“Not all, Gwen. Not everything. You may have lost one life but you now have a new one; you are entering a new job, a new world, and Camelot is a long time gone. It takes time to create an ideal like that. But if you cannot walk straight back into the world you want, this ideal that lives inside you, then you have to build it up, stone by stone and one person at a time, where you can. Don’t be so sad, Gwen – you are already doing that: with me, your mother, now with Gareth here. And Morgan remembers thee! Go stretch your legs and play with him.”
Dai Mervyn stood and watched as Morgan leapt away, a great bounding wolfhound, with Gwen and Gareth running after him. Let them all run and play and laugh and love together, he thought, not enough of that in the world, just as Gwen says. What an extraordinary girl. She even takes me back to my own childhood, here in wartime South Wales. Remarkable what she’s doing. Reckon I’ll have to go and talk to her mother. She’ll be as pleased and delighted as I am.
* * *
The opening address from Dr Rupert Jeffries of the Knights of the Round Table Society was just the introductory session for the main business of the day, which was to fully prepare for the hotel’s grand opening when lots of media representatives would soon be arriving as guests. There was much to arrange after the keynote speech, including a detailed brief to each employee as to his or her duties for the duration; to issuing what was alleged to be Arthurian dress to all staff, and giving the finishing touches to the flags, decorations and other paraphernalia that dressed the hotel up into something that might be thought of as the castle of Camelot. One item the hotel group was particularly proud of was the round table that was placed in the board room and conference centre of the hotel. It was a smaller version of that which was on display in Winchester castle, although that itself was just some thirteenth-century impression of what the original was supposed to have been.
When the Lady Gwendolyn saw the table, she smiled. Not at all like the real thing, she had whispered to Dai Mervyn, which was a plain oaken circle, but it was colourful and showy enough for the hotel to advertise and make a big fuss over. And the costumes? Some very modern fabrics and thoughtful designs were involved that made all the staff look as if they were part of a film set, yet tough enough to be working uniforms. And what a relief for Lady Gwendolyn to get out of denims and back into a long dress that she was used to, albeit in a style that again was somewhat more extravagant than the simple and functional robe she knew.
Handling the computer and phones on the reception desk was a problem for someone who had only recently arrived from the fifth century. This was something difficult to explain to the others. But the fact that she had missed the formal instruction on the use of such items because of her collapse and hospitalisation gave Lady Gwendolyn the excuse to be entirely dependent on Victoria and Freddy’s know-how. At the same time, her manner of speaking, her heightened awareness of what Camelot represented and the whole Arthurian image she easily projected gave the Lady Gwendolyn something to offer her two colleagues. Tom Hughes had not hidden the high regard he held for this unique young woman and both Victoria and Freddy were well aware of it. So in the end the three receptionists were happy to work together, each being able to complement the others.
And so came the morning of the hotel’s grand opening. It was a warm, humid, overcast day with an end-of-the-summer feeling about it. A steady trickle of cars and taxis made their way up the gravelled drive to the hotel and a number of local and national pressmen and women disembarked to come in, look over the place and take up residence for the night. Journalists can be a cynical breed and David White of the Sunday Recorder was more cynical than most. He had been a war reporter for a number of years, dashing between various conflicts in Africa, the Middle East and Afghanistan until age and family responsibilities took their toll and then his media company decided his international interests could be better employed by making him a travel and tourism correspondent for their national newspaper. This in David White’s opinion was an asinine and unworthy use of his abilities, and though admittedly less life-threatening, he felt it was a decided demotion; and being sent to cover some small hotel’s big pretensions in the Welsh borders he considered almost beneath contempt. Nonetheless, he followed the guided tour given by the hotel’s assistant manager along with the other hacks in his party and, despite his almost permanently bored expression, his professional eye quickly picked out one or two employees he might interview that could give him a more penetrating appraisal of this enterprise than the company propaganda he was being fed.
An old groundsman with twinkly eyes and an amused expression was the first he went to see.
“Dai Mervyn? Pleased to meet you. I’m David White of the Sunday Recorder. So – what do you think of all this about Camelot they are trying to sell here, Mr Mervyn? Isn’t it all a load of hype to encourage tourists to part with their money?”
“Aye…it could be that…then again maybe it isn’t…” Dai wasn’t giving anything away.
“It isn’t just fancy dress, then? You think there is more to this hotel’s affectations than just a website and some pretty restoration?”
“There is a lot of fancy dress, as you put it, right enough. They’ve spent millions on promoting the image. Beneath it all, is there more to Camelot here than meets the eye? Aye…right enough there is, too”
“How so?”
Dai Mervyn took a long look at this first journalist of the day – no doubt another who had been everywhere, seen everything and now believed very little of anything anymore.
“People these days know it all now. Nothing much I can tell ‘em,” he sniffed.
“C’mon, Mr Mervyn. I guess you’ve seen a lot in your time. So is there, or is there not anything to this Camelot story here?”
“Historian’s will tell you that Camelot is a Celtic legend that has grown over the centuries, that its beginnings are lost in time, it could have been hereabouts, or in Cornwall, or in the North, or it might have been nowhere at all. But I’ve come to think more and more recently that its origins are right here. This land you’re standing on has seen more blood spilt than most places – it is a battlefield where castles have been built up and knocked down again over millennia. But Camelot is one whose imprint still remains.”
“Mr Mervyn, I’ve been to many battlefields in the world where blood had been spilt and where nothing remains but scorched earth, rubble and ruined lives. There is nothing to glorify in such places. What makes this place special?”
“Hope! The fact that it has survived; the fact that the castle that once defended this land against invasion is now a hotel that welcomes visitors from overland and overseas. That is something special. Fortifications that tell of thousands of years of conflict dot this landscape…but they are ruins now, or else rebuilt as tourist attractions. And Camelot lives on here as the beacon of light that has shone through the centuries.”
“Spare me the poetic imagery!” David White laughed.
“You can laugh – but I can show you people here who are inspired by what Camelot represents. For one very special person in particular, this place is not just a hotel.”
“Well, thank you, Mr Mervyn. Do show me that person.”
Dai Mervyn caught sight of Gareth Jones, standing in the distance outside the restaurant, helping some cameramen set up their gear to start filming. He waved an arm to attract his attention and called him over.
“Gareth, can you take this gentleman to meet with Gwen? He wants to know more about Camelot.” Dai gave his young colleague a wink.
“Of course, Mr Mervyn. Do come this way, sir.” Gareth Jones was as polite as ever. He led the way back into the hotel foyer and up to reception. As he went, David White took the opportunity to question him.
“So who is this Gwen? Someone like Dai Mervyn who has lived in these parts for many years?”
“No, sir,” Gareth replied. “She’s my age and has only just started work here like the rest of us. But you’ll see when you meet her. Camelot has
transformed her life, sir. That’s the only way I can explain it.”
That was a surprise. The man from the Sunday Recorder was intrigued; even more so when he saw the attractive young woman of innocent expression standing, smiling at him from behind reception.
“Gwen, this gentleman wants to know more about Camelot. Can you speak with him?”
David White was introduced. The Lady Gwendolyn came out from behind the reception desk and curtsied low before him.
“Welcome to Camelot, sire. How can I be of assistance?”
Well, that was novel, thought David White. She’s been well trained.
“Yes, young lady. You can help me if you can explain if Camelot means anything more than just some image that the hotel wishes to project.”
The Lady Gwendolyn lowered her eyes then looked back up at her interviewer with a troubled expression. She looked next at Gareth who stood beside the journalist, then turned to face David White once more. This man bore a disinterested, somewhat bored expression as if he was asking something that duty demanded but he was actually not really bothered about.
“It is difficult to explain to those who have no knowledge of what Camelot represents, sire,” she said seriously. “But it is so much more than just an image, a story to tell to our guests, sire.”
“So what does it represent? What more than a story?”
“Camelot, sire, is an ideal by which to live. It represents the sense of community, the code of chivalry that binds people together and directs our endeavours to promote that which is good and that which can defeat evil. The Knights of the Round Table yearly pledge their allegiance to King Arthur, to serve Camelot, and to support each other in their common commitment to take up arms against all the dark forces that would otherwise overwhelm their world. ‘Tis a noble and valiant ideal that inspires all who are poor and fearful and powerless and have only hope to keep them warm at night when darkness is all around.”
The much-travelled ex-war correspondent snorted. “Look here, young lady – I’ve seen at first hand the brotherhood in arms of men who face death on the battlefield and I wonder if you have any idea of what you are talking about. You’ve given me some trumped-up poetry of idealised knights in shining armour. A fine story; a fine lesson you have learned to parrot to allcomers but there is no truth in it; there are no ideals that remain in a real war. Just men who are disillusioned, angry, frightened and surrounded by pain and blood and dismembered bodies.”
The face of Lady Gwendolyn flushed at this accusation. The insult to her own credibility and more – to the only ideal that made any sense to her in this crazy, faithless world – hurt her deeply. She spoke slowly at first but with rising passion as she replied: “Thou judgest me falsely, sire. I speak only of what I know, of what I have seen. Since I lost my mother as a child I have seen men regularly gird themselves up for battle and go out to face all forms of evil. I have seen older knights speak with younger and counsel them to face their fears. I have seen one, sire, who knew he was going out to face certain death. I saw his squire return, broken-nosed, bloodied and weeping at the loss of his mentor. I wept with him, as did others, but I also saw the glory in his eye that grew there as a result of that sacrifice. ‘Twas Camelot that put it there. How dost one measure the value of Camelot? There is no greater love that I have seen than the love of those who are willing to commit their lives to it, sire. It belittles their memory, their sacrifice, to deny such valour. I know not what thou hast seen and spoken of, milord, but if it is men who fight and die and know not why then I can only surmise they have no knowledge of Camelot. I stand here today, sire, in this place, this…this hotel where Camelot once stood, sire, as a testament to all that that citadel still represents and I weep that so few like yourself really understand!”
The Lady Gwendolyn finished with fire shining through the tears in her eyes. Then she curtsied once more, span round and left the two of them, David White and Gareth Jones, looking open-mouthed at her retreat. She couldn’t go back to reception just yet; she had to find the ladies’ room first to cry her heart out at everything that she had lost. Camelot lived inside her but only the merest shadow remained outside. She was feeling utterly desolate.
“My God!” was the first comment that the journalist could make. He stood floundering in the middle of the foyer like a beached porpoise, wondering what on earth he had just witnessed, and refusing to admit to himself that he had seriously underestimated this young woman he had just watched disappear. Where had that extraordinary female come from? What conflicts had she seen? Or was she some deluded schizophrenic who lived in some other world? He turned to his companion for an explanation.
“Who is that girl? And where is she from?”
Gareth Jones was not one to let down a friend. He was similarly wondering what had happened to the Gwen that he once knew and whether or not she was now mentally disturbed, but there was no way he was going to voice such fears to this unsympathetic outsider.
“Gwen Price, sir. I knew her at school here…but that was some time ago and she is…er…very different now. Excuse me.” Gareth Jones bowed and backed away.
“You can say that again,” murmured David White to himself as he was left on his own.
* * *
As the day wore on, a number of the visiting press completed their tour of the hotel. They had made up their minds, and made up their stories and had no need to stay any longer. Others, meanwhile, had booked in for the night, had unpacked, had dined in the restaurant and had then repaired to the bar to drink, swap impressions and generally enjoy the five-star hospitality that their employers were paying for. Hotel staff came and went as the early shift was replaced by those on evening duty. In reception, Victoria had volunteered for the four pm to midnight turn and so the Lady Gwendolyn was free to go home that afternoon to see her mother, to rest and reflect on what had happened. Dai Mervyn offered to drive both Gwen and Gareth Jones back into the village since he was responsible for pushing Gwen into the limelight and had heard something of what Gareth had reported back, so he wanted to make sure that she was OK.
The Lady Gwendolyn was not OK. Once she was seated amongst friends and the Land Rover had crunched its way over the gravel and left the hotel behind, then her chin lowered, her emotions rose and her voice began to quaver.
“Oh, Merlyn, I’ve tried to put on my best face and not show my feelings but in truth I have been treated most rudely. This first man Gareth introduced me to made fit to ridicule me and claim I knew little of what I spoke. I assured him that I did indeed know of Camelot and of the life therein. Then later came there others who insisted I repeat what I had spoken of earlier – pressing their attentions upon me, demanding, clamouring for a response with clearly no notion of the offence they gave.”
“And what did you say to this rabble, my dear?” asked Merlyn, negotiating a gloomy corner in the road under darkening skies. “Did you repeat to them what they wanted to hear?”
“Very little, I confess. I was surrounded by barbarians who had no understanding of chivalrous conduct and clearly would scorn any remarks I made.” She struggled to hold her voice steady. “To recount the glories of Camelot to such philistines would be to witness what I value most in all the world being torn asunder by a pack of wolves. I could only say that it was important to hold onto the highest ideals if one wanted to recreate Camelot here today and did they not agree that such idealism was worth striving for?”
“Well said, my precious one. Well said indeed. I am only sorry that it was I that started all this. Me being so proud of you and all, I should have known better than to put you in the firing line of such uncouth invaders. Gareth here told me a little of what happened with the journalist I sent you – o’ course he was bound to talk to others. I’m so sorry, my dear. It was all my fault.”
Dai Merlyn pulled up his old Land Rover outside Gwen’s house. The heat in the late afternoon had now built up to be clammy and oppressive and its sullen mood seemed to embrace them all. Dai looked at
the pensive young woman sitting next to him and, daughterless as before, he wished he could do more for her, break the sadness that seemed to have captured her soul, lift her spirits and somehow make her shine again. But maybe that was beyond him. Maybe a younger man could do that for her. He opened the passenger door and helped this princess descend. Then he asked if Gareth too would like to get out here as well. The Lady Gwendolyn seized this opportunity as he hoped she would.
“Please come in with me, Merlyn, Gareth. I am going to have to talk about this day again with my mother and I would be glad of your support.”
Merlyn shook his head. “Nay, my love; I’ll not do that. If you’re OK now I’d best be getting back to Morgan who’ll be wanting a feed and I’ll take yet another stroll around the estate to watch those ruffians don’t trample all over where they don’t belong. But you go ahead with Gareth here. He’ll take care of you, am I right?”
“Yes, I will. I’ll come in with you Gwen, if you wish.”
Such concern shown her by these two men at the end of a turbulent day partly made up for the rough treatment the Lady Gwendolyn had felt she’d received earlier. She waved goodbye from the front door porch to the Land Rover as it grumbled its way down the road, then turned and led Gareth into the interior of her mother’s house.
Ceri Griffiths had put the kettle on as soon as she saw the Land Rover outside so when Lady Gwendolyn introduced Gareth to her mother the offer of tea and Welsh cakes came immediately.
“Hello, Gareth,” said Ceri. “I haven’t seen you in a long while – not since you and Gwen were at school together. Do come in and take some tea.”
“Aye, Ms Griffiths. Nearly six year ago now. D’ye remember, Gwen?” He was still anxious to understand what had happened to the girl he grew up with.
Welcome to Camelot Page 16