by Alan Fenton
Lancelot turned his back on his tormentor. ‘I’d rather rot in this cell.’
‘Then,’ said Mordred, with a spiteful grin, ‘that’s exactly what you will do.’
Sixty Four
When he entered her cell Guinevere could not look him in the face. Slowly, uncertainly, he moved towards her,
and suddenly she was in his arms. For a time they stood there holding each other; then gently disengaging herself, she sat on the small bed in the corner of the cell, and he on a stool.
‘I’ve brought shame on you,’ she whispered.
‘You should have left me,’ said Arthur. ‘It would have hurt, but none of this would have happened.’
He was surprised by the vehemence of her reaction. ‘I would never leave you, never. I love you.’
‘You love Lancelot,’ said Arthur.
Guinevere’s hands clasped and unclasped in her lap. ‘I love you too,’ she said. ‘Don’t ask me how I can love you both. I’ve tried to explain it to myself, but I can’t.’
Lancelot with her heart, me with her head, he was thinking. ‘Do you hate me?’ she asked.
Arthur sighed. ‘It would make things a lot easier if I did.’ ‘I’m sorry – truly sorry.’
He lifted his hands to silence her. ‘No, Ginny, that’s not what I want from you. You didn’t mean to fall in love with Lance, I know that. Oddly enough, it changes nothing. To me you are still that girl I met in your father’s house all those years ago.’ His eyes dreamed back to those days. ‘And then a few years later this amazingly beautiful young woman came into my life, and I fell in love.’ He took her hands. ‘I’ve been in love with her ever since.’
They sat looking into each other’s eyes.
‘Do you ever regret marrying me?’ he asked.
‘The only thing I regret is causing you pain,’ she said, head down, shoulders shaking.
‘Don’t,’ said Arthur. ‘It will be alright. Everything will be alright.’
Gawain was torn between anger at the death of his brother and loyalty to Lancelot. Keenly competitive though the two men had always been, they were tied by bonds of mutual respect and comradeship that amounted to love. Yet whatever sympathy he may have felt for Lancelot, there was no doubt in his mind that he and Guinevere must be put on trial. What the verdict would be, he had no idea. One thing only he was certain of; if justice were not done and seen to be done, Camelot was doomed.
Lancelot begged him to save Guinevere. ‘Her only sin was to fall in love with me, and for that we are answerable to Arthur, not to any court of law. She had nothing to do with the shooting. Mordred is spreading poison, saying she put me up to it. It’s a lie.’
Gawain would not be drawn. ‘It’s for the High Council to decide.’ He was struck by how dispirited his old rival was, there seemed to be no fight left in him. Where was proud Lancelot now?
‘What will they do to her?’
Gawain tossed his head from side to side like a horse trying to throw off its bridle. ‘I really can’t say.’
Lancelot frowned. ‘Can’t, or won’t?’
For a time Gawain looked through the window as if the answer were somewhere out there, blown on the westerly breezes. ‘The word is she’ll get a year or two.’
‘But she hasn’t done anything. Why should she be punished for what I did?’
‘They’ll say she’s an accessory to manslaughter.’
‘My God.’ Lancelot’s head sank into his hands. ‘And me?’
‘If they find you guilty of manslaughter, my guess is you’ll get five years, maybe a bit less.’
Lancelot paced the tiny cell. ‘I was set up by Mordred. I never meant to kill Agravaine. Why would I?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Gawain.
‘The truth is, I’m here, not because I killed a man by accident, but because God is punishing me for my presumption.’
‘Why would He want to do that?’
Lancelot held out his hands, palms upward. ‘You can’t see it, but it’s there.’
‘What is?’
‘The blood.’ He thrust his hands into his armpits, ‘It’s on my hands and on my conscience.’ In the twilight his dark eyes burned. ‘They come for me every night,’ he said, hunching his shoulders.
‘Who does?’
‘Ian Duncan . . . and now Agravaine.’ ‘Ian died in battle.’
‘I sent him there. I killed him, just as surely as if I’d pulled the trigger myself.’
‘That’s not true.’
‘All those men who died in battle, Gawain, my friends and comrades, they haunt me. I see their gaping wounds, their smashed faces, their torn limbs.’
‘Soldier’s nightmares,’ said Gawain. ‘We all have them.’ For a long time neither man spoke. ‘How is Galahad?’
‘Holding up well,’ said Gawain. ‘Still insisting that Mission Grail is not a lost cause.’
‘Does anyone believe him?’
‘There are those in the Round Table who see him as the only hope for the future – Arthur, for one.’
‘I wish he would come and see me.’ ‘He’ll come,’ said Gawain.
‘No, he won’t. He has lost all respect for me.’
Gawain rehearsed a few words of comfort in his head, but they sounded false.
‘I hear he called me a murderer.’
‘He’s confused and angry now,’ said Gawain. ‘He’ll be here, I promise you.’
‘I’m not sure I want him to see me like this.’ Crouched on his bed, hugging his knees, Lancelot rocked wretchedly from side to side, mourning his lost innocence. ‘The shame of it, Gawain, the shame of it.’
Sixty Five
Leo grant was at first convinced that his daughter’s alleged affair with Lancelot was nothing but a vile rumour spread by Mordred. When, to his horror, Guinevere confessed her guilt, he bombarded her with questions. Did she not love Arthur? Did he not love her? Was he not a good husband? Had he not earned her loyalty? To every question her response was, yes. In that case, he asked, bewildered, why had she been unfaithful? To that she had no answer, partly because she was ashamed, partly because she did not know herself. Unwilling to condemn his beloved daughter, Leo blamed himself for the misfortune that had befallen her. It was he who had encouraged the relationship, he who had helped overcome her doubts about marrying Arthur.
When the Round Table met to consider the case against Lancelot and Guinevere, Leo pleaded with them not to send his daughter for trial. The members listened respectfully to the old man, but remained unconvinced, the overwhelming majority voting to refer the case to the High Council.
Approximately one month later, Lancelot and Guinevere were tried for the killing of Agravaine before a panel of three judges. On the third day they retired and, in less than two hours, returned with their verdict. Lancelot, they found guilty of manslaughter, Guinevere, of being an accessory to the crime. He was sentenced to six years in Camelot’s prison, she to three. The news spread quickly round the island. Whilst there was satisfaction that justice had been done, there was also uneasiness about the future. This had been a humiliating experience for Arthur. Had his authority been undermined? There were those who spoke of Mordred as his father’s successor. Whatever reservations there were relating to his entrapment of the two lovers, a man who had brought about the downfall of Camelot’s Chief of Staff and Arthur’s wife could not be underrated. That he was Arthur’s son made the situation even more intriguing.
A few days after the trial Gawain visited Lancelot in prison. ‘I’ll see to it you’re looked after, Lance. And Guinevere, of course. In a few weeks, when the heat’s off, things will be different, I promise you.’
‘In what way?’
‘You’ll be given privileges.’ ‘What sort of privileges?’
‘Longer exercise hours, better food, more visitors . . . ’ Gawain’s expansive hand gestures suggested that he was able to conjure privileges out of thin air.
‘You are too generous,’ said Lancelot, heavily sarcastic.
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‘It’s just that for the time being we have to – you know what I mean, Lance, appearances are important.’
‘Is that why I’m here? For the sake of appearances?’
‘You are here because you shot Agravaine,’ said Gawain coldly.
‘I am being punished for a crime I did not commit.’ Gawain gritted his teeth. ‘You killed my brother.’
‘And for that I am deeply sorry,’ said Lancelot. ‘Believe me, if I could undo what I did, I would.’
Gawain said nothing.
Like a caged lion, Lancelot paced his cell. ‘It’s Guinevere I worry about. Three years! For what? For loving me. That’s the truth of it.’
‘She will not serve out her sentence,’ said Gawain. ‘Nor will you.’
‘You can be sure of that,’ said Lancelot.
In the silence that followed the two men exchanged looks, Gawain’s concerned, Lancelot’s defiant.
‘You are not thinking of trying to escape, are you?’
Lancelot did not respond directly. ‘I am a man with no hope and no future.’
‘Listen to me, Lance,’ said Gawain, ‘if you try to escape, you’ll be finished in Camelot. I strongly advise you to be patient. One day, I promise, the Round Table will welcome you back. When that day comes, I shall be happy to hand over command of the armed forces to the man who deserves to lead them. Agreed?’
‘What is it you want from me?’
‘Your solemn word that you will not try to escape,’ said Gawain. ‘If you give me that, I shall do everything in my power to make life easier for you, and for Guinevere too.’ He held out his hand. ‘Do I have it?’
Lancelot hesitated before taking the proffered hand. ‘You have it,’ he said.
For Arthur the future looked bleak. What would happen when Guinevere was released? Would their relationship ever recover? Would she want to come back to him? Would he want her to? And why had Mordred felt it necessary to do what he did? Yesterday Leo Grant had told him something disturbing.
‘Your son is undermining your authority.’ ‘Who told you that?’
‘I heard him – or rather overheard him – talking to several members of the Round Table. He’s too smart to say such things in my presence.’
‘What exactly did he say?’
‘That condoning your wife’s adultery was hypocritical, that we had all been contaminated by lies and deception, that he wanted to restore openness and truth to Camelot.’
‘How did they react?’
‘Some were convinced you knew nothing about the affair.’ ‘What did Mordred say to that?’
‘He laughed. Said if you knew nothing about it, you were the only one in Camelot who didn’t, which means you are not as smart as you think you were. And if you knew what was going on, then you lied to yourself and everyone else. Either way . . . ’ Leo could not say it.
‘Go on, Leo.’
‘Either way, you are unfit to govern.’
Was his own son plotting against him? Or were those harsh words spoken in a fit of anger? Whichever it was, there was more than a grain of truth in them. His love for Guinevere had clouded his judgement. Under siege, and feeling increasingly isolated, he was losing faith in his ability to fulfil his destiny. What kind of message was he sending to those who believed in him? How could he hope to make the world a better place if he could not even keep his own house in order?
Sixty Six
It was now six months since the trial. As condemned prisoners, Lancelot and Guinevere were allowed to meet briefly once a day, but only with guards present. Their inner desperation showed itself in their downcast eyes and dejected bearing, Guinevere accepting her punishment as retribution for betraying Arthur, Lancelot continuing to maintain that he had been unjustly punished. Hardly a day passed when he did not curse himself for promising not to try and escape.
The longer Lancelot and Guinevere remained in prison, the more the men and women of Camelot sympathised with their predicament, wondering whether something should not be done to alleviate, or perhaps end, their suffering.
Talk of an appeal unnerved Mordred. What if the groundswell of sympathy were to grow? Now that the running sore of public outrage was healing, who could tell what might happen? An appeal with Arthur’s backing might well succeed. If the sentences were substantially reduced, or if, heaven forbid, the guilty verdicts overturned, all his good work would be undone. People had such short memories. Lancelot and Guinevere would soon be back in favour, and Arthur’s prestige and popularity fully restored. That must not be allowed to happen. It was essential that the two lovers serve out their sentences.
Or was there, perhaps, an alternative? He chose Lancelot’s birthday to visit him.
The chilly reception came as no surprise. ‘What are you doing here?’
An unexpected answer: ‘I came to ask your forgiveness. If there is anything I can do to help you, I will do it. Trust me.’
Trust Mordred! Did the evil little monster really think he was impressed by that fawning manner and those obscenely hypocritical words? ‘You are a devious bastard, Mordred. You have come here to gloat, that’s obvious.’
Mordred pulled an untidily wrapped brown paper parcel from his coat pocket. ‘I brought you a birthday present,’ he said, tossing it on the bed.
‘I want no presents from you.’
An airy wave of the hand. ‘Give it away if you have no use for it.’
‘Don’t come back,’ said Lancelot, ‘or you’ll live to regret it.’ A meaningful look. ‘Or you might not.’
Irritated by Mordred’s obvious indifference to his threats, he added ominously, ‘Just remember, Mordred, one day I’ll be out of here.’
‘That day,’ said Mordred, ‘could be nearer than you think.’
When he had gone, Lancelot unwrapped the parcel. Inside was a loaded semi-automatic pistol.
An appeal to the High Council on Lancelot’s behalf was imminent. Concerned what his reaction might be if the appeal were rejected, Arthur gave orders that he was not to be forewarned. The day before the hearing, Gareth brought him his lunch. As he laid the tray on the bed, Lancelot drew the pistol. Backing to the cell door, Gareth closed it behind him. ‘You are not getting out of here, Lance.’
‘I don’t have time to argue. Move away from the door.’ ‘This is crazy. Your appeal is being heard tomorrow.’
For a second Lancelot’s attention was distracted. ‘What appeal?’
‘The appeal to overturn your conviction.’
‘Nice try, Gareth.’ Lancelot gestured with the gun. ‘Now move away.’
Their faces were inches apart. ‘You wouldn’t shoot me.’
Lancelot held the barrel to Gareth’s head and cocked the gun. ‘I’m telling you for the last time, Gareth, move away from the door.’
Gareth moved, yelling as he did so, ‘prisoner escaping!’ As Gaheris rushed through the door and crashed into Lancelot, the gun flew out of his hand. Too dazed to react, Gaheris watched helplessly as Lancelot and Gareth wrestled, rolling over and over in a deadly struggle for the pistol. By far the stronger of the two men, Lancelot wrested the gun from Gareth and pointed it at him. ‘On your stomach,’ he ordered, standing over him, ‘arms spread.’ Crouching on all fours, Gareth froze for a second, then leaped at Lancelot’s legs, bringing him down. There was a shot, a cry of pain, and Gareth fell back with a bullet in his chest. Gaheris, still dazed, pulled a gun and fired at Lancelot as he rose unsteadily to his feet. The shot missed, the bullet hitting the cell wall just above his head. Holding his pistol in both hands, Lancelot levelled it at Gaheris’s head.
‘Drop it,’ he ordered, ‘drop it, or I’ll shoot.’
His chest heaving, Gaheris screamed, ‘You killed my baby brother.’ Raising his gun again, he took aim at Lancelot.
‘For God’s sake, Gaheris, don’t make me do it.’
Gaheris began to cry. ‘You’re a dead man, Lance,’ he whimpered, tears starting from his eyes, his finger squeezing the trigger even as th
e bullet from Lancelot’s gun struck him in the neck.
When the medics arrived, Gaheris’s lips were already turning blue. Gareth died on the way to hospital. Within minutes, George Bedivere reported the killings to Arthur.
‘He used Gareth’s key to let Guinevere out of her cell.’ ‘I must see her.’
‘I’m sorry, Arthur, she’s gone.’ ‘Gone?’
‘She and Lancelot left the island together. He took one of the Scuttles. We can’t find Lanky. It looks like she went with them.’
‘I see,’ said Arthur, his eyes vacant.
‘They took off three minutes ago. The Scuttle has disappeared off the screen, but we have a pretty good idea where he’s heading. He can’t stay mantled too much longer or he’ll run out of power. Sooner or later we’ll get a fix on him.’ He waited in vain for Arthur to say something. ‘Just give the order and we’ll send a Scuttle after them.’
Arthur’s eyes were still blank. It was clear he had not fully grasped what George was telling him. ‘Guinevere is where, you say?’
‘She left the island.’ George would rather have died than display any emotion, but he was close to tears now.
Arthur gazed intently into space, his eyes focused on something invisible to George. ‘Lancelot too?’
‘I’m truly sorry, Arthur.’
Arthur lowered himself into an armchair. ‘I had such dreams,’ he said, after a while.
‘You’ll make them all come true,’ said George. ‘Will I?’
George had known Arthur as comrade in arms and friend, and never for an instant had reason to doubt his strength and determination to handle the most difficult situation. Never, until this moment. In all the years he had never seen him in such despair. Not just his head but his whole body was bowed. Grief weighed him down.
The following day the Round Table met and voted that Lancelot be brought back to Camelot, if necessary by force, to be tried by the High Council. Some members argued that his presence in Camelot would be an embarrassment, and that he should be allowed to disappear. The majority felt strongly that in escaping from prison and killing Gaheris and Gareth in the process, he had expressed his contempt for Camelot and everything it stood for. Allowing him to go free would send the wrong signal to the world. How could they justify waging a war against the wicked if they themselves permitted wicked deeds to go unpunished?