by Unknown
The words that finally crept out so hesitantly were not the ones she had rehearsed. ‘I just wanted to tell you . . . to tell you . . . that . . . you are my very own son, and I love you very much.’
It was not clear to Arthur why that would make his mother cry, but being a feeling person, he understood that for some reason she needed love and comforting. ‘I love you too, mum,’ he said, hugging her.
Elizabeth was a little ashamed of herself. She could scarcely look Hector in the face. ‘I tried to tell him. I just couldn’t.’
‘Then I shall have to.’
She knelt at his feet and laid her head on his knees. ‘I’ll do it.’
‘Promise?’ ‘I promise.’
He had his doubts about that promise, but he hated to refuse her anything.
The days passed, and Elizabeth could not bring herself to do it. Hector was worried. He did his best to persuade her how much better it would be if Arthur learned the truth from them rather than from someone else. She seemed to agree, and she renewed her promise to tell Arthur but so passionately did she want Arthur to be her own flesh and blood that she had almost convinced herself he was.
By the time the two brothers next went fishing, Keir’s persistent eavesdropping had been rewarded; he had discovered his parents’ secret. Moreover, he knew they had not shared it with Arthur. Lying on his back, hands clasped behind his head, Arthur watched his beloved clouds race the wind across the sky. There was a time, not so long ago, when he would have seen more than clouds in those white scraps of cirrus. When he was seven years old, what else would they have been but ships from outer space? Now that he was thirteen and a man – or so Merlin said – he had to admit they were nothing more than clouds. He was not at all sure that he liked growing up.
Keir cast his line. ‘I always knew it.’
So heavy was the burden of silence that in the end Arthur felt obliged to respond. ‘Knew what?’
‘That you were not my brother.’
Arthur sat up, his attention fully engaged. ‘What did you say?’ he asked, not sure he had heard right.
‘I said you are not my brother. And mum and dad are not your parents. They adopted you. You are no relation to any of us. None at all.’ Keir’s voice rose triumphantly. ‘I knew you weren’t one of us. I always said you were different.’
For a few seconds Arthur stared at his elder brother in disbelief, then his face folded in grief and pain, and tears sprang from his eyes.
‘Cry baby! Cry baby!’ chanted Keir. This was positively the best moment of his life. Nothing, absolutely nothing, would ever give him greater satisfaction.
‘I don’t believe you,’ said Arthur. But he did not know what to believe. For days he was in torment. Was Keir lying? His first thought was to ask his parents, though Keir had warned him not to say anything to them – ‘My parents,’ he called them, rubbing salt in the wound – or they would throw Arthur out of the house and he would have no home at all. Arthur knew that could not be true. Elizabeth and Hector loved him. It was not what they might do that troubled him, it was what they might say. What if they said it was true? What if he really was adopted? In a way he preferred living in uncertainty. He did not want to know. But in the end the strain of not knowing became too great and at breakfast a few days later he blurted out, ‘Keir says I’m not your real son.’
Elizabeth and Hector looked at each other in shock. Hector put down his cup. ‘Your mother and I need to talk to Arthur alone,’ he told Keir. But as Keir got up to leave the kitchen, Elizabeth shook her head. ‘No,’ she said, ‘let him stay. This involves all of us.’
Arthur had his answer. There was nothing more to be said. ‘So it’s true.’
Feeling his pain, Elizabeth suffered with Arthur. If only she had listened to Hector. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘it’s true.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ asked Arthur wretchedly.
‘Dad wanted me to. I’m so sorry. I was afraid.’ She opened her arms.
‘Afraid of what?’
Her voice was low. ‘Of losing your love.’
Arthur went to her and hugged her. ‘You could never do that, mum. Don’t you know that?’
Elizabeth burst into tears. ‘I was scared of hurting you – the way Keir has done.’
Keir sat with head bowed, raging. Wait till he got the little shit alone!
‘You see, Arthur,’ said Elizabeth, clasping her younger son tightly, ‘we adopted you when you were a tiny baby. You were only ten days old. We have never thought of you as anything but our own flesh and blood. The law says you are our adopted son but we don’t. We never have, do you see? You are our son, just like Keir. As far as we are concerned, there is no difference.’
Keir was close to tears. ‘He’s not your son! He’s not my brother!’
‘He is, and he always will be,’ said Elizabeth firmly. ‘That’s because you love him more than me.’
‘That isn’t true,’ said Hector. ‘We love both of you the same.’
After a long silence, Elizabeth said, ‘I was wrong, Arthur. I should have listened to your father. I’m really sorry you had to learn the truth this way. But I’m glad you found out, even if you didn’t hear it from me. I never carried you in my womb but from the first moment I laid eyes on you, you have been a part of me, part of my flesh, part of my bones, part of my heart. You are my son, my very own son. No mother ever loved a child more than I love you.’
‘I am your father, Arthur,’ said Hector. ‘I love you with all my heart and soul.’
Then Elizabeth and Hector took both their children in their arms and hugged them. Arthur hugged them back, but Keir held himself stiffly, his head filled with bitter thoughts.
Hector said hesitantly, ‘I’m afraid we don’t know who your
– your birth parents are. We can find out, if you want us to.’
Arthur shook his head. ‘No.’ He was not ready to accept that he had any other parents.
Neither Hector nor Elizabeth rebuked Keir for the wrong he had done his brother. Keir suffered torments, not because his conscience troubled him but because Arthur bore him no grudge. Indeed he went out of his way to show his older brother the affection he still felt for him. Keir accepted it as his due, and gave nothing in return. Perhaps Arthur tried too hard, or Keir too little, but whatever the reason, Keir was more jealous of his brother than ever.
There was, however, one significant change in their relationship. Never again did Keir try to bully Arthur. Nothing was said, there was no confrontation, no threats or counter threats, it was simply that he noticed something different about his younger brother, something indefinable, revealing itself in small ways – a look in the eye, perhaps, or a touch more confidence in the way he carried himself – insignificant enough, but a clear warning, none-the-less, that Arthur was not a child and would no longer tolerate being treated like one.
Fourteen
2008
On most weekends Merlin took Arthur on long rambling walks in the country. Sometimes they discussed where
they would go, sometimes Merlin had no destination in mind. It might then have been fortuitous that they found themselves at the foot of Glastonbury Tor late one Saturday evening, although, as Arthur well knew, Merlin rarely left anything to chance.
As they reached the top of the Tor the red ball of the sun slipped below the horizon and the western sky glowed red. As the shadows deepened on the ruined church that crowned the summit, the dark mass of its tower dominated the landscape, uniting earth and sky. The west wind that had gusted all day was suddenly stilled. Not a sound, not even a breath of air, disturbed the silence. In this hushed moment the earth and all the planets that only an instant before wheeled round the sun seemed to hang motionless in space.
‘Shall we go?’ suggested Merlin, ‘it’s getting late.’
As they made their way down Merlin began to speak of a great king who ruled Britain many centuries ago.
‘What king was that?’ asked Arthur. ‘You want a clue?�
�� Merlin loved riddles. Arthur grinned. ‘Definitely.’
‘His name . . . ’ – a teasing pause – ‘was the same as yours.’ ‘Oh, King Arthur! The Knights of the Round Table and all that old stuff,’ said Arthur scornfully. ‘They rode round knocking each other off horses and rescuing damsels in distress.’
Merlin smiled. ‘True, but there was more to it than that. This country was besieged by its enemies, brutal and merciless men who pillaged and murdered and terrorised anyone who stood in their way. And the troubles were not just here; the whole world was sliding into chaos, the tribes that ruled Europe were disintegrating, society was fragmenting, families were breaking up, and few people believed in God or morality any more. The real power was passing into the hands of the wicked, and there was no one courageous enough to stand up to them – no one, that is, but King Arthur.’
‘I wonder what he was really like,’ mused Arthur, his eyes dreaming.
Merlin slid a mischievous glance at his protégé. ‘You can imagine what it’s like to be a dog or a lion or a snail. Why not try to imagine what it was like to be King Arthur?’
Arthur sped down the hill, hopping from one foot to the other, leaping rocks and grassy mounds, nimble as a mountain goat. ‘Did he really try to save the world?’
Merlin was having difficulty keeping up. ‘It’s a – foof! – a long story. And you know something? Foof! We haven’t seen the end of it.’
Arthur stopped, waiting for his mentor to catch up with him. ‘How do you mean?’
A grateful hand rested on the boy’s shoulder. ‘There are those who say he will return.’
Arthur was off down the hill again. ‘But it’s just a story, isn’t it?’ he sang out.
‘Who knows?’ said Merlin mysteriously.
Arthur jumped, caught his foot on a rock, tripped, fell, rolled and was up again in an instant. ‘You think there really was such a man?’
‘Yes, I do.’ Merlin was planting his feet with caution now. It was getting dark. The stars were beginning to reveal themselves. ‘What exactly he did, and precisely who he was, no one knows for sure. But yes, I believe there was such a man.’
As they moved on down towards the foot of the Tor, Arthur said wistfully, ‘it might be fun to save the world.’
‘You have the right name for it. Why not have a go?’ Merlin could not make out the expression on Arthur’s face, but he sensed that the young boy had not dismissed the challenge. Arthur’s eyes shone, catching the starlight. Cupping his hands to his mouth, he shouted at the top of his voice: ‘Arthur! Arthur! Arthur!’ The echoes swirled around him, rolled down the hillside and faded away in the dark woods below.
The next day they explored the ruins of Glastonbury Abbey, where, it is said, in 1191, the bones of King Arthur and Queen Guinevere, were found. ‘The Tor was once a hill on an island,’ explained Merlin. ‘According to legend, the island was called Avalon. It was the place where the mortally wounded King Arthur was taken to be healed of his wounds. These ruins are on the site of an even older church, built, they say, by early disciples of Jesus. They even say Joseph of Arimathea came to Britain some thirty years after the crucifixion, and that here, at the foot of Glastonbury Tor, he threw his staff on the ground. It took root and budded, and that was the birth of the famous Glastonbury Thorn that flowers every year at Christmas. Here they built the old church, and here Joseph buried the Holy Grail.’
Man and boy rested on a log, and for a few moments wandered with their thoughts.
‘Merlin?’
‘Hum?’
‘The Holy Grail. No one ever found it, did they?’
Merlin shook his head. ‘No. Some say Galahad deserted Arthur to look for it, some believe Lancelot himself made the pilgrimage and saw the Holy Grail. But just as Moses was not allowed to enter the promised land, so Lancelot was not permitted to enter the room where the grail stood.’
‘Why not?’
A slight hesitation. ‘Because he had committed the sin of adultery. He had slept with Guinevere.’
‘Don’t say that, Merlin,’ said Arthur, suddenly angry. ‘Lancelot would never betray his king.’
Merlin looked at Arthur in astonishment. In the rebuke there was such authority, that it was hard to believe it came from a thirteen year old boy.
‘In any case,’ continued Merlin, ‘King Arthur thought the search for the Holy Grail was a waste of time.’
Arthur hugged his knees. ‘And was it?’
Merlin peered far into the distance, beyond the cornfield and the hedges bordering it, beyond the distant woods, beyond the horizon, beyond anything on earth that Arthur could see. ‘The search for the Holy Grail is the search for perfection. Man may never find it, but he will never stop looking for it.’
‘Who was the better man – Galahad or Arthur?’ asked Arthur suddenly.
‘Depends what you mean by better,’ said Merlin. ‘They were very different. Galahad never stopped believing in man’s essential goodness. Arthur, on the other hand, was convinced that man was part good, part evil, and that the way to save the world was not to look for the Holy Grail but to destroy the wicked. He had the will, and he was given the means to do it.’
‘Excalibur?’
Merlin nodded. ‘The ultimate weapon. Only Arthur possessed it. Only he could use it.’
‘Why was that?’
‘He did what no one else was able to do. He drew the Sword from the Stone. That meant only he was physically and spiritually strong enough to wield Excalibur.’
That little mole of thought burrowed in Arthur’s brows. ‘But Camelot was defeated in the end.’
‘Yes.’ The blue eyes were troubled. ‘So King Arthur failed.’ ‘Did he? Who can say?’ said Merlin, standing and stretching, signalling it was time to move on. ‘Maybe the struggle is more important than the outcome.’
That did not satisfy Arthur. ‘But did King Arthur really change anything?’
Merlin held out his hand and pulled Arthur up. ‘Can man change his own nature? King Arthur was a man, and like all men imperfect.’
‘Even you, Merlin?’ ‘Even me.’
A quizzical look. ‘What about me?’
Gently Merlin reached out and touched the scar on Arthur’s left cheek. ‘Even you,’ he smiled.
Skirting the cornfield they made for the woods and back to school, Merlin’s white robes trailing behind him in the breeze. ‘King Arthur carried in himself the seed of his own destruction. That seed was his son, Mordred. But just as Arthur was not wholly good, so Mordred was not wholly evil. In a way the conflict between them symbolises the endless struggle in man’s soul between good and evil.’
Suddenly Arthur felt weary, as if he were carrying the burden of the world on his young shoulders. ‘So much to learn.’
‘All you really need to know is that everything has a purpose, and every man a destiny.’
‘Including me?’
‘Especially you,’ said Merlin.
Arthur was far away now, his eyes wistful, as if his thoughts were concentrated on some future sadness. Merlin had never seen that look before and it troubled him, for he cared deeply about his young friend. For a moment he found himself wishing that Arthur’s destiny had been different, and that he could have been like other boys. But then Arthur was back from wherever it was he had been, and once again he was smiling, those magical blue eyes of his sparkling like a mountain stream in sunlight.
Fifteen
2008
As the years passed, Uther had grown more and more frustrated with his step-daughters. They were all problematic, although of the three, Margot was his most immediate problem. Once the seductive nymphet, now a mature and lusciously beautiful young woman of nineteen, she was feared and resented by virtually every woman she met, often with good reason. Most of Uther’s male friends, both married and unmarried, lusted after her, a good many having, he strongly suspected, found their way into her knickers. The thought was deeply disturbing to him, not because he gave a damn about morali
ty in general, or Margot’s well-being in particular, but
for fear he might be accused of being a bad father.
A man for whom an immaculate public image was crucial could not tolerate such a potentially explosive state of affairs, that much was clear; what was less clear was what he could do about it. He and Igraine had never seen eye to eye on the subject of the girls. She was convinced all her daughters were perfect, especially Margot; was it her fault men tried to take advantage of her innocence?
Margot is as innocent as Lady Macbeth,’ said Uther caustically.
Igraine was outraged. ‘How can you say such a wicked thing?
She’s just a baby.’
‘Margot was never a baby. She was born a hundred years old.’
‘Don’t be absurd.’
Uther frequently asked himself whether he would have married Igraine if he had understood exactly what baggage she was bringing with her. Well, it was too late now. ‘I warn you, duchess, if we don’t do something soon, she’ll end up in deep trouble. And so shall we. That girl’s power over men is frightening.’
‘Why is it,’ asked Igraine indignantly, ‘that women are always cast as sirens, and men as helpless victims? Margot can’t help being beautiful, anymore than men can help being chronically unfaithful.’
Uther winced. ‘Is that by any chance a hint?’
Hands on hips Igraine demanded, ‘Who is May Middleton?’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘Who is she?’ Igraine insisted.
A bland stare. ‘My personal assistant.’ ‘How personal?’
‘For god’s sake, Igraine,’ said Uther, assuming the reproachful expression of the maligned, ‘May helps me in the office.’
