by Alan Fenton
‘We’re nearly there,’ said Arthur, pointing.
Castle Point was high up on the cliffs, almost directly above them. On the beach below the ruined castle was a flat rock.
‘How are you enjoying NIWIS?’ he asked, sitting on the rock and beckoning Mordred to join him.
‘Tremendously,’ said Mordred. ‘Tich is a great teacher.’
‘He tells me you are doing a fine job. It’s obvious you have a special aptitude for the work,’ said Arthur, who found it remarkable that a young man as honest and transparent as Mordred should have such a talent for deception.
‘Thank you, sir.’
An awkward pause followed. Mordred had something to say, yet for some reason appeared to have a problem saying it. Arthur liked him and appreciated his dedication and intelligence, even if his manner was more that of a respectful employee than a close family member.
‘What is it you want to talk to me about?’ he asked, surmising that Mordred might have promotion in mind, or was perhaps seeking some personal advice, now that his father was dead.
‘Delicate matters,’ said Mordred, tossing a small lump of rock in the air and catching it. ‘For a long time now,’ he began haltingly, ‘there have been – you know – stories.’
‘Stories?’ prompted Arthur. ‘About Agravaine and Gaheris.’
Arthur tensed, suddenly apprehensive. ‘What sort of stories?’ ‘Stories that link them to those terrible murders.’ Reaching back his arm and grunting with the exertion, Mordred threw the lump of rock into the sea. ‘Slanderous stories. You must have heard them.’
‘I have,’ said Arthur, ‘and I don’t believe a word of them. There is no evidence whatever that your brothers were involved.’ ‘You cannot imagine how relieved I am to hear you say that,’ said Mordred. ‘Still, you know how it is – people talk.’ ‘What do they say?’
‘Oh you know, that there ought to be a trial to clear the air – that sort of thing – rather than . . . ’ ‘Rather than what?’
‘Rather than covering things up,’ murmured Mordred. ‘Covering things up!’ Arthur was unable to conceal his indignation. ‘That is not what happened, I assure you. There was no cover-up. The reason your brothers were not put on trial was simply – I repeat – that there was not a scrap of evidence against them.’
Mordred hunched over his knees. ‘I should have kept my mouth shut,’ he mumbled.
‘Not at all,’ said Arthur. ‘You are doing what you perceive to be your duty.’ In a gesture of affection he laid his hand on Mordred’s shoulder. ‘I hope you feel better for speaking your mind,’ he said.
‘Oh I do,’ said Mordred, throwing Arthur a grateful look.
Arthur consulted his wristcom. ‘You said there were a couple of things on your mind. Was there something else?’
‘I have already said too much for one day.’
‘Come now, Mord,’ said Arthur, ‘say what you have to say.
It’s all in the family. You are my nephew, after all.’
An odd look came over Mordred’s face. ‘Well, that’s rather the point,’ he said.
‘How do you mean?’ ‘I am not.’
Arthur’s brow crinkled. ‘Not what?’ ‘Not your nephew,’ said Mordred.
Was this one of those mind games they were always thinking up in NIWIS? Very well then, he would play.
‘You are not my nephew?’ ‘No.’
‘Who are you, then?’
Mordred picked up a handful of sand, sifted it through his fingers and rubbed his hands together in a washing motion until he had cleansed them of the very last grain. ‘I am your son,’ he said at last.
Arthur stared blankly out to sea. There are moments in a man’s life, he was thinking, when, without warning, everything changes. ‘My son?’
‘Yes,’ said Mordred. ‘How can that be?’ ‘It just is.’
‘How do you know?’ ‘My mother told me.’
His mother? . . . his mother . . . And then in a flash it came to him. ‘You mean Margot?’
Mordred nodded. ‘It’s quite simple, really,’ he said. ‘She told me that you and her . . . that you had a one night stand at the Commem. Ball at Oxford. And she was pregnant and you wanted to have the baby aborted, and she agreed, and then decided not to. Apparently she never told you that she changed her mind.’
‘No,’ said Arthur, ‘she didn’t.’
Mordred spread his arms. ‘So here I am,’ he said cheerfully, ‘your long-lost son.’ From under his brows he peered at Arthur. ‘You don’t seem very happy, father,’ he said. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost. But then of course in a way you have,’ he concluded with a grin.
‘You – my son,’ said Arthur, his head knowing that it must be true, his heart unwilling to accept it.
‘I imagine it comes as a bit of a shock.’
An understatement. ‘Why have you kept silent all this time?’ ‘I’m truly sorry, father,’ said Mordred. ‘I should have told you ages ago, but I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. I thought that knowing I was your son might embarrass you, that it might even create problems with the Round Table. Naturally that was the last thing I wanted to do. I love and respect you too much for that. Why did I change my mind?’ He shrugged. ‘I couldn’t live with the lie any longer. I needed to unburden myself – tell you the truth.’
It all made perfect sense. He had never thought to ask when Mordred was born, because he had always assumed he was Lennox’s child. Why had Margot never told him he had a son? Presumably because she didn’t want to break up her marriage to go and live with a penniless student. In any case, she had made it plain she didn’t love him, never had, never would.
Mordred nudged his father’s arm playfully with his elbow. ‘No hard feelings?’
‘On the contrary.’
The two men walked quickly back along the beach.
‘All these years it has been on my conscience,’ said Arthur. ‘Agreeing to an abortion, I mean. I want you to know that.’
‘Happens every day, I shouldn’t wonder,’ said Mordred. ‘Dad tries to have his baby done away with, and mum saves it.’ Arthur winced. ‘Oh God, I’m sorry. How tactless of me . . . that was a terrible thing to say.’
‘True, nevertheless,’ said Arthur.
Struggling to keep up, Mordred tripped on a rock and fell. As he tried to stand, his left leg buckled under him. ‘My ankle,’ he groaned, his face distorted with pain, ‘I’ve twisted it.’
Let me help you,’ said Arthur, taking Mordred’s arm and pulling him to his feet. The wind rose, whirling the beach into mini-tornados of sand. Thunder rolled menacingly, heralding the long-threatened storm. If only he had run after her, if only he had stopped her, he would have told her he had changed his mind . . . that he didn’t want an abortion. Wouldn’t he?
Supported by Arthur, Mordred limped along the shore, alternately grinning and grimacing with pain. ‘A couple of old crocks we are, father,’ he said, ‘me with my ankle, and you with your conscience.’
At the door Mordred was challenged by the security sensor.
Name?
‘Pendragon. Mordred Pendragon.’
Name not recognised. Entry refused.
A sardonic grin. ‘Talk to my father,’ said Mordred.
The two men sipped coffee.
‘I can only say again how sorry I am to have caused you a problem.’ He sounded genuinely penitent.
‘Problem! No, indeed. You have made me a happy man, Mord. I always wanted a son. Now I have one.’
‘Back from the dead, eh?’
Arthur swallowed hard. Some things were best left unsaid. ‘I can only thank God that you are alive.’
Mordred mentally doffed his cap to Arthur. He was making the best of a bad job. ‘Good for you, father,’ he said. ‘No use crying over spilt milk – or spilt sperm for that matter.’ A broad wink. ‘Will you tell the Round Table?’
‘Of course.’ ‘When?’ ‘Tomorrow.’
Mordred puffed out his chest proudly. ‘I w
ant the world to know that Arthur Pendragon is my father,’ he said. And in his heart of hearts he meant it.
The world turned, Arthur was thinking. History had a way of repeating itself. His own father, Uther, had given him up for adoption when he was a baby. Mordred must surely be asking much the same questions Arthur asked himself when he was a young man. What had he done to deserve his father’s rejection? Was there something wrong with his father? Or was there something wrong with him?
All these years he had robbed Mordred of his real father, and – were it not for Margot – would have robbed him of his life. It was a heavy burden of guilt he would have to live with. Only one thing could lighten it; earning the love of his new- found son.
Forty Four
The unprecedented summoning of the Round Table for no apparent reason intrigued every man and woman on Camelot. The fact that no one seemed to know what it was about was in itself puzzling, and for some alarming. Everyone had a theory, no one had the answer. Their curiosity aroused, members took their seats more than an hour before the meeting was due to start, in their excitement provoking arguments and counter-arguments, theories and counter-theories, none of them even close to the mark. When finally the four double doors were closed, the hall fell silent as every head turned towards Arthur. ‘As most of you know,’ he began, his fingers brushing the scar on his cheek, ‘my darling wife Guinevere and I have not been granted the blessing of children. However . . . ’ Arthur paused, not for effect but because he could hardly trust himself to speak, ‘when I was a young man, I met a girl and fell in love.
We had a brief affair and parted. As a result of that affair, she gave birth to a baby boy.’
If it were possible for the Great Hall to be even more hushed than it was before Arthur began speaking, then it had to be now. If, at this moment, a mouse had run across the flagstones, its footfall would have been clearly heard by every member. Astonishment imprinted on their faces, their eyes fixed on Arthur, they hardly dared breathe, fearing to miss a single syllable of his speech; for clearly this was a speech, a formal statement carefully prepared.
‘She never told me about it,’ said Arthur, ‘and so, for all these years I never knew I had a son. Until now.’ His eyes sought out Mordred, seated on the other side of the Round Table. ‘That son is Mordred.’
A few seconds stunned silence…then suddenly everyone was talking at once. Leo Grant, Arthur’s father-in-law, though shocked by the revelation, was the first to offer his congratulations. ‘I believe I speak for the Round Table when I wish you great joy in your son.’ He gestured in Mordred’s direction. ‘And you, Mordred, in your father.’
Gawain, Agravaine, Gaheris and Gareth exchanged troubled looks. Gawain raised his hand.
‘Yes, Gawain?’
‘This girl you mentioned, uncle . . . who is she?’
It was the question Arthur feared he would be asked, and found impossible to answer. What could he say? That he had not known who she was? That didn’t alter the fact that he had slept with his half-sister, their mother. How to justify that? Impossible. To confess the truth would undoubtedly end his relationship with the Lennox brothers, and almost certainly damage his reputation and standing in Camelot. On the other hand, lying would be wrong and also foolish, because Mordred might well contradict him.
In his moment of indecision he found himself looking at his son who, unknown to him, had already concluded he had nothing to gain by revealing who his mother was. That he was the child of an incestuous relationship was not something Mordred cared to share with the world. ‘Apart from my father and I,’ he said, ‘that is a secret known only to those dear departed souls who took me in. Out of respect for my beloved mother,’ he said, in a clear, firm voice, ‘my father and I wish to preserve her anonymity. I believe that is our right.’ He looked round the table, as if challenging anyone to object. No one did.
Arthur breathed a sigh of relief. Mordred’s statement, hinting as it did that Margot and Lennox adopted him, had saved him further embarrassment. It had also put him in his son’s debt.
Crossing the hall, he bent and whispered in his ear, ‘Thank you for that.’
Seizing Arthur’s hand, Mordred raised it high, shook it triumphantly, as though inviting applause for the victor, and to the accompaniment of cheers, led him out of the Great Hall, demonstrating not only his affection for his father, but a degree of proprietorial interest.
Forty Five
Though Arthur tried hard to get closer to his son, Mordred’s response was unexpectedly cool. Invitations to dinner were either refused or postponed on flimsy excuses, calls remained unanswered. The truth was that “outing” his father had neither satisfied Mordred’s thirst for revenge, nor diminished his hatred of him. So far so good, but more, much more, remained to be done.
‘You and I will be partners in a great enterprise,’ he told Galahad.
It excited and flattered Galahad that someone as important as Mordred could think of him as a partner. ‘What kind of enterprise?’
Mordred spread his arms as if he were embracing the whole sinful world. ‘The purification of Camelot,’ he said.
Galahad was mystified. ‘My father has spoken to me many times of Camelot’s ideals – love, honour, justice – and of how every man and woman on the island has sworn to live by them.’
‘If everyone in Camelot lived by such noble ideals,’ observed Mordred, ‘Camelot would not need purifying.’ Galahad’s blue eyes were troubled.
Mordred leaned forward on the sofa, his forehead furrowed, as if he were debating some difficult issue with himself. ‘I imagine you and your father are close.’
‘He tells me everything,’ said Galahad. ‘Does he?’
Something about the tone of Mordred’s voice made Galahad shift uncomfortably in his chair. ‘Is there some doubt in your mind?’ he asked.
Nothing could have been more innocent than Mordred’s expression. ‘No doubt, I assure you, none whatsoever. Or, at any rate,’ – A tactical pause to ensure he still commanded Galahad’s full attention – ‘none you need concern yourself with.’
Galahad drew himself up proudly. ‘I am not a child,’ he said. ‘If there is something I ought to know about my father, I insist you tell me.’
Mordred’s tormented eyes conveyed the impression of a man engaged in a struggle with his conscience. ‘It is not for me to utter a single word against your father whom I love and respect as much as any man I know. If it were not for . . . ’ Abruptly, he stopped.
‘If it were not for what?’ insisted Galahad.
Mordred fingered his bible. ‘If it were not for the seventh commandment,’ he said in a low voice.
Galahad’s eyes widened. ‘You are surely not accusing my father of . . . ?’ He broke off, unable to articulate the word.
‘Adultery?’ Mordred lifted his shoulders in a resigned shrug, mute acknowledgment that it was, when all was said and done, a degenerate world.
‘I refuse to believe that he . . . that he . . . ’ Galahad clasped his bible to his chest for comfort.
‘My poor Galahad,’ said Mordred, ‘I never meant to hurt you. If it were not for Arthur being so cruelly deceived . . . ’ He stood looking out of the window at a Nimble lifting off the launch pad, visible for a few brief seconds before mantling. Now you see it, now you don’t, he was thinking, much like the games he played.
Arthur cruelly deceived! Did that mean? . . . No. Impossible. Surely that beautiful, gracious, honest lady would never betray her husband. ‘Are you saying – are you telling me that my father and Guinevere are . . . ’ Galahad’s head lifted, his chest heaved, his mouth gaped as he gulped air. ‘Tell me it isn’t true.’
Keeping Galahad under observation whilst he did so, Mordred poured himself a coffee, deliberating over every detail of the ritual: first the coffee, then the milk, then, after much hesitation, the sugar, and finally, the slow, measured stirring that preceded the first sip. At last he spoke: ‘How I wish I could,’ he said.
‘Why are you telling me this?’
‘Because you have a right to know,’ said Mordred. ‘Frankly, I had not intended to mention it so soon. I was going to wait a few weeks. And then it just came out. But then that’s the way with truth, isn’t it? Truth will out. Isn’t that what they say?’
‘Does anyone else in Camelot know?’
‘An interesting question,’ said Mordred. He sipped his coffee again, and, after careful reflection, added more sugar. ‘It reminds me of the story of King Midas. Apollo was angry with the king, so he gave him a pair of ass’s ears, and Midas was so ashamed that he hid them under a cap. Only his hairdresser knew his secret, and he was too scared to reveal it. The problem was that he couldn’t keep it entirely to himself, so he dug a hole in the riverbank and whispered into it: King Midas has ass’s ears! As luck would have it, a reed sprouted from the bank and whispered the secret to everyone who passed.’
‘You mean everyone knows!’ ‘Some do. Not everyone.’ ‘Why don’t they tell Arthur?’
‘Good question. Let’s say they prefer to let sleeping dogs lie.’ A sardonic grin. ‘And bitches, too.’
Galahad jumped up. ‘I don’t. I’m going to tell him.’
An impulsive reaction that alarmed Mordred. Things were moving too fast. Those still waters were still no longer, they were seething. He had administered too large a dose of poison. Too much, too soon. ‘No,’ he said, ‘better not.’ For his plan to work, he needed time and careful preparation. Galahad was a pawn in a complex game. If he blundered in to Arthur now, the consequences could be disastrous. ‘Arthur won’t believe you, and you will be accused of spreading false rumours.’
Galahad was indignant. ‘But they aren’t false. You say my father and Guinevere are . . . ’
‘Like rabbits,’ said Mordred. Galahad shuddered.
‘Unfortunately,’ Mordred cautioned him, ‘we have no definite proof.’
‘How do we get it?’ said Galahad, gripping his bible so tightly that the tips of his fingers were white.