by Mike Ashley
When Sir Balin was uncovered, he rose at once, and thought how strange it was that a mule should be his savior.
Using a length of timber for a lever, Balin raised stones from off the Maimed King. When Pelleas was freed, he nevertheless lay without movement, staring at the sun, and Balin could not gain any response by speaking or prodding. It passed through his mind to replace the heavy cairn upon the half-living king.
It would be several weeks before Balin heard of the first foul deeds of an insane champion calling himself the Red Knight of the North, whose armor was lacquered crimson and whose roan’s trappings were carmine set about with garnets and rubies. The Red Knight was a monster with a festering wound beyond all healing, who went forth in a constant rage of vengeful agony.
And Balin then would know, without wanting to know it, that he should never have raised the stones from off the maimed and moaning Pellinore. But upon the day when a mule brought salvation to Balin, he felt he owed a like deed to another.
He found also Lyll’s body. It terrified him to discover she was more beautiful in death than ever he had seen her in life. He did not know she had seen into the Well of the World, so he thought her peaceful repose proved her preference for the boon companion Death above the ill-fated Balin.
Full of guilty sorrows, he laid his beloved wife across the mule’s swayed back and led the beast toward Northumberland.
He was troubled by all that he saw along the way, knowing too well his part in it, though still unable to turn aside from his lamentable destiny. He abandoned the mule at the border of his country, and carried his broken Lady to a poppy field that she had planted soon after they were wed. Here he buried her under a stone table, then sat atop the table a long while moaning the wordless dirge of a hurt animal.
Ambrosius, who knew himself as God, wondered at such powers as had set themselves against him. When, he wondered, had he first blinded himself to the many chinks and breaches in his initially efficacious spells? Where was it that his splendidly woven magicks first began to fail? By whose interference had his overall design transformed against his will?
He lacked the true heart of the quester, and knew not what way to turn, but sought aimlessly in darkness and wild places, seeking an unknown Something he might not recognize even if it spoke.
Of Arthur’s further history, he took no part, and did not observe the last unravelling of the dream of Camelot. He was not there to warn Arthur not to spite himself in webs of anger and betrayal. He did not come in time to save the king in the Battle of Camlann. Long before full half the Round Table knights died of morbid quests, and before Queen Morgan preserved her brother upon a golden slab in the cavern beneath Avillion, Ambrosius forgot even that Arthur ever lived, or what he ever hoped to gain by so much sorcery.
He merely wandered gloomy haunts, as mindless as the will o’ the wisp. One day he sat atop fallen cedar logs and broken doorways of some extravagant but ruined house, wondering why he, of all divinities, should be denied the key to all mystery. He had thought himself ageless, but now his spine was bent and arthritic; his white beard hung below his bony knees; and he was a most terrible giant hermit feared by all who saw his hoary head raised amidst mountains.
Logs shifted under him, as though they were a heap of thick serpents, but he was not unperched. There came to him from out of a nearby hazel thicket a beautiful young nymph who sat beside him speechless, gazing at him in a tender, wistful manner. After some while, her presence began to annoy him. He tried to set upon her a withering look; but his faded eyes could not focus in her direction.
She said, “Remember, Sylvester, when you feasted only on fruit and herbs, and all beasts were your companions? Now, Ambrosius, you have eaten bloody venison and spurn the berries of the bramble-bush.”
As she spoke, there sprouted and matured before him a bush with six branches, hung all about with hazelnuts. Merlin turned his face away; and because of his disdain, the brightness of the bush went out. Where a moment before hazels grew, now there were only branches full of thorns.
“You, my precious Merlin, have becme the Death of Planets,” said the nymph, whose seductive intonation increasingly fouled his mood. “You might have been the Lover of the World; but you have refashioned yourself, and now cannot be more than Her deathless sacrifice.”
“Destroy me, I care not,” said the raspy voice of the old man. “You have taken everything. Why should I alone continue?”
“It was not I that slew the beauty of the world,” said the sweet nymph, tempting Merlin with her white shoulder. “Rather, the selfish tyranny of mortals has laid low the earth. That selfishness is manifest in you.”
Her words angered him more deeply than weary old age could express. And due to his strengthless anger, he found himself entangled in the thorny bush that was cold as ice.
Arising from out of the ground were stone pillars that surrounded Merlin of the Bramble-bush.
The nymph was weeping copiously as she became a ribboned sheet of water reaching skyward. The deathless soul of the sorcerer heard, from within that celestian fount, the nymph’s murmured enticements, “Sylvester, Sylvester, come into my rose-petaled bower.” But it was Ambrosius who replied, “Away from me, Harlot,” and sank forever beneath the world.
THE CORRUPTION OF PERFECTION
MIKE ASHLEY
There are certain aspects of the Arthurian story that have always fascinated me. One of these is the fact that despite all the heroics of Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table, the legend is pervaded by an inevitable doom, as if there is an inexorable decline to the fate of Arthur and his knights. Elements of this repeat themselves time and again throughout the romances. When James Lowder gave me the opportunity to contribute to The Doom of Camelot, I thought I would explore this and tie it in to the episode of Sir Urfrey, one of the lesser-known Arthurian knights who also finds himself suffering for his cause.
Gawain could scarcely believe it was the same Arthur.
The company had travelled hard over the last three days from Camelot into Cornwall and Arthur was no longer young. Yet the king, who only a few days before had been sullen, temperamental, and given to deep bouts of depression, was now happy, buoyant, and chiding Agrivaine for his grimness.
“Just look at this view, Gawain,” Arthur called, bringing the company to a halt. They had arrived at the cliffs above a huge bay where the sun turned the water into a sea of stars and the coastline curved its way along into the distant haze. “I played here with Merlin many a time as a boy. In fact I still think of it as Merlin’s Bay. Does it have a name, Constantine?”
The fourth member of the company pulled his horse up alongside Arthur. Though Cornwall was Constantine’s duchy, he seldom travelled this far south. Still, he did not want to show his ignorance. “I believe the locals now call it Austell Bay after the local holy man.”
“I should come this way more often,” Arthur remarked. “It is such a beautiful land, so full of wonder. Perhaps we will meet this Austell. I have heard much about him. I wonder if he is related to Merlin.”
Gawain looked sideways at Agrivaine, and their eyes met. Both were unsure of the wisdom of this journey, yet the prospect of being reunited with Merlin had clearly rejuvenated Arthur. And who knew what might happen? Maybe Merlin was alive. The king certainly believed that to be true, and strongly enough to bring a royal party to Cornwall’s wilds.
As Arthur bid them continue to their destination, Gawain pondered again his uncle’s dilemma.
The king had never understood what became of Merlin, and would not accept that his friend and advisor was dead. No one really knew Merlin’s fate, though there had been rumours and speculation for years. The king could not believe that Merlin deserted him without good cause. He was certainly used to the old man disappearing on secret missions for months on end, though he’d always returned. Now, Arthur had nearly lost count of the years Merlin had been missing – six? Eight? Ten? It seemed an eternity. In his darker moments, the king was lost
without him. No one else had the wisdom and subtlety of vision that Merlin possessed, not even Archbishop Dyfrig.
During the last year, Arthur had become convinced there was a conspiracy against him, or more likely against the queen. First there was the kidnapping of Guinevere by Meleagaunt, and her heroic rescue by Lancelot. Not long before that, the queen had been accused of poisoning Sir Patrise, and of attempting to murder Gawain. There were rumours that Guinevere had been unfaithful, but with whom Arthur never learned; the king thought the gossip to be baseless, but even his most trusted friend, Lancelot, seemed reluctant to remain at court and was forever questing. Was this also part of a conspiracy? Arthur felt surrounded by rumour and did not know who to turn to. Only Merlin would know the truth.
But where was he? Arthur was certain Merlin had fallen victim to one of Morgan’s schemes, but Morgan only laughed when confronted, like she always laughed, and revealed nothing. Even Vivienne, with whom Merlin had been infatuated, claimed she had no idea. Arthur had sent knights in search of his old friend, all to no avail. Then plague and famine rampaged across the kingdom, and the Round Table became engrossed in the Quest for the Grail. Memories of Merlin faded into the past.
Except for one strange incident. Some while previous, Gawain and Yvaine had been travelling in the West Country when Gawain fell under the spell of the enchantress Byanne. He was transformed into a dwarf and spent many weeks lost in the Woods of Austell. At one point, he came near a cave and believed he heard the voice of Merlin enquiring about Arthur and Guinevere. The mage revealed that his spirit was trapped and would only be freed when Arthur regained the throne.
When Gawain eventually took on his normal form again and returned to Camelot, he did not tell the king of his experience. First, he was not sure whether it was part of the enchantment or possibly all a dream, and secondly, he did not understand the allusion to regaining the throne. This must mean, he thought, that Arthur would lose the throne at some point, and Gawain did not believe that was something his uncle wanted to hear.
However, one night, when drunk, he told the story to his wife Floriel, who told her brother Brandiles, who told Arthur. Gawain had to claim he had been under an enchantment which prevented him from telling Arthur directly. The king treated this as yet more evidence of the conspiracy against him. He demanded that Gawain lead him to the spot where he had heard Merlin’s voice.
Unfortunately, Gawain could not remember the spot. He only knew it was in the woods near the church of the holy man Austell. This seemed to encourage Arthur. Gawain could not think why at the time; as he mused on the subject during the long ride through Cornwall, he realized the site must hold some link with Arthur’s youth. The king had been raised in this area by Merlin, and there were doubtless places and connections which meant something only to them.
Gawain still wished they had been accompanied by Yvaine, who might have a better idea of where he had heard Merlin, but Arthur had recently sent the knight on a quest into the North and he was unlikely to return for some months. Instead, Constantine leapt at the chance to ride with Arthur, and since Cornwall was Constantine’s duchy, he could hardly be refused. The rest of the quintet was comprised of Agrivaine, who never missed an opportunity like this, and the king’s own squire, Kynan.
The joy of the morning turned sombre as they neared Austell’s church. About two miles distant resided Austell’s close compatriot, Mewan. Unlike Austell, Mewan lived the life of a recluse, and spent much of his time in a cave deep in the woods. He sometimes blocked the cave entrance with large stones; usually, the only betrayal of his presence was if he lit a fire and the smoke drifted out through the vent at the top of the cave.
The path to Austell’s church did not pass near Mewan’s caves, but once in the woods, Arthur turned from the usual route and set off at great pace, with the others struggling in pursuit. He evidently knew where he was going, and his company could do nothing but follow. Soon the trees became so entangled that they had to dismount. Where they were heading looked at first glance even more impenetrable, but they suddenly broke through into a clearing. Gawain recognized it at once, as if from a dream.
It so happened that for once Mewan was not deep in his cave. He had emerged to gather food, and was sitting outside, plucking some pigeons and preparing a fire, as the company stumbled into the clearing. He had heard them coming for some while, however, and had chosen not to hide. He was watching the knights as they emerged from the thicket.
Gawain was astonished. The holy man looked every inch like Merlin. He was dressed in a humble grey habit, with bare feet, a long, matted beard, and silver-grey hair. His face shone, and his eyes sparkled with an inner depth. Even when he spoke, his voice and his manner were so like Merlin’s.
“Welcome, travellers,” he said. “You are either lost or come seeking answers.”
“Merlin!”
The cry came from Arthur, who had dropped his horse’s reins and was staggering forward, arms outstretched, wanting to hug his old friend. Although Mewan remained seated, the king grabbed him by the arms and pulled him erect, revealing a strength he had not shown in years. He clasped Mewan closely, holding him so for a moment. When at length they separated, Gawain could see tears in Arthur’s eyes.
Mewan chose not to speak. He simply watched Arthur, with only a token glance at the others.
“Merlin,” Arthur cried again. “What’s become of you? Why have you not come back to court?”
Only now did Constantine intervene.
“My lord, I fear you are mistaken. This is the holy man, Mewan.” He then turned to the hermit. “Mewan, this is your sovereign lord, King Arthur.”
Mewan seemed in no way awed by the company. Arthur, for his part, clearly ignored Constantine’s words and continued to ask “Merlin” what he had been doing during all those lost years. Mewan finally ceased Arthur’s questions with a raise of his hands, bloodstained from the pigeon he had been preparing. The blood caught Arthur’s eye and he became transfixed. Meanwhile Mewan at last spoke.
“All who find me are troubled. We may seek our answers from the Lord God and from within ourselves. Please come and pray with me.”
Mewan led the company to a small wooden cross nailed to a tree some yards distant. There he knelt in prayer and bid them all to do the same. As Arthur knelt, Gawain was aware that a shaft of sunlight had suddenly pierced the clouds and the canopy of trees, and bathed Mewan in a pool of radiance. Arthur noticed it too, and Gawain saw him tense as he bowed his head in prayer. The knight could only wonder what thoughts were going through his uncle’s already tortured mind.
The company remained in prayer for several minutes. Only when Mewan rose did they all do likewise, and return to the cave. As they walked, Arthur caught Gawain’s arm and whispered in his ear.
“Did you see the holy aura? Have you seen the blood on Merlin’s hands? He has been transfigured. Merlin has been raised for Heaven’s duty. No wonder he has not returned to court. He is now in the service of God.”
Gawain did not know how to reply. The idea that Merlin would abandon the Old Faith for Christianity seemed impossible. In fact, Gawain had long believed it was Arthur embracing Christianity that had driven the mage from court. Maybe a deep guilt about this had brought the king to believe that Merlin was still alive and would one day embrace the Faith. But Gawain could see that there was no point in giving voice to these thoughts; Arthur was not in the mood to listen.
The king hastened back to sit by Mewan at the cave’s entrance. The holy man was pulling together the few pigeons he had plucked.
“I’m afraid I can offer you little by way of food,” Mewan apologized. “If you wish to wait, I am sure I could prepare some broth.”
It was only then that Arthur seemed to return to some normality. He gestured to his squire, who had remained respectfully at a distance with the horses and bags.
“We have plenty of food, Merlin. You must share ours.”
The preparation of a meal broke the spell for a
short while. As they ate, though, confusion claimed Arthur again and he returned to his questioning of Mewan.
“Merlin,” the king began, “why have you come again to this cave where you taunted me when I was but a child? You have clearly passed through much in these many years, but what has brought you again to this place?”
“My lord Arthur, I do not know how to answer you. You believe that I am Merlin the Enchanter, whom I did once meet, many years ago. But Merlin and I are of different faiths and follow different paths.”
For all the holy man protested, Arthur would not accept his denial. “You have always followed your own path, Merlin, and I have never, in all my years, been able to change you from it.” Something sounded in the king’s voice then – a note of utter weariness. “I need your help more than at any other time,” he continued. “My kingdom is crumbling. There are plots against me and against my queen, and without your counsel I do not know which way to turn.”
“Have you asked the Lord your God?”
Arthur hung his head.
“There are times when I believe God has forsaken me and my kingdom,” he said softly. “Perhaps I transgressed holy authority when I commanded the search for the Grail of Christ. I sought perfection which was not mine to possess, and in doing so I lost the most perfect soul to ever inhabit this earth.”
“You lost the soul of Christ?” Mewan asked, knowing full well this was not what Arthur meant.
The king shook his head. “Forgive me, Merlin. I surely did not mean to be sacrilegious. But if you had witnessed the purity of Galahad, you would know you had met a perfect soul. And because of me, Galahad died.”
Gawain shifted uneasily at this, and Mewan noticed it.
“Are you sure Galahad died?” the hermit asked. “Or was he taken?”
If the knight intended to answer, he never got the chance. “It is all the same to me,” King Arthur sighed. “Galahad’s soul passed on, and we were left with a shell.”
