King of the Scepter'd Isle (Song of Earth)

by Coney, Michael G.

  “The stories were an ideal, Arthur. Reality is another thing. Reality is hungry soldiers who haven’t seen a woman for days. Reality is sweat and dirty pants.”

  “And reality is that people would rather make up their own minds. That was where we made our mistake. We tried to shove chivalry down their throats like religion. They threw it up into our faces. In the end I began to think we were no better than them. Most of the time we were the aggressors, Nyneve. We kicked those Saxons all over England. Did they really want to fight? Did they really want to learn our ways? Even our allies didn’t want to be our allies—I realize that now. They joined us because we were powerful. Reality is that people are stupid and selfish and cowardly without exception, and that includes the Knights of the Round Table.”

  “So why did you come here, Arthur?”

  “Tomorrow I ride to Camlann,” he said again. “Will that be the end?”

  “The stories said it was the end.”

  “So what was it all for?”

  Nyneve wanted to cry. “It was for Starquin. Perhaps it was for humans as well. People will always remember you, Arthur.”

  He sat silent for a moment, his jaw clamped tight and the lines very apparent. Eventually he said, “I don’t think I know anything anymore.”

  “You know why you came here tonight.”

  “So do you.”

  “No, I don’t. I told you I don’t spy.”

  He was silent.

  There was always a temptation to peep into the ifalong. Merlin had probably already done it; he sat there grinning like a pleased dog. Nyneve resisted the temptation and allowed her human side to guess. “ ‘Camlann, where the last dim, weird battle of the west is fought,’ “ she said, quoting from the story. “I can tell you how to win, Arthur. I can predict every move of the Saxon forces. Is that why you came?”

  He said, “It would be wrong to win. I’ve learned that.”

  “Then what?”

  “The story says that there will be an inscription on my tomb. It will say ‘Here lies Arthur: once and future king.’ Is that right?”

  “That’s what the story says.”

  “I have to ask you this, Nyneve. Why future?”

  “It was a story, nothing more.”

  He regarded her closely, then said, “It doesn’t matter. I’m going to die at Camlann. I came here to tell you something, not to ask you anything.”

  “Please tell me, then.”

  “It’s my last chance, Nyneve. I have to tell you that I love you. I’ve loved you from the moment I saw you in the boat at Avalon. I’ve loved you every time I saw you in the forest, and I’ve loved you when I didn’t see you. I’ve loved you through every battle I’ve fought, and I’ll love you when I die at Camlann. I’ve loved you every single moment of my life. Forgive me. I had to tell you.”

  She was crying openly now, and suddenly she stood and pulled the shift over her head and threw it aside. She stood naked in the firelight, black hair tousled. As she looked at Arthur, wondering if she was possessed by human or godlike impulses, the tears turned to laughter. Nothing had any importance at all when set beside love. She turned to Merlin, sitting pop-eyed in his chair, and said, “In the words of Avalona, you are superfluous, Merlin. Get out of here before I disincorporate you, and don’t come back until morning.”

  Then she reached for Arthur.

  The woman was tall and beautiful. She didn’t look old enough for the young man at her side to be her son.

  The young man at her side … Gwen studied him covertly as they sipped herb tea. He was broad-shouldered and handsome, with wiry auburn hair that reminded her of Arthur. His face was square, with a broad, smiling mouth and bright blue eyes. Lady Jane had said he was twenty-one, but he seemed older and more experienced. He had a way of looking at her that made a pulse in her neck throb. And she was getting toward forty. … Shakily she put her cup down.

  “It’s good to have company,” she said. “I wish you could stay longer than one night. With Arthur away so much, Camelot is a lonely place.”

  “I’m sure it is.” Lady Jane wasn’t listening, Gwen realized. Since she and Harry had arrived that afternoon, there had been several occasions when she’d gone off into a kind of trance. “Don’t you have anything stronger than this stuff?” asked Lady Jane abruptly, putting down her cup with a grimace.

  She was certainly outspoken, thought Gwen. That was to be admired. “Wine, perhaps?”

  “Yes.” Lady Jane was gazing with open curiosity around the room.

  Gwen was quite proud of her furniture. “Most of it’s from France,” she found herself saying, “but the tapestries are from the East.”

  “Doesn’t King Arthur bring back stuff from his wars?”

  “He doesn’t believe in looting.” Gwen couldn’t keep the regret out of her voice.

  “What a pity. What’s the point in fighting if you don’t loot? King Arthur must learn to please his troops. It’s rape and pillage that knits a rabble into a fighting unit,” said Lady Jane with relish. “Rape and pillage. The men must have something to look forward to, or they’ll have no stomach for the battle.”

  “Things haven’t been going too well lately,” admitted Gwen.

  “They say the Saxons are gathering at Camlann.”

  “So Arthur tells me. He’s riding there tomorrow.”

  “I may take a look myself,” said Lady Jane. “I enjoy a good battle.”

  “Oh.” Nonplussed, Gwen turned to Harry. “Are you fighting at Camlann?”

  “I see myself more as a tactician. I’ve made a study of all the famous battles. It’s a fascinating subject, military strategy.”

  “Harry’s officer material,” said Lady Jane proudly. “You don’t waste a man like Harry on the battlefield.”

  “That was a wonderful victory of King Arthur’s at Badon fifteen years ago,” said Harry. “The flanking movement under cover of the ridge; it was classic. I wish I’d been there to see it. Of course, I was only a child at the time, but King Arthur’s always been my hero. Somehow I can identify with him.” He’d moved closer in his enthusiasm; their knees almost touched.

  “It was a famous victory,” she said weakly.

  Lady Jane stood. “I’ll go to bed if you don’t mind, Gwen. I’ll have a long journey tomorrow if I want to get to Camlann. I’ll take a goblet of wine to bed. Sometimes I don’t sleep very well in a strange castle.” Smiling, she left.

  “Tell me about Badon,” said Harry, his brilliant eyes fixed on Gwen’s.

  “Well, I don’t really know very much. …”

  “Of course you do. Arthur must have told you all about it.”

  “I can’t think what’s happened to Arthur. I expected him home before this.”

  “He’s probably spending the night in Mara Zion. I expect he’s met some of his old cronies and they’re discussing tactics for Camlann.”

  “Tactics? I doubt it. His knights were all here yesterday, discussing Camlann until—” She was about to say “until I wanted to scream” but stopped herself. This young man and his mother were clearly very knowledgeable about military matters. “It was very interesting,” she finished lamely.

  “Will he be using similar tactics to Badon?”

  “I believe so.” Somewhat ashamed of the lack of interest she’d displayed during the strategic discussion, she said, “They were talking about a broad front in the valley, and a diversion at the ford. Meanwhile Arthur would take an outflanking force through the forest to the north.”

  “He’d have to cross the open ground between the river and the forest to do that.”

  “Yes.” Gwen felt well informed and clever. “But it seems there’s a tributary flowing down from the forest. It crosses that ground in a deep gully. Arthur says it looks like just a strip of reeds from level ground. That’s the way the outflanking force will go, in single file through the gully. It’ll take time, but in the space of two hours we’ll have a thousand men in the forest without the Anglo-Saxons knowing
a thing.”

  “What a fine strategy.” His eyes were shining.

  Their knees were touching. Gwen felt a surge of desire. He’d started moving things about on the low table now, hitching his chair even closer so they could see a model battle from the same position. “I … I …” She was not sure what she wanted to say. She wanted to say something intelligent and perceptive. She hoped Arthur wasn’t coming back tonight.

  “Let’s say this salt shaker is Arthur’s outflanking force,” said Harry. …

  A light drizzle was falling as the young man and his mother rode away from Camelot the following morning.

  “Did you get enough out of her?” asked Morgan le Fay.

  “Enough to ensure the destruction of Arthur and every Briton in the west of England,” said Mordred.

  They gathered on the plains to the west of the river at Camlann. The last of the knights were addressed by Governayle. King Lodegrance had brought a small army from the far west, and Bedivere had raised another six hundred in the north. Gareth brought men from Wales. Arthur rode up with four hundred men from the southwest, to join the main body camped beside the river.

  “How does it look?” he asked Governayle.

  “We’ve had better days.” Twenty years had left their mark on Governayle; he was no longer the carefree youth of Mara Zion. Time had not dulled his wit, however; and it was he who had suggested the outflanking movement by which Arthur hoped to surprise the Saxons. “We’re outnumbered about three to one,” he said.

  The Saxon tents covered the southern hillside of Camlann and extended over the ridge and out of sight, giving the impression of limitless forces. Dull clouds hung low over the hills, and a light drizzle fell, matting the horses’ coats and dampening the spirits of the squires who were preparing them for battle.

  Arthur took Governayle aside. “I talked to Nyneve the night before last,” he said.

  “Did she give us any hope?”

  “As much as she could. Not a lot. This is our last battle, Governayle. You know that, don’t you?”

  “We’ve had some good times. We’ll go down fighting.”

  Arthur hesitated. “We … we could call it off, you know. We could send every man home. We could save a lot of lives that way. Is there any point in fighting a battle we can’t win?”

  “You certainly know how to depress a fellow, Arthur. What’s gotten into you?”

  “I slept with Nyneve the other night. I’ve been going through hell ever since. My God, if Gwen ever found out! I’ve betrayed her, Governayle, and I’ll never forgive myself.”

  “Don’t feel so bad about it. What about her and Lancelot?”

  “I don’t believe anything ever happened between them. Neither of them are the type, somehow. …” Arthur was gazing southward. “There’s another army coming. Will they be on our side, or with the Anglo-Saxons? Who is leading our enemy, by the way?”

  “I heard an odd thing from a messenger we captured. It seems one of their leaders is called Mordred. Rumor has it that he’s the son of Morgan le Fay from the west. By rights he should be on our side, but Morgan’s thrown in her lot with the enemy, I don’t know why. You remember her, Arthur? She was that good-looking woman at Baron Menheniot’s tournament, when the archers peppered Sir Mador de la Porte.” Governayle chuckled. “That’s one of the best memories.”

  “I have another memory of that day,” said Arthur slowly. “I was seduced by Morgan le Fay.”

  “You certainly get around.”

  “How old is Mordred?”

  “Early twenties, I believe. Why?”

  “He might be my son.”

  “And he might not.” Governayle regarded his leader worriedly. Arthur seemed to have all kinds of problems on his mind; not a good omen for the battle to come.

  Fortunately the arrival of the men from the south put all that from their minds. The leader was an old acquaintance.

  “Lancelot!” cried Arthur. “I never expected to see you again.”

  Smiling magnificently, the perfect knight dismounted. “It’s good to see you, Arthur. And this is Galahad.” He introduced a tall, handsome knight in silver armor similar to his own. “Son of Elaine of Trevarron Isle.”

  Governayle’s mouth had dropped open. “Galahad?” he said. “The last time I saw you was twenty years ago in Tristan’s time. You haven’t aged a bit.”

  Now Galahad looked puzzled. “I’m only twenty years old, sir. I’ve lived all my life on Trevarron Isle with my mother and Sir Lancelot.”

  “Time has played us some queer tricks over the years,” said Arthur. “Nyneve would be able to explain it.” Her lively face and black hair had dwelt in his mind’s eye for two days.

  “That’s right,” said Governayle. “I remember now. It was Nyneve who brought you to the Great Hall.”

  “It must have been a different man,” said Galahad. “I met Nyneve for the first time today.”

  “Today?” exclaimed Arthur. “Where was this?”

  Galahad pointed. “Near that hill. …”

  Dumden Hill sat on the plain like a bun on a table, two miles south. The lower slopes were fuzzed with bushes, but the soil was thin and no trees grew. The top was bare rock, with grass in the creases. Nyneve reached the top at about noon and sat down with her arms around her knees. The clouds hung close above her head, and a light, cold wind ruffled her hair. The armies were spread across the land beneath her, toy soldiers with their tiny toy spears and bows. Arthur’s forces were nearest, separated from the Anglo-Saxons by the wandering silver thread of the river.

  “You’re going to lose.”

  The voice came from behind. Nyneve turned to see Morgan le Fay smiling at her coldly.

  “I know. But in the end we’ll both win. Starquin will be saved.”

  “Let’s hope so.” Morgan sat beside her; a little taller, a little older-looking, but centuries older in years. Not evil, not good; just another Dedo.

  Nyneve hated her more than anyone on Earth. “We could work together.”

  “Not when you’re so wrong. But perhaps it doesn’t matter. Every able-bodied man in England will be here.” They had come from the farthest corners of the land, and they were still coming in the thousands; armies, groups, lone figures straggling across the fields to Camlann.

  The quicker she wins, thought Nyneve, the less men will be killed. “Where’s Mordred?” she asked.

  “You know about Mordred? Of course you do. Mordred’s in there, planning. He’s born to it, of course. Just imagine it, Nyneve! The son of Arthur and me, down there. The capabilities of the boy! He won’t stop, at victory, of course. Once Arthur’s beaten, he’ll divide the Saxons and get them fighting among one another. He’s a master tactician, is Mordred. The Saxons are just a rabble of tribes—they’ll be happy to kill each other off. Then perhaps we’ll move to France and stir things up. All this is just practice, of course. I don’t pretend we can eliminate the human race this easily.”

  “The Saxons are attacking.” Clear trumpet notes rode the wind.

  “No, humans will become more sophisticated,” continued Morgan. “Communications will improve and tribes will get bigger. They’ll come back to Pentor one day, and they’ll have machines to kill one another with by then.”

  “Arthur’s holding them at the river. It looks as though your people have broken through to the north. Oh, why do they have to fight like this? Haven’t they learned anything from the gnomes?”

  “The direction of progress is clear. In due course humans will have weapons that can destroy Earth.”

  “In that case they’ll destroy the Rocks with it. Isn’t that what we’re trying to prevent?”

  “You have too much human in you, Nyneve. You have a sentimental attachment to this world. It doesn’t matter a damn whether Earth and the Rocks are destroyed, provided it doesn’t happen at the exact instant when Starquin is on the psetic line leading to your Rock at Pentor. And right now my reading of the ifalong tells me we’re still heading for that unf
ortunate coincidence.”

  “I agree. Look, that’s Lancelot down there. I recognize his colors. He’s fording the river. They’re mounting an offensive.” Nyneve couldn’t keep a certain pride out of her voice. “They’re hopelessly outnumbered, but they’re attacking! Don’t you see something praiseworthy in that kind of spirit, Morgan?”

  “Very much so. Racial suicide is just what we want.”

  Time went by. The battle ebbed and flowed. Deeds of heroism were done and legends were born. Many men died. The Saxons grew confident and moved their headquarters forward. By early evening a cluster of tents had been set up in a crook of the plain at the edge of the forested hills.

  “Arthur’s moving men into the forest above that glen,” said Nyneve.

  “Of course he is,” replied Morgan.

  Arthur led the task force himself. Perhaps it was bravado, or perhaps it was an unwillingness to send his men unled into a hopeless position. The battle was lost; it had been lost months before. The great outflanking move planned at Camelot was now just a dream; he had insufficient men to carry it through. There was, however, a slight chance that he could assemble a force in the forest and make a direct attack on the enemy headquarters. It was their last chance.

  Arthur crawled along the ditch against a rush of chilly water. Rain had swollen the flow. Fifty men crawled behind him; a thousand would not have been enough. Behind them, fires were being lit and the battle was winding down for the night. No ground had been yielded; the adversaries still faced one another across the river. Casualties had been heavy, and much the same for both sides—Which meant that Arthur’s smaller forces had lost the day. Another day’s fighting and it would all be over, unless a single, crippling blow could be delivered under cover of darkness. …