by Alan Fenton
Agravaine said nothing, hoping by his lack of reaction to suggest that he was, if not disinterested, then at least uncommitted.
‘We must put a stop to it,’ said Mordred, ‘the three of us.’
Agravaine looked apprehensive, shaken by the unexpected turn the conversation had taken. ‘I wouldn’t want to create any problems.’
Mordred crossed the room and stood looking out at NIWIS. What was, and what seemed to be, were often very different, as he knew, not only from being Tich’s assistant, but also from his own personal experience. For him life was a matter of interpretation, a shadowy, ambiguous country, full of delusions and misconceptions, a land of virtual unreality in which he saw himself as king. He turned, strode purposefully back and looked down at Agravaine. ‘Family,’ he declared, stabbing the air with his index finger to emphasise every key word, ‘family you trust. Family you stand by. Family gives meaning to our lives. There is nothing, Agro, nothing,’ he repeated, ‘more important than family.’
‘Very true,’ murmured Agravaine, wondering where all this was leading.
‘I love my father,’ said Mordred, ‘love him with all my heart. It hurts . . . ’ – He thumped his chest and winced to demonstrate the point – ‘it hurts me to see him being made a fool of. I cannot allow it to continue. Do you understand that?’
Agravaine mumbled something unintelligible that might have signified assent. Gaheris cleared his throat noisily.
‘It is my duty,’ continued Mordred, ‘my duty to protect
Arthur against his enemies. Not just because I love and respect him, not just because he is my leader, but because he is family, Agro. Family.’ He threw himself in his chair. ‘I am certain you feel as I do.’
‘Absolutely,’ said Agravaine.
Gaheris scratched doggedly at a stain on his uniform. ‘He is, after all, your uncle.’
‘He is.’
‘Then you will help me?’
Agravaine’s forehead puckered. ‘Help you do what, Mord?’ ‘Help me catch them in the act,’ said Mordred, with a grin
that disturbed only one side of his face.
‘I’m not . . . I’m not sure it would be such a . . . g-good idea,’ stammered Agravaine, wiping the sweat from his face with the back of his hand.
A resigned shrug. ‘If that’s how you feel . . . ’
‘I do,’ said Agravaine. ‘I’m really sorry, Mord, but you know how careful we have to be, Gaheris and I. Considering what happened when we . . . you know what I mean.’
‘I know exactly what you mean, Agro,’ said Mordred, examining his nails. ‘And oddly enough, that delicate matter is – sadly – all too relevant to our discussion.’ With a curl of the lip and a rueful shake of the head he looked like a man compelled against his will to unburden himself of something distasteful. ‘I had hoped it would not be necessary to mention this . . . ’
Agravaine crossed one leg over the other and jiggled his foot. ‘What?’ he asked, though he guessed what was coming.
‘I gave you my word,’ said Mordred, ‘that I would never reveal to Arthur your involvement in that unfortunate business with your mother and Pellinore.’
Agravaine’s foot juddered frenziedly.
Mordred patted the bible on the arm of his chair. ‘You know me,’ he said, ‘so you know you can trust me. I swore never to reveal your secret, and I now renew that vow on this holy book.’ He kissed the bible, looking over the top at Agravaine’s ashen face. A full minute passed before he spoke again. ‘Unfortunately there are those who . . . ’
Agravaine lifted his head and gulped for air. ‘Who cannot be trusted.’
Agravaine’s heart stumbled in his chest. ‘Who are you talking about?’
Mordred played the fish he had hooked. ‘Who are making threats.’
‘Who? Who?’ ‘Lancelot, for one.’
Agravaine’s voice rose hysterically. ‘What sort of threats?’ ‘He claims to have proof that you and Gaheris killed our
mother,’ said Mordred, ‘and he’s threatening to take it to Arthur.’
‘He would never do that – not Lancelot,’ said Agravaine. A pleading look. ‘Would he?’
‘I’m afraid he would,’ said Mordred. ‘Especially if he thought it would divert attention from his own somewhat – shall we say exposed – position with Arthur’s wife.’ He chuckled appreciatively at his own jest.
Agravaine’s head was buried in his hands, Gaheris whined softly like an animal caught in a trap.
‘One photo is all we need,’ said Mordred. ‘I can’t do it,’ Agravaine muttered.
‘Believe me,’ said Mordred, ‘I take no pleasure in this sordid business. I know exactly how you feel. I feel the same way myself. But let’s face it, Agro, it’s either him or us.’
‘Us? You mean me and Gaheris?’
Mordred left his seat and put his arms round Agravaine. ‘I mean us,’ he whispered in his ear. ‘We are family.’
‘Even so,’ said Agravaine, pulling away, ‘I can’t betray
Lancelot.’
‘You would rather betray Arthur?’ Agravaine looked at the floor.
‘Camelot is founded on truth, honour and justice,’ said Mordred. ‘We all took a sacred oath to honour those high principles, did we not?’
Agravaine nodded dumbly.
‘Tell me, then,’ said Mordred, ‘what truth, what honour, what justice is served when Arthur’s wife and his Chief of Staff are screwing each other?’
Silence.
‘Not only will we be doing our duty, we shall be doing Arthur a favour,’ he insisted. ‘As for Lancelot and Guinevere . . . ’ – he raised his bible high – ‘we shall save their souls, you and I, we shall rescue them from adulterous couplings, from lying and deceit, from treacherous assignations and guilty secrets. They will repent, and Camelot will be whole again.’ He held out his hand. ‘Are you with me, brothers?’
The two men looked at Mordred’s hand, afraid to take it, afraid not to. Slowly, reluctantly, first Agravaine, then Gaheris, grasped the outstretched hand as gingerly as if it were an unexploded bomb.
Clasping his hands together and closing his eyes, Mordred bowed his head. ‘Let us pray for guidance,’ he said.
Troubled by his conscience, Agravaine went straight to his brother, Gawain, to alert him of Mordred’s intentions, and Gawain passed on the warning to the one person he thought might be able to make Guinevere see reason.
Lanky did not try to soften her words. ‘For your sake, Ginny, for all our sakes, give him up.’
‘I can’t do that.’
‘For the love of God, girl,’ said Lanky, ‘we both know it will all come out sooner or later. Half Camelot knows what’s going on, and the other half suspects it. One day, someone will do something about it. And that would be a disaster for you, for Lancelot, for Arthur, for all of us. Have you thought about that?’
Guinevere shivered. ‘A million times.’
‘I’m begging you, Ginny,’ said Lanky, ‘if you can’t give him up, at least stop seeing him for a while.’
‘I can’t do that either.’
Much as she loved her friend, Lanky found her refusal to face facts exasperating. ‘You’re playing with fire,’ she said. ‘If Mordred gets his proof, he’ll go straight to Arthur.’
‘Arthur knows,’ said Guinevere.
It was what Lanky had long suspected. Nevertheless: ‘There’s a big difference between knowing, and having it shoved in your face,’ she observed shrewdly.
Signalling the end of the discussion, Guinevere’s chin lifted in that stubborn gesture Lanky knew so well. She reported back to Gawain, who, in desperation, went straight to Lancelot.
‘You must end this affair.’
Lancelot towered over Gawain. ‘I don’t see that it’s any of your business.’
‘Don’t you?’ Gawain’s colour was dangerously high. ‘Then let me disillusion you. Mordred is watching you. If he gets the evidence he’s looking for, you and Guinevere will be disgraced, Art
hur will be humiliated, and Camelot will be in turmoil. I’d say that makes it my business, wouldn’t you?’
‘I can’t give her up.’
‘For God’s sake, man,’ said Gawain furiously, ‘you are Camelot’s Chief of Staff. Your first duty is to Arthur.’
‘You don’t need to tell me where my duty lies,’ said Lancelot. Through the window of his apartment he watched the sunlight draining from the white walls of Camelot’s buildings as clouds inched their way across the sun. His spirits sank with the light. ‘You are a good man, Gawain, but you don’t understand. How could you? It’s not Lancelot you’re talking to. I’m like someone possessed. I’ve given up control of my life.’ ‘Then get it back.’
‘I wish I could.’
‘I can’t protect you any longer,’ said Gawain, his patience exhausted. ‘If you and Guinevere are caught, I won’t lift a finger to save you.’
Lancelot inclined his head. ‘There’s nothing I can do. It’s fate.’
Gawain had other ideas. It was not fate that was responsible, it was a woman, a woman who had enslaved the two most powerful men in Camelot.
Sixty Three
Whilst Arthur was in Command Control, Guinevere made her way to Lancelot’s apartment, neutralising with her handset the electronic eyes and sensors lining her chosen route. Within seconds the two lovers were in bed, clinging together as if this lovemaking were their last.
First deactivating the electronic door panel, Mordred crept silently into Lancelot’s bedroom, followed by Agravaine and Gaheris. Dozing in each other’s arms Lancelot and Guinevere made an appealing picture. Mordred took several shots in rapid succession, then, finger to lips, pointed to the door. As Gaheris tiptoed out, his arm dislodged a framed photograph of Lancelot taking the oath of allegiance to Arthur. The noise awakened Lancelot. Leaping out of bed, he grabbed an automatic pistol from the bedside table. Gaheris stood his ground, Agravaine backed to the doorway between bedroom and sitting room. ‘Don’t kill me,’ he pleaded, ‘don’t kill me.’
‘Be careful what you’re doing with that thing,’ said Mordred, ‘it might go off.’
‘If you don’t give me the camera, it will,’ said Lancelot, advancing on him. Mordred tossed the camera to Gaheris. As he caught it, Lancelot threw himself towards him, one hand holding the gun, the other reaching for the camera. As the two men struggled, the gun went off. For a few seconds Gaheris and Lancelot stood looking at each other.
‘You OK, Gaheris?’
The big man felt himself all over. ‘I think so.’ Mordred looked round. ‘Where’s Agro?’
Agravaine was standing in the doorway.
‘You OK, Agro?’ said Lancelot. As he spoke, Agravaine’s knees folded under him. For a few seconds he knelt on the carpet, supporting himself on his hands, then rolled over onto his back and lay still, eyes staring vacantly at the ceiling. Gaheris stooped and laid his hand on Agravaine’s chest. ‘Agro?’ There was no answer. Gaheris lifted his hand and looked at it. It was covered in blood. ‘No, Agro,’ he said, ‘don’t die. I don’t want you to die.’
Kneeling, Lancelot felt Agravaine’s pulse, looked up at Mordred and shook his head. Guinevere stood half-naked in the doorway, eyes frightened, hair dishevelled.
The chest of Agravaine’s uniform was damp, the gold insignia of the sword in the stone soaked in blood. Gaheris’s breath grated in his throat.
‘You’d better get dressed, both of you,’ said Mordred to the lovers.
When the doctor arrived, he confirmed what they already knew; Agravaine was dead. The bullet had passed through his heart. Minutes later, a grim-faced Arthur rushed in. Told what had happened by an unusually subdued Mordred, he ordered the immediate arrest of Lancelot and Guinevere. Both were cautioned, and their rights read to them. Locked in separate cells in Camelot’s prison, they were to remain there until someone decided what to do with them.
For the rest of the day Arthur shut himself in his apartment refusing to see or speak to anyone. Angry and humiliated, he was at last compelled to confront the fact that the woman he loved had betrayed him. If only he could find it in himself to condemn her, it might have eased his troubled soul, but he could not. Wandering aimlessly from room to room, he tried in his desperation to convince himself that he would find Guinevere making tea in the kitchen, or undressing for bed, telling himself over and over again that it had all been a horrible nightmare, that any moment he would wake up and she would be there, looking lovingly at him with those dark, beguiling eyes.
That night he slept a shallow sleep, his fitful dreams tormented by images of Guinevere and Lancelot entwined in the act of love, their heads turning to mock him even as they moaned their way to ecstasy. All night long they taunted him, their faces advancing and receding, grotesquely distorted and bloated by lust, until finally he could bear it no longer.
With a cry of rage, he grabbed the gun from his bedside table, waited for them to come close, and fired again and again. Throwing down the gun he rushed to the bathroom and peered at himself in the mirror. In his confused state, half-waking, half-sleeping, it seemed to him that his face, neck, arms and chest were drenched in blood. Tearing off his clothes he stood under the shower until the last trickle of red disappeared down the drain.
In the kitchen he made himself a coffee and sat clasping the warm mug, forcing himself to think clearly. However difficult the situation, decisions would have to be made. And he alone would have to make them. Every man and woman in Camelot would be looking to him for leadership, and he dared not let them down. One thing was clear; Lancelot must be brought to trial. He had killed Agravaine; whether accidentally or not was a matter for the High Council to decide. And Guinevere? She too must be tried. Though adultery was not a crime – not at least in the eyes of man – she was an accessory to a killing. The consequences were too terrible to contemplate. Would Camelot survive? Would any of them?
The first thing Lancelot knew of Mordred’s visit was when the cell door clanged shut behind him.
‘Before you say anything,’ said Mordred hastily, ‘I need to tell you how deeply sorry I am. I never dreamed it would end like this.’
‘I thought you were a decent man,’ said Lancelot. ‘How wrong I was. You are a monster. This is all your doing.’
Mordred shifted his expression smoothly from penitent to offended mode. ‘Why blame me? Did I go to bed with Guinevere? Did I kill Agravaine? I don’t think so. All I did was take a couple of photographs of you and the lady in a compromising position.’ He held up a print. ‘This one came out well, don’t you think?’ he said, moistening his lips. ‘I must say Guinevere’s bum is rather cheeky.’ Grabbing the photo, Lancelot tore it into small pieces and flung them in Mordred’s face.
‘Plenty more where that came from,’ said Mordred.
It was the last straw. Lancelot laid his hands on his neck and squeezed.
‘Aren’t you in enough trouble?’ gasped Mordred.
‘What’s one killing more,’ said Lancelot. ‘And this one I’m going to enjoy.’
‘No, please, I can help you,’ said Mordred, choking on the words.
‘Why would you do that?’ Lancelot’s hands tightened round his neck.
‘Let me speak!’
He relaxed his grip. ‘Get out of here,’ he said. ‘You disgust me.’
Keeping a watchful eye on him, Mordred backed away. ‘Just hear what I have to say.’
Lancelot pushed him to the cell door. ‘Get out.’
‘Let Gaheris take the rap.’ A wicked grin. ‘Just between us girls, of course.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘I’ll say he picked up the gun, and if it hadn’t been for you, he’d have shot Guinevere.’
‘Why would he do that?’
‘Because she betrayed Arthur, and Arthur is his god. Because he hates women. Because he’s crazy.’ Mordred waved his hands dismissively. ‘Who cares why? Motives are for the birds. We know Gaheris is a killer. He killed my mother, didn’t he?’
‘And that justifies accusing him of a crime he didn’t commit?’
‘Let’s say it would be poetic justice.’ Mordred’s eyes glittered as the story unfolded in his mind. ‘He was about to shoot Guinevere, you tackled him, the gun went off, and Agravaine was hit.’
Lancelot scowled.
‘Don’t you see, Lance, it’s perfect! You weren’t trying to kill anyone. On the contrary, you were trying to save Guinevere . . . Trying? What am I saying? You saved her! Arthur should be grateful to you. Alright, you fucked his wife, but what’s done is done. And all’s fair in love and war.’
Through the bars of his cell Lancelot looked across the island, past Command Control, NIWIS and the Robot Centre, across the landing strip to the clusters of white surveillance columns at the perimeter of the island. In the distance, as the land sloped away, he could see the Atlantic ocean. For an instant his spirits soared. A ray of sun penetrated a layer of cloud. High up, a wedge of geese flew in V-shaped formation.
He looked at Mordred with deep suspicion. ‘Why would you lie for me?’
Mordred was prepared for that question. ‘Because I like you, always have. And because Camelot needs you.’
‘Then why are you trying to destroy me?’
A disdainful smile. ‘I have no interest in destroying you,’ said Mordred. ‘You are my bait, Lance, my sprat to catch a mackerel.’
‘And the mackerel is?’ ‘My father.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Your affair with Guinevere was tearing Camelot apart. And all the time Arthur knew what was going on.’
Lancelot had no answer to that, knowing in his heart that it was true.
‘And what did he do about it? I’ll tell you what he did. Nothing. Just as he did nothing about my mother’s murder.’ Mordred spat out the words. ‘I took an oath to respect
Camelot’s principles. We all did. What a farce! What principles are we supposed to respect when our leader’s life is one big lie?’
‘And you want to replace one big lie with another?’
Mordred sighed. ‘Don’t be tiresome, Lance, you are in no position to lecture me. I’m throwing you a rope. Grab it, and you could be out of here tomorrow.’