by Alan Fenton
‘You aim to prolong the agony, do you?’
Gawain would not be provoked. ‘It will be a fair fight,’ he repeated stolidly.
‘What weapons do we use in this fair fight of yours?’ ‘Knives.’
‘I don’t have a knife.’
Gawain unstrapped a combat knife from his belt, laid it across his hand and offered it to Lancelot. ‘You do now.’
Lancelot took the fearsome weapon and shuddered. ‘This is not justice.’
‘Nor is murder,’ said Gawain.
A gust of wind blew salt spray in their faces. Turning, they retraced their steps, propelled now by the wind at their backs. A hundred metres from the cottage Lancelot fell on his knees in the sand and took Gawain’s hand in his. ‘I’m a proud man, Gawain. Never in my life have I begged anyone for anything, but I’m begging you now. Don’t make me fight you.’
Gawain pulled his hand away. ‘If you won’t fight me, I shall cut your throat. Is that what you want? To be executed?’
Brushing the sand from his knees, Lancelot stood and faced his tormentor. ‘Time?’
‘Tomorrow, at dawn.’ ‘Place?’
Gawain pointed. ‘The seaward side of that sand dune.’
As Arthur and Guinevere walked along the shoreline, he took her hand. Gently she eased it away. ‘Don’t,’ she said, ‘I’m too ashamed.’
‘I want you back.’
‘After what I’ve done to you?’ ‘I love you.’
‘I love you too,’ she said softly. ‘And Lancelot?’
‘I love him differently.’ ‘Come back with me, Ginny.’
‘The Round Table would never accept me. I’ve broken the rules.’
‘This isn’t a game,’ he said, ‘there are no rules. All I care about is you – you and me. Won’t you come back with me now? We could start our lives over again.’
Instead of answering, she asked, fear in her eyes, ‘What will happen to Lance?’
What could he say? By this time tomorrow, Lancelot could be dead. ‘I was hoping that perhaps . . . that you and he . . . that you…’
‘That I would give him up?’ The question hung in the air between them. ‘I already have.’
Did that mean, then, that she would . . . ? He hardly dared ask.
‘We have said goodbye,’ she said. ‘There’s no future for us.’ He tried once more. ‘And for us?’
She shook her head.
Until now there had been hope, a forlorn hope but hope nevertheless. That shake of the head confirmed what he had feared. There was nothing to hope for anymore. Without Guinevere there would be only a gaping emptiness that would gnaw at him, body and soul, for as long as he lived. ‘Where will you go?’
‘I don’t know.’ ‘What will you do?’
‘Something useful,’ she said. ‘Work with children, perhaps.’ ‘And Lanky?’
‘We’ll stay together. She needs me.’ A sad smile. ‘I need her.’ Fifty metres from the cottage they stopped.
‘We were happy once,’ he said, ‘weren’t we, Ginny?’
As happy as she had ever been, she thought. But then, had she ever been truly happy? Or was happiness a dream, always somewhere out of reach? ‘Happier than I had any right to be,’ she said.
‘I want you to know,’ said Arthur, ‘that every day with you was a precious gift.’
Counting her steps, he watched her walk away, still hoping that somehow this was not the end, that any moment she would stop and turn her head. Had she done so he would have run after her, taken her in his arms and kissed her a hundred times.
But she never did.
Seventy
Though it had to come, it was nevertheless a shock when it did.
‘Tomorrow, you say?’ ‘With combat knives.’ ‘Madness.’
‘His madness, not mine.’ ‘You must call it off.’
‘I can’t do that.’
‘Then I’m coming with you.’ ‘What for?’
‘To see fair play,’ said Arthur. ‘I won’t interfere.’
It was not true, and they both knew it. Arthur would use all his skill and cunning to stop the fight, and that could prove embarrassing and quite possibly dangerous. Gawain had far too much respect for his leader to be involved in a quarrel with him, more especially a violent one, and undoubtedly Lancelot would feel the same. Which meant that if Arthur were present, there would be no fight, and Lancelot might well escape with his life.
The two men climbed into their sleeping bags. ‘Where?’
‘Near the farmhouse.’ ‘When?’
‘An hour after dawn,’ said Gawain. ‘I’ll wake you.’
Arthur set the alarm on his wristcom, turning away from Gawain so that he could not see what he was doing . . . a precaution in case he “forgot” to wake him.
Shivering in the cold morning air, the two men stripped to the waist, jumping on the spot to stimulate circulation. Blotting out the few remaining stars, a bank of menacing black cloud moved relentlessly in from the sea towards the shoreline as if it were a portent of some imminent disaster.
Directing the point of his combat knife at Lancelot, Gawain spoke. One word: ‘Ready?’
Lancelot had no desire to kill, much less be killed. He planned to stay out of serious trouble, accepting that sooner or later he would probably have to take a hit. Hopefully one hit would be enough to satisfy Gawain’s bloodlust. ‘Ready,’ he said.
Peering into the gloom, the two men circled each other warily, weighing each other up, both of them studying how his opponent held his knife, how he moved, how he breathed, straining to catch the warning sign that would signal an attack; a change of expression, a tensing of lips, a spark in the eye, both knowing that the enemy was formidable, skilled in hand- to-hand combat and in the age-old art of deception.
As the minutes passed, Gawain grew more and more impatient. When he leaped forward, Lancelot sidestepped. When he thrust at his opponent’s chest, Lancelot swayed back, avoiding the clumsy blow.
‘Fight, you bastard,’ he growled ‘I am fighting.’
‘Call that fighting? You’re running away.’
‘You want me to stand still and let you cut me?’ said Lancelot, taunting him.
‘You’re a coward.’
‘You know that isn’t true.’ ‘Then fight like a man.’
‘I don’t want to fight you at all,’ said Lancelot, lowering his knife.
Gawain lumbered forward. ‘Hold up your knife.’ ‘You can’t make me.’
His temper flaring, Gawain slashed at Lancelot’s upper arm, the wound spurting blood. For a second or two Lancelot was tempted to retaliate. But then, restraining himself, he threw down his knife. ‘First blood to you. The fight is over.’
‘The fight will be over when you are dead,’ said Gawain. ‘You want me dead? Then get it over with.’ Lancelot closed his eyes and thrust his head back, exposing his throat.
Gawain hesitated. He was being driven where he did not want to go. This was not the way it ought to end, certainly not the fair fight he had planned. Yet what choice did he have? It was his duty to avenge his brothers. Nothing else mattered. Tensing the muscles of his right arm he laid the sharp tip of his combat knife on Lancelot’s carotid artery.
Hoping that he could, at the last minute, persuade Gawain to abandon his vendetta, Arthur had his best night’s sleep for a long time. When the alarm buzzed, he opened his eyes and looked across at his nephew’s sleeping bag. It was empty. Tearing open the tent flaps he blinked in the early dawn light. No sign of Gawain. Pulling on his clothes and boots he ran aimlessly here and there, shouting ‘Gawain! Gawain!’, though in his heart he knew it was a waste of time. No one answered. He had been tricked.
Lancelot waited for the end, praying it would come quickly. When seconds passed, and Gawain’s knife had still not done its work, he opened his eyes and saw the indecision on his face. Deciding that his only hope of a swift end was to make him lose his temper again, he chose his words carefully. ‘You are shaming your brothers’ memory,’ he said.
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For a moment or two nothing happened, then with a roar like a wounded animal Gawain raised his knife and slashed Lancelot’s face from forehead to chin. As the blood streamed into his eyes and down his cheeks Lancelot retreated, half blinded, holding up his hands to shield himself from another attack. Not knowing where he was going, he backed to the top of the sand dune and stood there swaying whilst Gawain looked up at him, stunned and sickened by the terrible wound he had inflicted. For the first time in the fight, he felt a twinge of pity for his opponent. But then he was looking not at Lancelot’s bleeding face but at his baby brother, Gareth, lying on the floor of Lancelot’s cell, blood oozing from the bullet wound in his chest. Climbing slowly, menacingly, to the top of the dune, he transferred his knife to his left hand and with his right punched Lancelot in the face with all his strength, once, twice, a third time, accompanying each successive blow with the words, ‘That’s for Agravaine, that’s for Gaheris, that’s for Gareth.’
Lancelot’s face was sheathed in blood, the exposed bone of his brow and cheeks glistening in the first rays of the rising sun. His knees folding under him, he sank to the sand.
Gawain stood over him. ‘I’ll give you five minutes,’ he said. ‘Wash yourself in the sea . . . whatever.’
Lancelot mouthed his words with difficulty. ‘You can give me till doomsday,’ he said, ‘I won’t fight you.’
Gawain knew that he could kill Lancelot any time he wanted to. But where would be the satisfaction in that? His brothers’ memory demanded that Lancelot died in combat. Besides, Lancelot was a soldier, and a soldier deserved to end his days fighting, not slaughtered like a pig.
‘For the love of God, fight.’ He was pleading now.
The pain was unbearable. All Lancelot wanted was a quick end to his torment. ‘Your brothers got what they deserved,’ he said.
Gawain grabbed Lancelot’s neck with his big hands and squeezed. Somehow Lancelot found the strength to wrench Gawain’s hands apart and retreat a few steps down the sand dune before Gawain hurled himself at him and knocked him down. Astride Lancelot, he seized his neck with his left hand, and raised his knife. ‘Die, you bastard! Die!’ Confronted with imminent death, Lancelot reacted instinctively. With the strength of desperation he threw Gawain off him. Still clutching his combat knife, Gawain somersaulted backwards and landed face down at the bottom of the dune.
Pushing himself to his feet, Lancelot staggered step by painful step and fell on his knees beside him. Gawain lay still. Laying his hand on his back, he shook him. Gawain did not stir. Gently he eased him over. He had fallen on his combat knife, the blade buried to the hilt just below the rib cage on the left side of his chest. He felt his wrist. There was a pulse, a weak one. Gawain opened his eyes.
‘You’re going to be OK,’ said Lancelot. ‘I’ll call an air ambulance.’
Gawain coughed blood. ‘No one can help me now.’ ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘Not your fault,’ whispered Gawain, sweat beading his brow, even in the cold morning air. ‘You did . . . what you could . . . to stop me.’ With his last remaining strength he raised his hand a few inches from his chest, and Lancelot grasped it. ‘Forgive me,’ he said, ‘forgive me the wrongs I have done you and your family.’ Blinking his eyes in acknowledgment, Gawain breathed a long, low sigh as the spirit left his body.
Kneeling in the sand Lancelot prayed to the God who all those years ago had brought Daniel Shalott back to life. ‘Grant me this one last miracle,’ he whispered. ‘Let Gawain live.’ Lost in his own thoughts, he did not see Arthur until he was standing over him. Dropping to his knees, Arthur felt Gawain’s wrist and neck.
‘He’s coming to,’ said Lancelot. ‘Look, he moved his fingers.’ ‘He’s gone, Lance.’ Gently, Arthur smoothed shut the lids of Gawain’s eyes.
‘See that,’ said Lancelot, ‘he moved his hand again. He’s trying to open his eyes.’ Grabbing Gawain by the shoulders, he shook him hard. ‘Open your eyes, Gawain. Open them.’
‘He’s dead,’ said Arthur.
‘I saw him move,’ cried Lancelot. ‘He’s not dead! He’s not dead, I tell you!’
When they had loaded Gawain’s body onto Arthur’s Scuttle the two men walked along the shorefront.
‘It was an accident,’ said Lancelot, after a while. ‘He fell on his own knife.’
Arthur walked on, saying nothing. ‘You believe me, don’t you?’
‘I believe you.’
‘And yet there is something in your eyes that tells me you blame me for Gawain’s death.’
‘It is not for me to judge you, Lance.’
Lancelot stopped and faced Arthur, eyes blazing in his bloodied, battered face. ‘Why not? Why in God’s name not? Who has a better right to judge me than you? I stole your wife, I killed your nephews. Strike me down. I won’t lift a finger to defend myself.’ Drawing his combat knife, he offered it to Arthur. ‘Do it now. Kill me. I deserve to die.’
Far out a cargo vessel plummeted deep in the ocean, rode high on the crests of the waves, and plunged again. Like a man’s fortunes, thought Arthur.
‘There’s something I have to tell you, Lance.’
‘I know,’ said Lancelot. ‘You are taking me back to Camelot for trial.’ A resigned shrug. ‘Do what you have to do. I don’t care what happens to me any more.’
‘I’m afraid it’s bad news.’ ‘Things couldn’t get any worse.’ ‘It’s Galahad.’
‘What’s he been up to?’ ‘They’ve arrested him.’
Lancelot stared blankly at Arthur. ‘For what?’
‘He was trying to destroy Excalibur by activating the self- destruct code.’
‘Destroy Excalibur!’ said Lancelot. ‘Impossible.’ Talking to himself, he paced back and forth on the sand. ‘He needs me.
I’m going back to Camelot’
‘The Round Table will not allow you to do that,’ said Arthur. ‘Nor will I.’
‘Don’t do this to me,’ pleaded Lancelot. ‘Don’t banish me now.’
‘I’m sorry, Lance, you can’t come back. Not now, not ever.’ A truculent glare. ‘You can’t stop me.’
‘You wouldn’t get anywhere near the island.’
If Arthur gave the command, the Scuttle would either be destroyed or diverted, and Lancelot knew it. ‘Let me clear my son’s name,’ he said, ‘that’s all I ask. When I’ve done that, I’ll surrender to the High Council. They can do whatever they like with me. Or if you prefer, I’ll leave Camelot for good.’
For an instant, Arthur was tempted. Then he shook his head. Lancelot had too many crimes to answer for. This time he would not be allowed to escape justice. If he came back, he would rot in a prison cell for the rest of his life.
‘I’m begging you as a father, let me come back with you.’
‘I can’t do that,’ said Arthur, feeling Lancelot’s pain. ‘It’s a matter for the Round Table now. They must decide if there’s a case against Galahad to answer.’
‘You believe there is?’
‘I am sure there isn’t,’ said Arthur, ‘and I give you my word that I will do everything in my power to help prove his innocence.’
With that assurance Lancelot had to be satisfied.
They had reached the foot of Scuttle’s stairs. ‘You understand that I must destroy your Scuttle on the ground,’ said Arthur.
‘Yes.’
‘Where will you go?’
‘Somewhere no one knows me, or what I have done – if such a place exists.’ He saluted his Commander-in-Chief. ‘Goodbye, sir,’ he said. ‘I pray that one day you will find it in your heart to forgive me.’
‘I forgive you now.’ Arthur put out his hand.
Lancelot knelt and kissed it. ‘I don’t deserve to be forgiven.’ ‘Which of us does?’ said Arthur.
The Scuttle rose vertically into the blue sky, disappearing as it mantled. Seconds later a positron beam Elimatted Lancelot’s Scuttle. Slowly he walked back to the cottage knowing that in this life he would never see Arthur again.
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br /> Guinevere opened the door. Shocked by his terrible wounds but thankful he was alive, she studied his face, her eyes questioning his. ‘What is it?’
‘Gawain is dead.’ ‘Oh, no.’
With frightened eyes she watched him fill a backpack with his few belongings. ‘Where are you going?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘How did it happen?’
‘What does it matter? He’s dead.’ Her eyes rebuked him.
‘If you must know,’ he said savagely, ‘he died with a knife in his guts. That’s four deaths. I’m cursed, Ginny. Everyone around me is cursed. Including you.’
‘That isn’t true.’
‘They’ve arrested Galahad.’
Her hand went to her mouth. ‘Why?’
‘They say he was trying to destroy Excalibur.’ A bitter smile. ‘It seems treachery runs in the family.’
‘You don’t mean that.’
‘No,’ he said, ‘I don’t. Galahad is innocent . . . unlike his father.’
‘Please don’t go,’ she begged.
For an instant, standing there with his head down, he seemed moved by her plea. But then he straightened up and crossed to the door. ‘I shall always love you,’ he said, over his shoulder.
‘Is this it?’
He nodded. ‘Where will you go?’
‘I have a friend who runs a children’s home,’ she said. ‘Ever since I was a little girl I have always wanted children. Now I shall have them.’
‘Lanky?’
‘She’s coming with me.’
He opened the door. ‘Goodbye,’ he said, and walked quickly away.
In the gathering storm the ocean heaved and fretted. On a secluded beach in the lee of the wind, the water, embraced by two rocky headlands, was calm. For a long time Lancelot stood looking out to sea, his mind and body drawn by a powerful undertow of despair. Out there his mother was waiting for him. He could hear her calling his name. ‘Lancelot! Lancelot!’
Seventy One
The controller guiding the Scuttle towards Camelot gave no indication that anything was amiss, yet Arthur’s instinct told him something was wrong. Still mantled, he circled the shoreline twice looking for signs of unrest; there were none. The island was as calm and beautiful as ever, its white buildings glowing in the afternoon sun, the scanning antennae on their elegant columns waving a greeting – or so it seemed to him – hovercarts criss-crossing the island, robots bustling about their daily business. Demantling, he banked, lined up the Scuttle with the gravitational beam, and lowered it onto the landing pad.
