.

  ‘Thank you, Mord.’

  Mordred put on a convincing show of a man struggling with his conscience. ‘If only it was not so hard to talk about,’ he said.

  ‘Whatever it is, it’s obviously preying on your mind,’ said Ian. ‘Best get it off your chest.’

  ‘They say the ancient Greeks executed messengers who brought bad news.’

  Ian grinned. ‘You have my solemn promise that I won’t execute you,’ he said.

  ‘It’s about Lancelot,’ said Mordred. ‘What’s he been up to?’

  ‘About him and Guinevere, I mean.’

  Ian stiffened. ‘What are you saying, Mordred?’

  ‘I’m not saying anything,’ said Mordred, lifting his hands in pious protestation. ‘It’s the gossips – they’re the ones saying those wicked things.’

  ‘What things?’ said Ian, his face pale as a death mask.

  ‘Dear God, I wish I had never started this,’ muttered Mordred, chin cupped in hands, fingertips gouging his cheeks. ‘Forget I said anything, Ian. Please forget it.’

  Ian ignored him. ‘What things?’ he asked again.

  ‘That . . . that Lancelot is . . . that he’s . . . ’ Mordred’s voice dropped ‘God help me,’ he muttered.

  ‘That Lancelot is what, Mordred?’ ‘Close to Guinevere.’

  ‘Are you suggesting they are having an affair?’

  ‘The gossips are spreading poison. What do we do, Ian? Tell me.’

  ‘Do?’ Ian shook his head as if to clear it. ‘I don’t know,’ he said, ‘I really don’t know.’

  For a week Ian tried to dismiss the thought from his mind, but it refused to go away, stalking his days and nights. Who could be spreading this monstrous lie? For a lie it must be.

  Yet what if it were true? Not that he had any right to sit in judgement. His own record was nothing to be proud of; many women, numerous affairs, most recently with Lanky. Knowing that her feelings for him were far stronger than his for her, he should have ended the affair long ago, or better still, never started it. The shameful truth was, that where women were concerned, his own sexual gratification was paramount, and if a woman got hurt in the process, he would not lose sleep over it. No, he had no right to judge anyone, let alone Lancelot.

  Though if there were any truth in the rumour, someone ought to do something about it. Could there be? Was it possible that his high-minded friend, so critical of others, could be so dishonourable in his own life? Men should practice what they preached. What if Lance
lot really was playing around with Arthur’s wife? The more he thought about it, the more outraged he became. Lancelot and Guinevere? Could his dearest friend be so two-faced? Hard to credit. One way or another, he needed to be sure. He consulted Gawain, an honest man, a man you could depend on; Arthur’s friend, and Lancelot’s too, despite their rivalry.

  ‘Have you heard the rumours?’

  Protecting Arthur and his good name was an absolute priority for Gawain. ‘Mordred could have got it wrong,’ he said, avoiding a direct response.

  ‘Is that likely?’

  ‘I don’t know, and I really don’t care,’ said Gawain. ‘What I do know is that it’s none of my business. Or anyone’s but Lancelot’s and Guinevere’s. And Arthur’s. What right do we have to interfere? People’s sex lives are not my concern. Nor should they be yours.’

  ‘The issue is not people’s sex lives,’ said Ian. ‘The issue is truth.’

  ‘Better to leave what you call truth unspoken,’ said Gawain, ‘than let it destroy everything we are working to achieve.’

  There was a time when Ian would have endorsed that philosophy. Not now, though, and not when Lancelot was involved. ‘Truth is what Camelot is founded on,’ he said. ‘It’s what we have all taken an oath to uphold. Without truth we are nothing.’

  Gawain had heard enough. ‘No one appointed you Minister of Morals, Ian,’ he said peevishly, ‘and anyway, as I understand it, we are talking about rumours and gossip, not truth. The best thing you can do for all our sakes is to forget what Mordred told you.’

  Try as he might, Ian could not take that advice. What should he do? Go straight to Arthur? No, that would be unfair. The very least he owed Lancelot was the chance to defend himself.

  As he stammered and stuttered out the rumour, Lancelot regarded his friend with disdain.

  ‘Do you deny it?’

  For a moment it was the old haughty Lancelot. ‘How dare you interrogate me?’ Then, seeing how wretched Ian looked, his voice softened. ‘I thought you were my friend.’