by Mike Ashley
Lady Philomela bowed her head and concluded mournfully, “We have travelled the world for seven years in search of this most perfect knight, but have not succeeded. We now place ourselves at your mercy, great king.”
Gawain started at this reference to a perfect knight, and saw that Arthur’s face also betrayed his thoughts. But the king retained his demeanour of authority as he said, “It is indeed a sad story, my lady Philomela. May we see your son?”
Philomela pulled back the curtains from around the litter, and cries of shock and abhorrence went up from the court. There lay Urfrey, unable to move, his body covered in festering wounds. Even to those knights who knew him he was almost unrecognizable, for two sword cuts criss-crossed his face, whilst a third sliced back his scalp. Although his body was wrapped in bandages, blood and pus continually oozed through the dressings. His left hand was clenched like a claw, the fingers flayed of flesh. The smell of putrefaction filled the air. There was little doubt that Urfrey would have died of his wounds long before, had he not been kept alive by the curse.
Of all those gathered in the great hall, Arthur seemed the most affected by Sir Urfrey’s plight. “My lady,” he began sorrowfully, “you have done well to survive your travels. If it is within my power to cure your son, it shall be done.”
Even as he spoke, Arthur reflected upon Mewan’s warning against the knight who betrayed perfection. Here was an opportunity to discover who that might be. Ye t it seemed such a cruel twist that a knight pure enough of heart to cure this wretched man might also pose a threat. Still, that alone in the prophecy had been clear.
The king rose from his throne. “If you and your son are ready, my lady, I shall be the first to lay hands upon the wounds and search for any power I may have to heal them. Not that I presume to be the worthiest and best of all my knights, but that it must and should start with me. Let us remove to the tourney field.”
Arthur motioned to Archbishop Dyfrig to bless the proceedings. He then ordered that the litter be taken out to the meadow beyond the castle and that Urfrey be laid upon the earth. The whole court bustled out to the field, where Arthur and Guinevere took their seats upon the dais.
Urfrey was prepared, the squires heaving at the smell of the knight’s wounds. A golden cushion was placed before him upon which Arthur could kneel. All the knights, dukes, and earls assembled on the meadow. As he looked out over the host, Gawain reckoned there were over a hundred, all waiting for the chance to prove their perfection. Agrivaine stood by his side, and nudged him.
“Little chance any of this rabble will cure that poor sod,” he whispered. “If Mewan’s prophecy was correct, and Arthur has to beware the perfect knight, the one he has most to worry about is quite a ways off.”
Though he did not mention Lancelot’s name, Agrivaine’s meaning was clear enough to Gawain. “Where is he?”
“Galavanting on some quest or other,” Agrivaine smirked. “No doubt he’ll be here in due course, or at least before the thing’s over. This charade could take days.”
“Be quiet, Agrivaine,” muttered Gareth, who stood at his brother’s shoulder. “This is a momentous occasion. Just imagine if Arthur cures this man.”
“Then a dove will surely descend from heaven,” Agrivaine mocked, but he was rebuked into silence by several about him.
The king had knelt in prayer before Urfrey, and then raised his hands before him.
“Sir Knight,” he began. “I have prayed to the Lord our God to repent on behalf of your pain. Now you must pray and repent.”
Urfrey struggled to speak. “My most noble King Arthur, I pray now as I have prayed every hour of my life these last seven years. I am at God’s mercy and your command.”
Slowly, tentatively, Arthur stretched out his hands and softly touched Urfrey’s ruined flesh. It was almost more than Arthur could stand. The smell was repulsive, and as he felt the skin, so blood and pus oozed forth anew. The knight cried out in pain. Finally Arthur withdrew his hands, praying to himself all the while.
The words Constantine had spoken at the Dozmary Pool came to Arthur then. He stood and slowly drew Excalibur from its scabbard. If the sword were God’s instrument, as Constantine had suggested, then Urfrey might be cured by it.
The king heard a buzz of apprehension surge through the crowd, followed by an expectant hush. He held the sword high, kissed it, and prayed. The blade sparkled, outshining the sun. Slowly Arthur lowered Excalibur until it touched Urfrey’s chest. He closed his eyes and tried to open himself to the power, feel for it flowing through him. There was no doubt that his whole body tingled and the blade seemed to hum.
After what seemed an eternity Arthur opened his eyes. He was horrified to find that the knight was bleeding profusely from all his wounds. The king gasped in amazement. How could this be? God must have abandoned him.
Once again he lowered the sword to Urfrey’s chest, but it only seemed to cause the knight greater distress. Arthur had to admit defeat. He resheathed Excalibur and hung his head in shame.
“I am sorry, Urfrey. I am not worthy of you.”
Arthur rose, stepped back, and crossed himself. He turned and beckoned to Lord Clarivaus of Northumberland. “Find what you can in your soul for this poor knight.”
Distraught, Arthur returned to his seat beside Guinevere. He was aware of the eyes of many upon him and was certain that his court was questioning why their king had not the power to cure Sir Urfrey. For Arthur himself, his failure turned his thoughts back to the mystery of the perfect knight – his secret foe, if the prophecy proved correct.
Until now, Arthur had believed that the only perfect knight in the whole of Christendom had been Galahad, and Galahad was no more. All others on the Grail Quest had failed, even though Bors, Percival, and Lancelot had come close. Might they be his hidden enemy? Since the Quest’s end, Percival had retired to a hermitage; surely he could be no threat. Lancelot, certainly the greatest knight in all Christendom, was also the most faithful. Arthur refused to believe that the queen’s champion could be his enemy. But what of Bors? Bors, too, had always been loyal, and was the son of one of his oldest allies. Surely Bors would not betray him. But if not Sir Bors, who?
As Arthur pondered, so the ceremony continued. The king had set a precedent with Excalibur, and each of the contenders drew his sword as part of the healing ceremony. But it was all to no avail. Nothing seemed to help the poor knight.
The sun had already climbed past noon, and Arthur realized that if all those assembled were to try to cure Urfrey’s wounds, the procession would last well into the night. He beckoned to a page to have rooms prepared for Lady Philomela and her company.
The day wore on, and without success. Arthur, caught up now in pondering the identity of his nemesis, found himself secretly relieved at the failure of those closest to him – first Gawain, then Bedivere and Kay and Lucan. But shame at his own selfishness poisoned even that relief, darkening his mood further.
And still the procession continued. As he approached the injured man, Agrivaine made it clear he found the whole episode distasteful. He went through the ritual in a perfunctory fashion. Bors treated it seriously, and was blatantly upset when he failed, though more for poor Urfrey than for his own imperfection. Constantine, on the other hand, rose to the occasion, making a spectacle out of his prayer and his attempt at healing, even though the smell made him almost visibly sick. When nothing happened, the Duke of Cornwall became distraught. In the end, he collapsed beside Urfrey’s body and had to be carried away.
By then it was nearly dusk, and Arthur believed that everyone’s stamina had been drained. He held up his hand. “Lady Philomela, this must be as distressing to you and to your son as it is to me and my court. Both you and your son must rest. Join us in feasting tonight. We shall continue tomorrow.”
The next morning the court was astir. Word came that Lancelot was on his way back and would arrive by noon. Arthur found his mind in turbulence. Clearly the court saw Lancelot as the last hope for poor
Sir Urfrey, and in his heart of hearts Arthur wanted Lancelot to succeed. Yet the king could never believe that his friend was the traitor. Arthur found himself hoping that Lancelot would not cure Urfrey, and then felt guilty for such thoughts. Merlin had been right: wherever there is perfection, corruption lurks near at hand.
The proceedings continued until noon, though no one seemed surprised at the lack of success. All were awaiting the return of Lancelot, and a great cheer arose from the castle battlements as he was espied in the distance. Urfrey’s sister, Filloré, cried out to her brother that hope was here at last. Word had already been taken to Lancelot of the events at the castle; as he arrived, he was not surprised to find such a gathering upon the tourney meadow. At the sight of the golden knight, it was as if the whole world sighed with relief.
It was at this moment that Mordred stepped forth to make his attempt at curing Urfrey. In defiant arrogance he marched towards the distraught knight, kicked the golden cushion aside, and pulled a sword from his scabbard.
The gasp from the cour t was thunderous, as initial astonishment turned to cries and shouts and jeers. For as Mordred stood before the cursed knight, he held aloft what looked like Excalibur. The sword blazed forth light, dazzling the spectators. Its resemblance to the king’s blade was so strong that Arthur felt the pommel in his scabbard for reassurance. Then he realized what had happened. He leapt to his feet and cried to Mordred: “Stop! You will kill Sir Urfrey.”
Before anyone else could reach Mordred, Lancelot, who had taken in the situation at a moment’s glance, galloped across the field. He drew his own sword; it came from his scabbard as if from the very fire in which it was forged. The blade glowed a brilliant gold and, for an instant, both Mordred and Lancelot vanished in the incandescence of their swords.
Mordred turned to face Lancelot as he bore down on him astride his charger. To the surprise of everyone gathered there, Mordred displayed remarkable confidence. He held the sword in both hands and, as Lancelot approached, swung it with all his might. The queen’s champion met the stroke with a single blow of his own. The clash of the blades sounded like the heavens rending.
Mordred cried out as if he had been struck by lightning, and the sword flew from his grasp. He was on his knees when Arthur finally reached him. The king picked up the fallen, false Excalibur and held it at Mordred’s throat.
“Explain yourself, nephew.”
Mordred was capable of a thousand emotions. Although pouting like a small child, he became humble and bewildered all in one. For a while he gasped for breath and then responded, hesitantly.
“I am at a loss to explain it, sire. Until I drew the sword, I had no idea it was Excalibur. See, this is my scabbard. Someone must have placed the sword there.”
“And who might that have been?”
“I have no idea.”
There was now a small gathering of knights around Arthur and Mordred, including Gawain and Lancelot.
“My lord,” Gawain interceded, “I think you might find an answer from Morgan le Fay.”
Arthur nodded. “Yes, Morgan would be at the heart of this. Many years ago she created this false Excalibur to confuse and weaken me. It is almost indistinguishable from its cousin, except when the two are close together. Morgan regained the sword long ago; I have not seen it since, but I recognized it instantly. I imagine Morgan must have given it to Mordred—”
“Placed it in my scabbard,” Mordred corrected.
Arthur scowled. “Or placed it in his scabbard, hoping to trick him into using it. But this false Excalibur is evil. Had anyone attempted to heal Urfrey with it, he surely would have killed him.”
“Or,” Gawain offered, “Morgan planned to channel her dark power through the sword to give the appearance of healing – and make the wielder seem to be the most perfect of knights.”
“And my worthy successor,” Arthur concluded.
Yet the king did not give voice to the full turmoil of his thoughts. Only now was he realizing that the events unfolding were as much a test of Christianity by the Old Faith as they were a search for the perfect knight. And though Mordred could easily be construed now as his hidden enemy, a minion of Morgan’s dark ways, his guise of perfection was too flimsy to fulfil the words of the prophecy. There was, however, one other . . .
“Gawain,” the king said wearily, “I trust your brother to your keeping. We must attend to the business in hand.” As Mordred was led away, Arthur turned to Lancelot, who bowed before his king.
“Lancelot, may it be God’s will that it is within your power to cure this poor knight.”
“My lord,” Lancelot responded, “how can I, a simple knight, possibly succeed where you and these great lords have failed? I cannot presume such power upon me, in the face of God and His holy Son.”
“You do not presume, Lancelot, I command you. You are not undertaking this deed on your behalf, but on behalf of myself and the entire Round Table.”
Arthur found some relief in what he had just said. Maybe this was the answer – that Lancelot was not to be his nemesis. He was not the perfect knight, but the agent through which the power of all assembled would work.
“But, sire—” Lancelot began. Arthur hushed him and bid him to do his duty.
Lancelot sighed and then prepared himself. First, he approached Archbishop Dyfrig and sought his blessing. He then knelt in prayer before moving to Urfrey and kneeling beside the tortured knight.
“Sir Knight,” he said, “I am not worthy of you, but if the Lord God chooses me as the instrument of His power, so be it.”
He raised his hands to heaven, uttered a simple prayer, and slowly brought his hands down upon the knight. Never had there been such silence in the court at Camelot. All six score strained forward to see the consequences of Lancelot’s action. Even Agrivaine found himself spellbound.
The gasps began from those nearest to Lancelot and Urfrey, and a great wail went up from Philomela and her daughter. “Praise be to God,” they wept, sinking to their knees.
Arthur watched, transfixed. There was no doubt. The wounds were healing before his eyes. The flesh was becoming as new. Within moments, Urfrey was himself crying and shouting. Then he jumped into the air, as hearty as he had been seven years past.
The whole court cheered and cried. Then, at Arthur’s command, they all bowed in prayer. Arthur declared that there must be feasting and celebration, but even as he spoke a dark cloud came over his face. Lancelot had succeeded where he had failed. Where he and Excalibur had failed.
He turned to where Lancelot was slowly rising. The queen’s champion bowed to Arthur and to Guinevere, who had joined him at his side. Lancelot’s face was streaked with tears, and Arthur watched as Guinevere wiped them away with her handkerchief.
“Lancelot,” she said. “You are truly the purest and most perfect of knights. Your name will be remembered for a thousand years.”
At that Arthur felt a pain strike through his heart. Somewhere he fancied he heard Morgan laugh. Had God prevailed or had Morgan? Arthur’s mind exploded with anguish. Now he realized what had happened: Urfrey’s corruption had passed from the cursed knight to the purest knight in the land. That perfection was now despoiled forever.
Arthur looked at Lancelot until his eyes filled with tears and he could see no more.
THE SLEEPER AND THE SEER
H. WARNER MUNN
H. War ner Munn (1903–81) began wr iting for the legendar y Weird Tales in 1925 but he was never a prolific writer and the pressure of other work and family life drew him away from writing until his retirement in the sixties when the reprinting of his 1939 serial, King of the World’s Edge, in paperback revitalized his career. Munn had a fascination for the Merlin legend, not so much with the Arthurian connection, but more with its continuity down through history, in particular how remnants from the old Romano-British world might live on in later generations. King of the World’s Edge follows the journey of Merlin out of Britain with Gwalchmai (Sir Gawain), and the Roman centu
rion Ventidius Varro, who narrates the story. They sail to America, arriving in the land of the Aztecs, where Merlin is recognized as their god Quetzalcoatl. Munn continued the story in The Ship from Atlantis (1967) – the two volumes later being published in a single book as Merlin’s Godson (1976) – and in Merlin’s Ring (1974). The following extract comes from the start of King of the World’s Edge and is a self-contained episode relating the events leading up to and just after the battle of Camlann.
I
Stranger! Know me. I am Ventidius Varro – Roman to the core of me, though I never have seen that lovely city by the Tiber, nor did my father before me. He was British born, of a British mother, and on his father’s side was possessed of only one quarter of pure Roman blood. Yet am I Roman, my allegiance is to Rome, and to her goes my love and my heart’s yearning – to that delectable city which I shall now never see in life!
The story of my family is the tragedy of Britain. When my great-grandfather was called into the troops, my grandfather was a babe in arms. The island was bled white of fighting-men, only skeletons of garrisons remaining, but by the time of my grandfather’s entrance into the Legion firm sturdy substance had formed upon these bare bones of organization. One might say that the brains were still Roman, but all the flesh was British.
The Sixth fought the Picts, the Scoti and the Saxons, and although the barbarians had gained a foothold, they were all but dislodged again and were held with their backs to the sea. Then, just as another year might have decided the struggle, Rome called.
