The Hour of Camelot

by Alan Fenton

  And before Arthur could say another word Merlin was striding away, hair and robe streaming behind him in the breeze, Virgil clutching his shoulder, his wings fluttering as he struggled to keep his balance. When he was about thirty metres from Arthur, Merlin turned, and framing his face with his hands, patted his left thumb with his right index finger as though he were taking a photograph. ‘Remember the photo I never took,’ he called, waved twice and loped off in the direction of the sea. What was all that about? One of the Magus’s little jokes?

  Or something more significant? Arthur was puzzled. For a few desolate moments he was a child again, the wretchedness of abandonment oppressing his spirit, his fingers straying to the scar on his left cheek. ‘Merlin!’ he cried, ‘Come back! Come back!’

  But the Magus had disappeared. Determined to find him, though uncertain which way he had gone, Arthur walked on, slowly at first, then faster, through the concourse of white buildings into fields of long grass, until he stood at the edge of the cliffs overhanging the island’s beaches.

  Far below, the Atlantic waves, tormented to white crests by the approaching storm, curled to the shore. Standing firm, legs braced against the fierce gusts, he looked and listened for the Magus. But there was nothing to see but the deserted beach and the fretful ocean, nothing to hear but the plaintive cry of gulls and the wash of the incoming tide.

  Two

  In the small hours of a midsummer morning the sky above Richmond Park was overcast, moon and stars obscured. In the distance lightning flashed, illuminating the plump underbelly of cloud. Thunder growled. A herd of deer huddled under the sheltering branches of an oak tree, reacting nervously to every sound, the stag snorting and stamping the grass, the females peering anxiously into the night.

  At the edge of a clearing a middle-aged man and two young women waited, from time to time looking expectantly at the sky. Around them on the grass lay a few small items of hand luggage. One of the women, tall and gangling, with protruding teeth, paced back and forth. ‘What time is it?’

  The man consulted his watch. ‘Two-thirty.’ ‘How will they find us?’

  ‘They’ll find us.’

  If they were aware of anything, it was of the sudden silence that cocooned them. They had seen and heard nothing, when there it was, a dark presence looming over them. Sinking slowly to the ground, the Scuttle bounced twice on huge wheels, its belly opened, steps slid smoothly down, powerful lights blazed, flooding the clearing, and a stockily built man with a thick neck and flaming red hair strode towards them, hand outstretched.

  ‘Lord Grant?’

  ‘Please call me Leo,’ replied the older man, reaching out his hand and noting that the hand that enveloped his was big and the grip firm, though not aggressively so.

  ‘I am Gawain.’

  ‘This is my daughter, Guinevere.’ Then, indicating the gangly young woman, ‘And her friend, Gertrude Lancaster.’

  As Gawain bowed courteously to the women, his eyes focused on Guinevere who acknowledged his bow with a slight smile. ‘My friends call me Lanky,’ gushed Gertrude, flashing her buck teeth.

  ‘I must ask you to hurry,’ said Gawain. ‘We are not mantled on the ground.’

  ‘Not mantled? What does that mean?’ asked Leo. ‘It means we can be seen.’

  ‘Ah,’ murmured Leo, still looking mystified.

  They were scarcely in their seats when the Scuttle rose vertically a few hundred feet above the trees, banked sharply, and headed across London in a fast climb to the north, though still slow enough, as Gawain explained, to reduce force ‘G’ to a comfortable level.

  ‘How long is the flight?’ asked Leo. A terse response. ‘Not long.’

  It was clear from the tone of Gawain’s voice that on this point there would be no elaboration. For a few minutes he sat near them, explaining what they needed to know about the Scuttle, whilst Lanky darted flirtatious glances at him, to the obvious embarrassment of Guinevere.

  ‘Control yourself,’ she whispered, as Gawain moved forward to the flight deck.

  ‘I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,’ said Lanky, piqued. Her habitual good humour almost instantly restored, she snuggled into her seat. ‘Have you noticed his lashes?’ she hissed, ‘They’re blond! White blond!’ Receiving no answer she continued unperturbed, ‘And that gorgeous red hair. Bet he’s got a temper.’ Not in the mood for chattering, Guinevere turned her head away. Discreetly, Lanky observed her friend, wondering what was going on in that beautiful head. She was taking a massive step, was Guinevere. Did she know what she was doing? Could she be getting cold feet? It must be more than four years since she turned down Arthur’s first proposal of marriage, and then two weeks ago he had proposed again, this time by videolink. Five long days she had reflected before accepting him. Five days! Admittedly Arthur was thirty-three, and ten years was quite an age difference, but what did that matter if you loved someone? Besides, he was special; handsome, brave, charming, famous – more than famous – he was an international hero, the darling of the world! And this brilliant man, this catch of the century, doted on her! So what was there to think about? Nothing. Not five days. Not five seconds!

  But then Guinevere had never been one to act spontaneously. She considered everything she did before she did it. She wouldn’t buy a pair of shoes on impulse, let alone accept a proposal of marriage. Above all things, she prided herself on being sensible. So what was so great about being sensible? There were times when Lanky felt like grabbing her friend by the shoulders and shaking all that sense right out of her.

  Guinevere was thinking about the man she had agreed to marry. Though far from getting cold feet, she was, nevertheless, a little apprehensive at the prospect of meeting Arthur again. Committing herself entirely to a man was a new, and yes, disturbing experience. She reassured herself with the thought that she was reasonably, not recklessly in love. For some – perhaps even for most women – love without passion was unthinkable. Not for Guinevere. Hardly a day passed when she did not thank her lucky stars that passion was not in her nature. Life was so much simpler for a woman able to control her emotions. Being in love was wonderful, but not if it involved abandoning common sense.

  The door of Scuttle’s control deck was open. On the left of Gawain sat the pilot. For most of the short flight all they saw of him was the back of his head silhouetted against the dim blue light of the cockpit. When once he glanced back at his passengers, Guinevere glimpsed a long face, a straight nose, and dark, brooding eyes that seemed to observe her with something like disdain.

  Lanky’s eyes popped. ‘Did you catch that dreamy man? Now that’s what I call a dish!’

  Guinevere’s chin lifted disdainfully. ‘That young man could do with a lesson in good manners. Not so much as a word of greeting. And did you see that superior look he gave us?’

  Gawain, moving back to prepare the passengers for landing, could not help overhearing. ‘Don’t let him bother you, ma’am,’ he said, ‘he doesn’t mean anything by it.’

  Embarrassed that her comments had been overheard, Guinevere pretended not to understand. ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘It’s the way he is.’ ‘The way who is?’ ‘Lancelot.’

  ‘Hmm.’ The name meant nothing to her.

  Three

  In arthur’s apartment the two lovers talked happily of times past.

  ‘I loved you from the first moment I saw you,’ he said.

  Guinevere blushed, something she rarely did. ‘Do you remember when that was?’

  ‘Indeed I do. It was in the library of your father’s house, and you were angry because he had let slip that you were only thirteen.’

  ‘I was nearly fourteen,’ said Guinevere, ‘and it was really important to me that you knew it. ’

  ‘You asked me how old I was,’ recalled Arthur.

  ‘That’s right. And you said you were almost twenty-four.’ A mischievous smile. ‘You didn’t seem too happy about that.’

  ‘Ten years seemed such a big age difference
,’ he said, reflecting that it still did.

  ‘And then I never saw you again until my eighteenth birthday party.’

  ‘That was when I fell in love with you. Was it the same with you?’

  It was a second before she answered. ‘Of course it was.’

  That slight hesitation thrust to the surface of Arthur’s mind a question he could not resist asking. ‘Why did you turn me down when I proposed to you the first time?’

  A question she had expected, and for which she had her answer prepared. Several answers in fact – she had been afraid of marrying such a prominent man, she was too young, she had not understood her true feelings. Somehow though, when it came to it, none of these explanations seemed either adequate or entirely truthful, so that in the end all she said was, ‘I was a fool,’ slipped her arms round his neck and kissed him tenderly.

  But then suddenly she stiffened and drew away from him looking almost frightened.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘There’s something you need to know.’

  Now he was worried, seriously worried. Did she not love him? Had she changed her mind about marrying him? Though if she had, why had she come all the way to Camelot to tell him so?

  ‘A few months ago I saw a gynaecologist.’

  Guessing immediately what she was going to say, he almost felt relieved. ‘Medical science today . . . ’ he began, but she cut him short.

  ‘I went for a second and a third opinion. Both confirmed the first. I can never have a child. I wanted to tell you when you phoned but somehow I just couldn’t. I had to see you . . . to tell you face to face.’ Her hands clasped and unclasped nervously in her lap. ‘I know how much you want a family,’ she said, her voice low. ‘When you phoned to propose, you had no idea that I couldn’t . . . so what I mean is – I would quite understand if you . . . ’ Her voice dropped.

  ‘It makes no difference,’ said Arthur. ‘None at all.’ ‘We have to talk about it.’

  ‘There’s nothing to talk about,’ he said firmly. ‘All that matters is that we love each other.’

  Tears brimmed in her eyes. In Arthur’s arms she was truly happy, knowing that she had made the right decision, and that she loved Arthur as she never had, nor ever could, love any other man.

  The next morning, the sun shone, the Atlantic waves jumped for joy, the warm breeze whispered its congratulations, and the slender trees lining the avenue that led to the House of Prayer owed a gracious welcome. Early in the morning the crowds began to gather for the wedding. The sun was high when Arthur walked up the steps of the House of Prayer, followed a few minutes later by Guinevere on the arm of her father, Leo Grant. No one, it was generally agreed, had ever seen a more beautiful bride nor a handsomer groom.

  The marriage ceremony was simple and moving. As it drew to a close the couple exchanged their vows. Then, placing the wedding ring on Guinevere’s finger, Arthur kissed his bride. The congregation stood and applauded as the happy couple made their way down the aisle, through the doors, and out onto the steps. Bells pealed, startled doves scattered from the tower of the House of Prayer, and the cheering crowds were filled with an exhilarating sense of optimism and well-being. For every man, woman and child on the island of Camelot the union of Arthur and Guinevere was both the perfect expression of ideal love, and a symbol of hope for the future.

  Four

  Both of them young, talented and opinionated, Lancelot and Gawain clashed swords on almost every issue, their rivalry intensified by the mutual conviction that each was the better man, infinitely better qualified to be Camelot’s Chief of Staff – an appointment Arthur was expected to make shortly. Since Arthur himself was not permitted by the code of the Round Table to participate actively in military operations, it was generally expected that either Lancelot or Gawain would be handed the baton. The question was, which one?

  The door panel buzzed, the speaker crackled.

  Name?

  ‘Lancelot.’

  In a nano-second the computer matched voice and iris with its records.

  Enter, Lancelot.

  ‘You sent for me, sir.’

  ‘Ah, yes. Take a seat. Be with you shortly.’ Arthur tapped his computer keyboard, and the white dome above his apartment slid open uncovering a high resolution twenty-five metre telescope. Pointing at the big eye-level monitor, his eyes shone with excitement. ‘See that, Lance,’ he said. ‘Know what it is?’

  ‘The night sky?’ said Lancelot vaguely, his mind focused not on the monitor, but on Arthur’s reason for summoning him.

  ‘What you are looking at, Lance, is our solar system.’ ‘Indeed.’

  Arthur tapped the keyboard, realigning the telescope. ‘Any idea what that is?’

  Lancelot made a show of studying the big screen. ‘Some kind of – um – galaxy?’ he ventured.

  ‘A supernova,’ said Arthur, ‘actually in the process of exploding about a billion years ago. The light from that explosion is only just reaching us. It’s probably a black hole by now.’

  ‘Amazing,’ said Lancelot without conviction.

  ‘Current thinking,’ said Arthur, ‘is that the universe is about thirteen and a half billion years old – based on the Big Bang theory, that is. Of course, some favour the zero point energy theory. You’ve heard of it, of course.’

  Crossing one leg over the other, Lancelot agitated the dangling foot furiously. ‘No, actually, I haven’t.’

  ‘Really?’ Arthur seemed surprised. ‘Well, anyway, it’s the theory that energy just bubbles out of nothing and disappears again, meaning that our universe runs along happily for a time and then collapses and makes way for another universe, and so on.’

  ‘Interesting,’ said Lancelot, striving unsuccessfully to match his expression to the word.

  Once more the door panel buzzed.

  Name?

  ‘Gawain.’ Lancelot frowned.

  The computer matched Gawain’s voice and iris with its records and invited him to enter.

  ‘You sent for me, sir.’ Seeing Lancelot, Gawain’s freckled face flushed. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I might ask the same of you,’ said Lancelot. The two men glowered at each other.

  Whilst Gawain scratched the back of his leathery neck and Lancelot’s dark eyes smouldered, Arthur, seemingly unaware of any tension in the room, continued to expand on one of his favourite topics. ‘Astronomy teaches us that underlying the apparent confusion of the universe there is order,’ he said. ‘Without order there would be chaos. The same is true of our little planet.’

  Turning off the telescope, he considered his two young friends affectionately: Lancelot vain, outspoken, occasionally arrogant or even downright offensive, but intelligent, honest and independent-minded, a man to be trusted; Gawain sociable, loyal, generally even-tempered – though liable to sudden temper flares – and tough, both mentally and physically, a safe pair of hands. Both exceptional young men, in their nature nothing mean or underhand, their virtues and vices there for everyone to see.

  ‘Which brings me to the point of this meeting,’ said Arthur. ‘I have invited the two of you here to help me make a difficult decision. You want to know what it is?’ he asked, observing their bewilderment with some amusement.

  A blank look from both men.

  ‘Which of you to appoint as Camelot’s Chief of Staff.’

  The outraged silence that followed was broken by Lancelot. ‘I am, sir, as everyone knows, the last person in the world to blow his own trumpet. Nevertheless, I think I may say without fear of contradiction that no one in Camelot can match my qualifications, no one has my experience of military strategy and tactics, no one has my knowledge of the art and science of war.’ He coughed self-deprecatingly. ‘It would be wrong of me to list my personal qualities – intelligence, courage, determination, creativity; those I leave for others to praise,’ he concluded with a complacent smile.

  ‘In that case,’ observed Gawain tartly, ‘you’ll be waiting till hell freezes over.’
>
  ‘Forgive me, sir,’ said Lancelot, with a withering look in Gawain’s direction, ‘but why this charade? Why not confirm my appointment now?’

  Even in the full glare of Lancelot’s stern scrutiny, Arthur did not blink. ‘Because, Lance, there is another candidate with comparable qualifications.’

  ‘Comparable qualifications!’ Lancelot’s eyebrows arched steeply. ‘And who might this paragon be?’

  ‘I am speaking of Gawain,’ said Arthur.

  Lancelot’s expression conveyed both horror and incredulity, his rival’s smug grin incensing him even further. ‘With all due respect, sir,’ he said, his voice shaking, ‘you cannot be serious.’ ‘Had you remained in the British army,’ continued Arthur, undeterred, ‘you, Lance, would certainly have risen to the top. Had you, Gawain, continued to serve in the Royal Navy, I am equally confident that you would one day have become First

  Sea Lord.’

  Lancelot shook his head pityingly, as if fearing for Arthur’s sanity.

  ‘In short,’ said Arthur, ‘you are both so supremely well qualified to lead our armed forces that I find it impossible to choose between you. I have therefore decided to ask you both to take part in a tourney.’

  Both men looked blank.

  ‘As you no doubt know,’ explained Arthur, ‘the old French word tourney became the word tournament, in other words a medieval joust, a sporting event in which two knights tried to knock each other off their horses with lances.’

  ‘Horses!’ echoed Gawain.

  ‘Lances!’ said Lancelot, scorn burning in his eyes.

  ‘I propose a modern version of the medieval tourney,’ explained Arthur.

  ‘Excellent idea,’ said Gawain, eager for a challenge.

  Despite his show of indignation, Lancelot, too, was intrigued. ‘Instead of horses and lances, I propose rowing, boxing and

  fencing,’ said Arthur.

  ‘Tame sports,’ said Lancelot. ‘Not exactly intellectually challenging.’