The Hour of Camelot

by Alan Fenton

  Mordred’s tongue moistened his lips. ‘Catch them in the act.’ Galahad blushed. The thought of those naked, entwined bodies was shameful, disgusting, too horrible to contemplate. ‘Are you saying, Mordred – are you saying that they . . . that they actually . . . ?’

  ‘Fuck?’ suggested Mordred helpfully. Galahad nodded, his face crimson.

  Mordred laid his hand on his bible. ‘I swear they do,’ he said, looking him in the eye.

  No words could express Galahad’s revulsion. His father and that woman! He had seen the way she was with Arthur, her loving looks, the way she held his hand, the whispered confidences. And it was all a masquerade! Behind that lovely face was a deceitful, treacherous woman, no better than a whore! Worse! Whores sold their sexual favours honestly, they did not deceive men, lie to them, tell them they loved them.

  The rest of the day he spent lying on his bed and running to the bathroom to throw up. That night he slept fitfully and woke feeling tired and confused. Though he had promised Mordred not to say anything to Arthur, he spent most of the next morning praying to God for guidance. What was he to do? Tell Arthur? Or keep silent? He found himself wishing Mordred had not taken him into his confidence. For there were some things it was better not to know.

  Forty Six

  The more he thought about it, the less sure of himself he became. What if Mordred were wrong? He had admitted there was no actual proof, and a man ought not to be accused, let alone condemned, on the basis of rumours. The question was, how to separate rumour from fact? Who would know the truth? Who could be relied upon to tell it? Only one man that he could think of – his father. He would confront him, ask him in plain English: was he having an affair with Guinevere – yes or no? His father would say no, and that would be the end of it. Setting aside all doubts, he made an appointment to see Lancelot, steeling himself for what inevitably would be a traumatic confrontation.

  Sensing immediately that something was troubling his son, Lancelot experienced a father’s concern, a new, and not entirely unpleasant, sensation. ‘What’s wrong?’

  Galahad held his bible tight, focusing his gaze a few inches to the left of his father’s head. ‘I have a question to ask you.’

  Lancelot knew instinctively what the question was going to be.

  ‘There are people who say – who say that you are . . . having an affair with . . . ’ – He could not speak the name – ‘with Arthur’s wife. Is it true?’

  If Galahad knew, who else did? Arthur? Had he known all along? If so, this was surely the end; he would be banished from Camelot. And Guinevere? What would happen to her?

  ‘Is it?’

  It took all Lancelot’s courage to answer truthfully. ‘Yes.’ Galahad swayed on his feet.

  ‘I never meant to fall in love with her,’ said Lancelot. ‘I tried hard not to.’

  Galahad’s voice trembled. ‘It was you who persuaded me to come to Camelot, father. You spoke of your dreams for the future, and you invited me to share them with you. You made me swear an oath pledging my allegiance to Arthur and to the ideals of Camelot – honour, justice and love.’

  Lancelot bowed his head, every word his son spoke stabbing his heart.

  Galahad levelled an accusing finger at his father. ‘You are a hypocrite. You have broken your oath and betrayed your leader. What’s more, you lied to my mother.’

  ‘That I never did,’ said Lancelot.

  ‘You deserted her when I was a baby. And what was your excuse? That you had a mission. What mission was that, father – screwing Arthur’s wife?’ Excited and appalled by his own daring, Galahad’s chest heaved.

  Lancelot groaned. ‘Enough, Galahad, enough,’ he pleaded, ‘have pity on me.’ It was astonishing and unnerving to witness this normally placid and compliant young man transformed into an avenging angel. He wanted to protest, to fight back, to challenge his right to talk to his father like this, to ask for – no, to demand his respect. Instead, he was begging for mercy. ‘Try to understand,’ he said, knowing it was no use. Galahad, of all people, would never understand. Looking into his son’s eyes, he saw a man uncontaminated by the vices that corrupted other men. He saw a pure and honest man, and he owed it to him to be honest in return.

  ‘All my life I dreamed of being God’s servant,’ he said. ‘My love for Guinevere changed that. I shall never see the promised land. But you, my son, you will.’ Placing the palms of his hands together, he rested his forehead on them as though he were praying. ‘There is nothing left for me but to ask your forgiveness.’

  ‘It is not for me to forgive,’ said Galahad. ‘Only God can do that.’

  Galahad’s path should now have been clear. Yet, to his surprise, it was not. Something prevented him from doing the right thing. His mind clouded by sleepless nights, he decided to consult Gawain.

  ‘Galahad,’ said Gawain, ‘what are you? Sixteen? Seventeen?

  What do you know about love?’ ‘I know a lot,’ said Galahad.

  ‘Really?’ Gawain’s tongue probed his cheek. ‘When was the last time you had sex?’

  Galahad flushed. ‘I – I have learned from books.’ ‘What have you learned?’

  Galahad was determined not to be bullied. ‘I know what sin is,’ he said defiantly, ‘and that’s what we are talking about. ‘The bible says Thou shalt not commit adultery.’

  ‘The bible also says Honour thy father and thy mother.’

  ‘My father has broken God’s law.’

  ‘If it is God’s law he has broken,’ said Gawain, ‘let God punish him.’

  ‘God works in mysterious ways,’ said Galahad.

  ‘Through you? Is that what you mean?’ said Gawain with a disdainful look. ‘So you are God’s emissary, are you?’

  ‘His servant.’

  ‘Only his servant, eh?’ Gawain’s eyes glinted. ‘Then how dare you presume to speak in His name.’

  ‘Because He tells me to,’ said Galahad, hugging his bible. ‘Does he indeed?’ Gawain’s eyebrows arched provocatively.

  ‘Then do me a favour, Galahad, next time you speak to God, ask Him how He rates humility in his servants – especially the teenage variety.’

  Galahad squirmed. ‘You are mocking me.’

  Gawain did not deny it. ‘Let me ask you something. Does it ever occur to you that you might be wrong? Wrong about God, wrong about your father, wrong about a lot of things? Apparently not. But then you are young, and the young always think they know everything.’

  ‘If I thought I knew everything,’ said Galahad, ‘I would not be asking you for advice.’

  ‘Is that what you are doing?’ ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then here it is. Do nothing.’ ‘What will that achieve?’

  ‘What will you achieve by running to Arthur?’ demanded Gawain. ‘If you expose your father and Guinevere, the one who will be most damaged is Arthur himself.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Because he will be compelled to take action against Lancelot, and that could lead to virtual civil war in Camelot. Some will support Arthur, others Lancelot. You will set father against son, brother against brother, friend against friend. The only winners will be our enemies. The losers will be the good people we are trying to help. Is that what you want?’

  ‘Not for all the world.’

  ‘Then can I count on you to keep these rumours to yourself?’

  Galahad folded his lips primly. ‘I shall pray for God’s guidance,’ he said.

  Forty Seven

  Things were happening that Arthur could not understand.

  In his early forties, a man was supposed to be in command of his life, not feeling weary and disillusioned. God knows, though, he had reason enough to feel this way. He had lost brave comrades, many innocents had died, the Round Table was increasingly riven by dissension between the doves and the hawks, and there were still as many terrorists and terror groups, still as many preachers of hate and violence, still as many brutal dictators, still as many drug barons, and, most shameful of all, still as m
any countries making secret, self-serving deals with the enemy – for money, for trade, for power.

  The old doubts were returning. From another time and another place a conversation with Merlin on Glastonbury Tor came back to him.

  The world had gone mad. The king tried to bring it back to its senses, and restore meaning to people’s lives. He wanted to give them courage and hope for the future. But to do that he first had to impose order on chaos.

  How do you mean, impose?

  You are right to question that word. He questioned it too. The thought of using force troubled him. But after much heart searching he decided that if mankind was to be saved, he had no other choice.

  Was it true? Was there really no other choice?

  If he summoned his old friend, he would come, knowing that he needed him. Yet Arthur was a proud man, too proud to ask for help. He would battle on without the Magus. But when he entered the observatory a few days later, Virgil, his eyes shuttered, was perched on the monitor screen, and Merlin, in one of his rare full-length manifestations, lay asleep in an armchair, mouth gaping, snoring like a rhinoceros. Greeting Arthur with a loud hoo-hoo, Virgil fluffed up his feathers till his body was a huge puffball, and Merlin woke with a startled grunt.

  ‘Sometimes,’ said Arthur gloomily, ‘I wonder whether the price we pay is too high.’

  ‘No struggle is without cost,’ said Merlin. ‘Be strong, Arthur. The good people of the world depend on you. You are the only hope for their future and their children’s future. It is your destiny to save them.’

  ‘Forgive me, Magus, but I have only your word for that.’

  The green orbs glowed with a tender light. ‘When you were seven years old, you and your adoptive father and brother, Hector and Keir, went to Devon for the weekend. Do you remember what happened?’

  Arthur’s memory drifted back. ‘They were attacked by an eagle.’

  ‘You thought it was attacking them. And what did you do?’

  ‘I ran away. Keir said I was a coward.’

  ‘He was wrong, wasn’t he? You were trying to save your family.’

  Arthur said nothing.

  ‘Hector and Keir ran along the cliffside in a panic, and you deliberately ran inland shouting at the top of your voice. Why did you do that?’

  No answer.

  ‘To distract the eagle and make it follow you,’ said Merlin. ‘Which it did.’

  Again Arthur was silent.

  ‘And when it dived on you, what did you do?’ Merlin left a pause, though he knew Arthur would not answer him. ‘You stood there calmly, waiting for the end. Even though you were expecting the eagle to tear you to pieces at any second, you didn’t cry out, you didn’t move – at least not until its talons were inches from your face. And then you flinched.’

  Arthur nodded silently.

  ‘And because you flinched, because you lost faith, the eagle punished you by scratching you, leaving that tiny scar on your cheek.’

  Unconsciously, Arthur’s hand moved to his left cheek. ‘You remember what the eagle did next?’

  Arthur nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘It stood on your shoulder for a long time, as if it knew and trusted you, both of which, of course, it did. After a while it took off, circled you three times, each time crying its strange cry, then flew away.’ Merlin reached out and lightly touched the scar on Arthur’s face. ‘That scar is not a badge of shame, Arthur. It is there to remind you that you are flawed, as every human being is, but it is also there to remind you that you are one with all of God’s creation. You have been chosen. And because you have been chosen, the creatures of the wild pay homage to you and protect you, just as the eagle did when you fought Mujahid.’

  For a long time there was silence in the room, both men occupied with their own thoughts. Arthur started up his computer, and for a time concentrated on the screen. ‘See that spiral there, Merlin – that’s a galaxy formed only a couple of billion years after the Big Bang. Imagine! What we are looking at on this screen happened eleven billion years ago! What was our solar system then?’

  Even Merlin could not answer that.

  ‘No more than a swirling mass of gas, I would guess,’ said Arthur, responding to his own question, ‘and then, as things cooled down over billions of years, clumps of material coalesced into rocks and finally clusters. And one of the smallest of those clusters is the planet we live on.’ He swivelled on his stool to face Merlin. ‘What is planet Earth in the whole scheme of things? Insignificant. In terms of size, almost nothing. You could fit over a million earths inside the sun. And some of those stars out there are thousands, perhaps billions of times bigger than the sun!’

  ‘It puts our problems into perspective, doesn’t it?’ said Merlin.

  An unexpected question: ‘How old are you, Magus?’

  Merlin’s green eyes blinked. ‘This time around? Pushing seventy.’

  As Arthur shut down the computer, the universe died on the screen. ‘I would never have guessed it,’ he said.

  Merlin turned happily to Arthur like a sunflower to the sun. ‘I held you two weeks after you were born. Now look at you,’ he said, his eyes full of pride.

  ‘A man changes with the years,’ reflected Arthur. ‘ It’s not that you don’t care any more. It certainly isn’t that you don’t hurt. Your bones still break, your veins still bleed, and your heart, Merlin, your heart aches as much as ever it did. Pain is still pain.’

  ‘Forgive me for being blunt,’ said Merlin, ‘but you might hurt less if you were honest with yourself. And with Guinevere.’ ‘Being honest,’ said Arthur, ‘could be the end of my marriage.’

  ‘It would be like cutting out a cancerous growth.’ ‘It would be like cutting out my heart,’ said Arthur.

  Where were his friends now when he needed them? Whom could he confide in? Not in Guinevere, however much he loved her. Nor in Lancelot. Nor in his son, Mordred. There was wise Leo Grant of course, but how could he tell Guinevere’s father that his daughter was . . . not what he thought she was. There was loyal and ever-devoted George Bedivere. If Arthur told him the truth, George, bless him, would probably go and thump Lancelot with his steel hand. Unless of course he already knew. Now there was a thought. Did George know? Did they all know? Were they keeping quiet about it to avoid rocking the boat? Were they talking behind his back, judging him, pitying him . . . were they mocking him?

  There was only one man to whom he could open his heart; Keir, his adoptive brother. Never in his whole life had he needed a brother more, someone he could trust. Keir would be his friend, and he would not be alone any longer. Was he clutching at straws? Well, that’s what drowning men did, wasn’t it?

  He invited Keir round and sat him down with a glass of wine. ‘Family becomes more important as you grow older.’

  Keir’s response was short and brutal. ‘We are not family.’ Determined not to lose patience, ‘You and I are brothers,’ said Arthur. ‘Not blood brothers, but what does that matter? We have a common history, the same background, the same home, the same parents. It was our world, Keir, yours and mine, we grew up together, we played together, we went to school together, we fished together. Remember how we used to fish by Ponterlally bridge?’

  ‘You dreamed. I caught the fish,’ said Keir ungraciously.

  Arthur grinned. ‘And I always came home with an empty basket.’

  Keir remembered only too well. He was always so proud of his full basket of fish, and his father would hug him, though never as affectionately as he hugged Arthur for having an empty one. Keir never understood that. It hurt then, and it still did.

  ‘All those things we shared make us brothers, don’t they?’ ‘We were never brothers,’ said Keir, ‘and we never will be.

  You were adopted. Hector and Elizabeth are my parents, not yours.’

  ‘We were brought up as brothers,’ said Arthur. ‘Surely that takes precedence over genes and chromosomes? ’ He held out his hand in one last despairing plea for acceptance, and Keir turned
and walked away, leaving Arthur wondering what he could ever do to make his brother love him.

  Forty Eight

  Torn between the two men in her life, and refusing to contemplate giving up either of them, Guinevere now lived in fear, certain that if Arthur ever discovered that she and Lancelot were lovers, he would have no choice but to banish them from Camelot. Galahad, once her favourite, was now the object of her scorn. What right did he have to judge his father? ‘That sanctimonious little creep snaps his fingers, and you come running. It’s pathetic.’

  Lancelot’s protestations of love did little to ease her troubled mind, not least because she suspected that he regarded his love for her as a weakness, something not to celebrate but to be ashamed of. If he truly loved her, would he have run back to Helena? Would he have brought back his son? Would he allow himself to be dictated to by him?

  Comparing the two men in her life, she found herself appreciating Arthur more than ever. What a truly exceptional man he was. In all these years he had not uttered a single word in anger, had never been anything but caring and loving. There could only be one conclusion; either he knew nothing, or he said nothing because he loved her so much; a thought that moved her to tears.

  For a few weeks they enjoyed a second honeymoon in which Arthur’s unquestioning love aroused in Guinevere a combination of passion and tenderness that, until now, she had only experienced with Lancelot. Before long, however, they had, without being aware of it, slipped into the old easy-going routine, their relationship becoming what it had been before; loving and companionable. It ought to have been enough. Yet the more she tried to persuade herself that Arthur was everything a woman could possibly desire in a man, the more she found herself thinking of Lancelot.

  He, meanwhile, felt hurt and betrayed. By a cruel twist of fate it was at this stressful time that a brief coded signal was received by Command Control asking him to call Harold Pemberton urgently. Having set up the gravitational link, Lancelot stared at the communicator, his fingers refusing to do what he needed them to do. What could Harold want? At last he forced himself to dial the link digits and press the communicator button.