by Alan Fenton
He paused, his chest heaving. ‘I ask you, ladies and gentlemen, why did my father leave the island at such a time? Was it on Camelot’s business?’ His fierce gaze ranged the Round Table. ‘Was it?’ There was no reaction. ‘No, my friends, it was not. It was in pursuit of a personal vendetta – to revenge himself on his wife’s lover.’
The members of the Round Table were in two minds. Undeniably there was more than a grain of truth in what Mordred was saying. Yet for a son to condemn his father so brazenly and vindictively was both disloyal and cruel. Though he sensed the mood in the hall, Mordred calculated he had nothing to lose. He had shown his hand; there could be no going back now. As though he were a barrister in a court of law, he summarised his case.
‘My father is guilty of dereliction of duty. First, he put his need for revenge before his duty to Camelot. Second, his failure to confront his wife and her lover led directly to the death of my four brothers. Third, he gave the Excalibur access codes to a man known to be both a religious extremist and a pacifist who opposed the use of force in any circumstances. That, I say, constituted gross negligence on my father’s part, and very nearly led to catastrophe. Had I not stopped Galahad, he would have destroyed Excalibur, this island and everything on it. If he had succeeded, none of us would be sitting here today.’ Mordred rested his hands on the table, and such was the hypnotic power of his personality that several members, reacting spontaneously, inclined towards him.
‘The question we have to answer is a straightforward one,’ he concluded. ‘Is this man . . .’ – directing a contemptuous look at his father – ‘fit to govern us? I say no.’ And with that dramatic pronouncement he sat down, looking around him as he tried to assess the Round Table’s reaction to his words.
For a time there was silence, and then a low murmur of voices, as members, disturbed and puzzled by what they had heard, exchanged views. For Mordred they had little or no sympathy. What did he expect of them? Yes, there had been setbacks, and the running sore of Lancelot and Guinevere’s affair. Yes, Arthur’s reputation had been tarnished. All true. But there was one greater truth. There was only one Arthur. Who could take his place?
Arthur looked around at his friends and comrades, men and women who had served him loyally, trusting him, obeying his every command, and they looked back at him, their eyes expressing their devotion. Turning now to his son Mordred, he spoke without a trace of bitterness or resentment. ‘You say I joined Gawain to avenge myself on my wife’s lover. That is not so. I joined Gawain for one reason only – to prevent bloodshed. That I failed, is for me a matter of deep regret.’
Mordred tried to intervene but was shouted down.
‘You say I was negligent in leaving the access codes with Galahad. You omitted to mention that, as a precaution, I gave duplicate codes to George Bedivere. Had it become obvious that Galahad intended to use the doomsday code, George could have used the intercept code at any time. What I did not, and could not know, was that a member of the Round Table would poison Galahad’s mind.’
A sneer distorted Mordred’s face. ‘What are you suggesting, father? That it was me?’
‘I am certain it was,’ said Arthur.
‘That is slander,’ said Mordred, ‘vicious slander. I demand that you withdraw it.’
‘It is the truth, Mordred,’ said Galahad. ‘You know it is.’ ‘Who is going to believe a crazy man,’ jeered Mordred. ‘The
Round Table knows who is telling the truth.’
Breaking the silence that followed this assertion, George raised his hand. ‘Then let the Round Table be the judge,’ he said.
It was a challenge Mordred could not ignore. ‘Very well, I put to the Round Table the motion that my father, Arthur Pendragon, has brought Camelot into disrepute, and should be ordered to stand down as our leader.’
Arthur spoke the traditional words: ‘Those in favour of the motion, raise your hands.’
One hand was raised – Mordred’s.
Every face in the hall now turned towards Arthur.
‘I propose that Mordred be arrested,’ he said, ‘and charged with high treason and conspiracy to murder.’
With one exception, every man and woman sitting at the Round Table raised their hand.
‘The motion is carried,’ said Arthur. ‘Mordred, you will be sent to the High Council for trial.’
‘All against me?’ said Mordred. ‘Not one of you on my side?’ A doleful shake of the head. ‘How very disheartening. I have to say I think you are all making a huge mistake. Still, if that’s the way you want it . . . ’
He tapped his wristcom twice. In seconds, the massive doors of the Great Hall burst open, and thirty men in dark blue uniforms, faces masked, automatic guns drawn, ran in and took up positions around the Great Hall.
Several members jumped to their feet, twenty of them reaching for concealed weapons.
‘Now, gentlemen,’ said Mordred, patting the air with his hands, ‘don’t do anything rash. I suggest everyone stays in their seats and puts their hands on the table. This is one of those tricky situations that could so easily get out of hand. Don’t you agree, father?’
Arthur nodded. ‘Do as he says.’ If there was to be a fight, now was not the time. He and his supporters would be cut down.
George Bedivere swung his steel right hand high, and brought it down on the Round Table with a loud bang that made the already nervous members jump. ‘You, Mordred are a disgrace to the name, Pendragon. You bring shame to your father and to the Round Table. As for you . . . – a dismissive wave at the masked men standing against the walls of the Great Hall – ‘you are traitors and cowards, all of you. You don’t even have the guts to show us your faces.’
‘To be fair,’ said Mordred, ‘the masks were my idea. I thought they would make things more discreet. But of course if you don’t like them . . . remove your masks, gentlemen.’
As they did so, there were gasps and groans from the Round Table as members recognised the friends and comrades they had fought alongside. One of them, Arthur acknowledged with particular dismay.
‘You too, Keir?’
Keir hung his head and said nothing.
‘What do you hope to gain by this, Mordred?’ said Arthur. Mordred considered the question carefully. ‘Do you know,’
he said, ‘at this point I’m not entirely sure. Let’s see how it plays, shall we? Meanwhile a robot guard is on the way here to take you to prison. After that, we shall see . . . A trial? An execution? Several trials? Several executions? Who knows? Anything could happen. In the lap of the gods, as they say.’ A malicious grin. ‘I always think a touch of uncertainty is the icing on the cake.’
‘Any dispute between us,’ said Arthur, ‘can be settled by talking.’
‘Talking?’ said Mordred. ‘How boring. No, I’d much rather execute you, father – and a few of your chums, of course – well, quite a lot of them, actually. One by one would be good – until the Round Table sees sense and puts me in charge.’
‘That will never happen.’
‘Let’s not waste time arguing,’ said Mordred. ‘You want to talk? So let’s talk. The first thing you will do is order the Round Table to dismiss you.’
‘They have just voted on that motion. They will not alter their decision.’
‘I think they will,’ said Mordred, pulling a gun and pointing it at Arthur. ‘Do as I say,’ he said, cocking it, ‘or this is where it ends for you.’
Before anyone could stop him, Galahad leapt from his seat, seized the barrel of Mordred’s gun and wrestled it from him. ‘Tell your men to drop their weapons,’ he shouted. Mordred snapped his fingers, half turning to catch the gun thrown by one of his men. For a few tense seconds they confronted each other, Mordred smiling, Galahad anxious, the gun unsteady in his hands. Then Mordred opened fire. Blood spurting from his chest, Galahad was hurled back dead on the Round Table.
Screaming his rage, Arthur seized Galahad’s gun and fired. As Mordred fell, hit in the thigh, his left shoulder
and arm shattered, he fired a long burst. Arthur staggered and collapsed, shot in the shoulder and lower abdomen. Every gun was firing now, the noise deafening. In thirty seconds it was all over, the Great Hall eerily quiet. Almost every member of the Round Table lay dead, some still upright in their seats, some half- sprawled across the table. A few, having run, ducked, twisted and turned in a vain effort to escape the hail of bullets, lay on the floor in the distorted attitudes of death. Leo Grant died in his chair, his head shattered by bullets. On the floor beside him, Ban lay dying. Close by was the body of Ian Tichgame, the flesh ripped from his face. A few wounded survivors broke the silence with their moans.
Arthur looked in horror at the dreadful carnage. Mordred limped aimlessly about the Great Hall, his supporters dead or dying, except for two who had been pursued out of the hall and shot by George Bedivere. Keir lay huddled against a wall with a bullet in the shoulder.
Legs astride in conqueror’s pose, Mordred stood over Arthur, smiling mockingly. ‘You see what a caring son I am,’ he said. ‘I told my men not to finish you off.’ He thrust his gun at his father’s head. ‘I wanted to keep it in the family.’
Arthur did not flinch. ‘For the love of God, Mordred, just tell me why.’
‘I’d like to oblige, father, really I would,’ said Mordred. ‘The thing is, I don’t have the time to go into all that. What does it matter anyway? You’ve had your day. It’s my turn now.’
This day is yours, Arthur. My day will come. The black knight’s prophecy had been fulfilled.
‘I am not afraid to die,’ said Arthur, ‘but if you pull that trigger you will never be at peace. Killing your own father is a mortal sin.’
‘Dear me,’ said Mordred, feigning horror, ‘a mortal sin! Is it really? You surprise me. It’s not one of the Ten Commandments, is it? Thou shalt not kill thy father? No, it doesn’t sound right, does it? Galahad would know, but dear me, it’s too late to ask him. You know what? I don’t think there’s anything in the bible about not killing your father. I seem to remember something about oxen and asses. But fathers? Not a word. If I remember rightly, it does say Thou shalt not kill, but let’s face it, no one takes any notice of that any more, do they? Certainly not you. And while we’re on the subject, is killing your father any worse than killing your son?’
‘I never did that,’ said Arthur.
‘No, but you had a damn good try. And it’s my mother I have to thank for saving my life, not you. Not so?’
Arthur’s chin sank onto his chest
‘Cheer up, father, at least you’ve had a good life. Well not good, exactly, but interesting, wouldn’t you say? A damned sight more interesting than most men’s.’ Mordred consulted his wristcom. ‘Six o’clock already. My, my, time passes quickly when you’re having fun.’ His finger tightened on the trigger. ‘This is it, father. Sorry and all that. You’ll be with your dead groupies in a moment or two.’
As Arthur closed his eyes and prepared himself for death, a voice across the hall cried, ‘No!’ Mordred whirled round. ‘What’s up with you, Keir?’
Wincing with pain, Keir pushed himself into a sitting position. ‘You never said anything about killing him.’
‘Didn’t I? Naughty, naughty, smack hand, it must have slipped my mind.’ Clutching his left arm, Mordred limped back across the hall to Keir. ‘What’s eating you? You’ll be as happy to see your brother dead as I will.’ A grin and a knowing look. ‘Oh, I get it,’ he said, ‘you want to do it yourself.’ He licked his lips. ‘Well, why not? Go ahead. I’ll watch. Should be quite a turn-on.’ Retrieving Keir’s gun, he handed it to him. ‘He’s all yours.’
‘I won’t kill a helpless man,’ said Keir.
Mordred shrugged. ‘Suit yourself,’ he said, ‘I’ll do it.’ As he limped his way back to Arthur, he heard a gun being cocked. Spinning on his heels, he saw to his horror that Keir’s gun was pointing not at Arthur, but at him. Even as he hurled himself to the floor, the bullets struck him in the stomach and chest. ‘God damn you,’ he groaned, ‘what did you do that for?’ Mortally wounded, he fired, and went on firing at Keir’s body until the magazine of his gun was empty.
‘God grant you peace, brother,’ said Arthur.
Blood oozed from the sides of Mordred’s mouth. ‘What a mess, eh, father?’
They were dying, father and son. It was time for the truth. Weaker by the minute from loss of blood, Arthur dragged himself across the flagstones to his son. ‘Why do you hate me, Mordred?’
The light in Mordred’s eyes was fading. ‘I wanted you to love me. And you never did.’
It was true. Try as he might, he had never been able to love his son. ‘Forgive me, Mord,’ he said. ‘It’s not too late for forgiveness.’
‘Forget the deathbed reconciliation, father,’ said Mordred faintly. ‘It isn’t going to happen.’ They were his last words. His breath rasping in his throat, his limbs racked by two violent spasms, he fell back, dead.
Arthur sat by his son’s body, tears streaming down his cheeks, thinking of what was, and what might have been.
Seventy Three
Shooting dead the two fleeing actives, George rushed back to the Great Hall where Arthur, bleeding profusely from his wounds, sat by Mordred’s body. Stooping, he put his arms round him. ‘I’ll carry you to A and E,’ he said. ‘They’ll fix you up.’
Arthur squeezed George’s arm gratefully. ‘There are more urgent matters to attend to.’
‘What could be more urgent than saving your life?’
‘Listen to me carefully, George,’ said Arthur, ‘this is what you must do.’
Drifting in and out of consciousness, Arthur opened his eyes, and there, in blurred shades of white and yellow, was a barn owl. Fluttering onto his shoulder, Virgil tugged gently at his earlobe.
Fingers straying to the scar on his left cheek, he murmured, ‘I was a fool to think that I could change the world.’
‘As I told you a long time ago,’ said Merlin, ‘you can change many things, but you cannot change man’s nature.’
‘Then what is the point of the struggle?’ said Arthur.
‘The point is the struggle, Arthur. Even though we can never win the war, still we have to fight it. Remember how, when Pandora’s box was opened, sickness and plague, death and destruction, despair, depression and loneliness were released, condemning man, Zeus’s frail creation, to an endless war with himself. Remember too that something else was released from Pandora’s box, something that did not fly away when it was opened.’ Merlin’s green orbs glowed. ‘Hope, Arthur – Prometheus’s last gift to man, the gift that gives life meaning, the gift that makes it impossible for us to give up the struggle.’ ‘What hope can there be,’ said Arthur, his strength failing, ‘if we are doomed to an endless war with our own nature?’
‘The hope,’ said Merlin, ‘that every time we confront evil, the closer we are to redemption, the hope that one day when the wicked are vanquished, the meek truly will inherit the earth. You did what you were destined to do, you fought the battle against evil, and the echoes of that battle will reverberate down the years. Take heart, Arthur. You have searched for the truth, the indestructible truth at the centre of things, and you have come close to finding it, closer than anyone before you in the long and troubled history of mankind.’
Arthur shook his head wearily. ‘All those men and women I sent to their deaths,’ he said. ‘Every night I see them in my dreams, and every night they ask me the same question. “What did we die for?”’ He seized Merlin’s hand. ‘What can I tell them, Magus?’
‘Tell them,’ said Merlin, ‘tell them they died to keep hope alive. And tell them, Arthur, tell them that in the end, all men die, but hope never dies.’
Arthur was comforted by Merlin’s words. ‘Does God exist, Magus?’
‘I believe he does.’ ‘What if he doesn’t?’
‘Then God help us,’ said Merlin, with a glint and a glow of mischief.
‘Is this the end?’
Bendi
ng to kiss Arthur’s forehead, Merlin replied, ‘When the world needs us, we shall walk again on Glastonbury Tor, you and I.’ With a wave of his hand he summoned Virgil to his shoulder, and together with the owl faded slowly from Arthur’s sight, his green eyes still glowing long after the rest of his body had disappeared.
When George Bedivere returned, he was shocked to find Arthur lying unconscious on the floor of the Great Hall. For a moment he thought he was dead. Fearfully, he touched his shoulder. Arthur opened his eyes. ‘Is it done, George?’
‘It is done.’
‘The island is evacuated?’ ‘We are the only ones left.’ ‘The wounded?’
‘In a mainland hospital.’ ‘And the rest?’
‘Making their way to friends and families on the mainland.’ ‘Memories?’
‘Excised in the memory bank as you instructed.’ ‘The Scuttles that flew them there?’
‘Elimatted on the mainland as soon as passengers disembarked.’
‘The motor launches?’
‘Waiting for us on the beach as you ordered.’ Arthur was satisfied. ‘You have done well, George.’
George bent over Arthur and slid his strong arms round him. ‘There’s a hovercart waiting outside. I’m taking you to the regeneration unit. I’m no expert, but I’m sure I can patch you up – well enough at least to get you to a hospital.’
‘It is too late,’ said Arthur.
George released his hold and stood back, the first tears he had ever shed rolling down his leathery cheeks. Never had he thought to hear those words from Arthur.
‘I have one final task for you.’ ‘What must I do?’
‘Destroy Excalibur.’
Was loss of blood affecting Arthur’s brain? ‘What are you saying? If we destroy Excalibur, we lose our power.’
‘If we don’t,’ said Arthur, ‘and Excalibur falls into the wrong hands, billions will perish, whole continents will be destroyed, perhaps even the planet itself. It must be done, George.’ George nodded unhappily.
