The Mammoth Book of Merlin

There are certain aspects of the Arthurian story that have always fascinated me. One of these is the fact that despite all the heroics of Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table, the legend is pervaded by an inevitable doom, as if there is an inexorable decline to the fate of Arthur and his knights. Elements of this repeat themselves time and again throughout the romances. When James Lowder gave me the opportunity to contribute to The Doom of Camelot, I thought I would explore this and tie it in to the episode of Sir Urfrey, one of the lesser-known Arthurian knights who also finds himself suffering for his cause.

The company had travelled hard over the last three days from Camelot into Cornwall and Arthur was no longer young. Yet the king, who only a few days before had been sullen, temperamental, and given to deep bouts of depression, was now happy, buoyant, and chiding Agrivaine for his grimness.

“Just look at this view, Gawain,” Arthur called, bringing the company to a halt. They had arrived at the cliffs above a huge bay where the sun turned the water into a sea of stars and the coastline curved its way along into the distant haze. “I played here with Merlin many a time as a boy. In fact I still think of it as Merlin’s Bay. Does it have a name, Constantine?”

The fourth member of the company pulled his horse up alongside Arthur. Though Cornwall was Constantine’s duchy, he seldom travelled this far south. Still, he did not want to show his ignorance. “I believe the locals now call it Austell Bay after the local holy man.”

“I should come this way more often,” Arthur remarked. “It is such a beautiful land, so full of wonder. Perhaps we will meet this Austell. I have heard much about him. I wonder if he is related to Merlin.”

Gawain looked sideways at Agrivaine, and their eyes met. Both were unsure of the wisdom of this journey, yet the prospect of being reunited with Merlin had clearly rejuvenated Arthur. And who knew what might happen? Maybe Merlin was alive. The king certainly believed that to be true, and strongly enough to bring a royal party to Cornwall’s wilds.

As Arthur bid them continue to their destination, Gawain pondered again his uncle’s dilemma.

The king had never understood what became of Merlin, and would not accept that his friend and advisor was dead. No one really knew Merlin’s fate, though there had been rumours and speculation for years. The king could not believe that Merlin deserted him without good cause. He was certainly used to the old man disappearing on secret missions for months on end, though he’d always returned. Now, Arthur had nearly lost count of the years Merlin had been missing – six? Eight? Ten? It seemed an eternity. In his darker moments, the king was lost without him. No one else had the wisdom and subtlety of vision that Merlin possessed, not even Archbishop Dyfrig.

During the last year, Arthur had become convinced there was a conspiracy against him, or more likely against the queen. First there was the kidnapping of Guinevere by Meleagaunt, and her heroic rescue by Lancelot. Not long before that, the queen had been accused of poisoning Sir Patrise, and of attempting to murder Gawain. There were rumours that Guinevere had been unfaithful, but with whom Arthur never learned; the king thought the gossip to be baseless, but even his most trusted friend, Lancelot, seemed reluctant to remain at court and was forever questing. Was this also part of a conspiracy? Arthur felt surrounded by rumour and did not know who to turn to. Only Merlin would know the truth.

But where was he? Arthur was certain Merlin had fallen victim to one of Morgan’s schemes, but Morgan only laughed when confronted, like she always laughed, and revealed nothing. Even Vivienne, with whom Merlin had been infatuated, claimed she had no idea. Arthur had sent knights in search of his old friend, all to no avail. Then plague and famine rampaged across the kingdom, and the Round Table became engrossed in the Quest for the Grail. Memories of Merlin faded into the past.

Except for one strange incident. Some while previous, Gawain and Yvaine had been travelling in the West Country when Gawain fell under the spell of the enchantress Byanne. He was transformed into a dwarf and spent many weeks lost in the Woods of Austell. At one point, he came near a cave and believed he heard the voice of Merlin enquiring about Arthur and Guinevere. The mage revealed that his spirit was trapped and would only be freed when Arthur regained the throne.

When Gawain eventually took on his normal form again and returned to Camelot, he did not tell the king of his experience. First, he was not sure whether it was part of the enchantment or possibly all a dream, and secondly, he did not understand the allusion to regaining the throne. This must mean, he thought, that Arthur would lose the throne at some point, and Gawain did not believe that was something his uncle wanted to hear.

However, one night, when drunk, he told the story to his wife Floriel, who told her brother Brandiles, who told Arthur. Gawain had to claim he had been under an enchantment which prevented him from telling Arthur directly. The king treated this as yet more evidence of the conspiracy against him. He demanded that Gawain lead him to the spot where he had heard Merlin’s voice.

Unfortunately, Gawain could not remember the spot. He only knew it was in the woods near the church of the holy man Austell. This seemed to encourage Arthur. Gawain could not think why at the time; as he mused on the subject during the long ride through Cornwall, he realized the site must hold some link with Arthur’s youth. The king had been raised in this area by Merlin, and there were doubtless places and connections which meant something only to them.

Gawain still wished they had been accompanied by Yvaine, who might have a better idea of where he had heard Merlin, but Arthur had recently sent the knight on a quest into the North and he was unlikely to return for some months. Instead, Constantine leapt at the chance to ride with Arthur, and since Cornwall was Constantine’s duchy, he could hardly be refused. The rest of the quintet was comprised of Agrivaine, who never missed an opportunity like this, and the king’s own squire, Kynan.

The joy of the morning turned sombre as they neared Austell’s church. About two miles distant resided Austell’s close compatriot, Mewan. Unlike Austell, Mewan lived the life of a recluse, and spent much of his time in a cave deep in the woods. He sometimes blocked the cave entrance with large stones; usually, the only betrayal of his presence was if he lit a fire and the smoke drifted out through the vent at the top of the cave.

The path to Austell’s church did not pass near Mewan’s caves, but once in the woods, Arthur turned from the usual route and set off at great pace, with the others struggling in pursuit. He evidently knew where he was going, and his company could do nothing but follow. Soon the trees became so entangled that they had to dismount. Where they were heading looked at first glance even more impenetrable, but they suddenly broke through into a clearing. Gawain recognized it at once, as if from a dream.

It so happened that for once Mewan was not deep in his cave. He had emerged to gather food, and was sitting outside, plucking some pigeons and preparing a fire, as the company stumbled into the clearing. He had heard them coming for some while, however, and had chosen not to hide. He was watching the knights as they emerged from the thicket.

Gawain was astonished. The holy man looked every inch like Merlin. He was dressed in a humble grey habit, with bare feet, a long, matted beard, and silver-grey hair. His face shone, and his eyes sparkled with an inner depth. Even when he spoke, his voice and his manner were so like Merlin’s.

“Welcome, travellers,” he said. “You are either lost or come seeking answers.”

The cry came from Arthur, who had dropped his horse’s reins and was staggering forward, arms outstretched, wanting to hug his old friend. Although Mewan remained seated, the king grabbed him by the arms and pulled him erect, revealing a strength he had not shown in years. He clasped Mewan closely, holding him so for a moment. When at length they separated, Gawain could see tears in Arthur’s eyes.

Mewan chose not to speak. He simply watched Arthur, with only a token glance at the others.

“Merlin,” Arthur cried again. “What’s become of you? Why have you not come back to court?”

“My lord, I fear you are mistaken. This is the holy man, Mewan.” He then turned to the hermit. “Mewan, this is your sovereign lord, King Arthur.”

Mewan seemed in no way awed by the company. Arthur, for his part, clearly ignored Constantine’s words and continued to ask “Merlin” what he had been doing during all those lost years. Mewan finally ceased Arthur’s questions with a raise of his hands, bloodstained from the pigeon he had been preparing. The blood caught Arthur’s eye and he became transfixed. Meanwhile Mewan at last spoke.

“All who find me are troubled. We may seek our answers from the Lord God and from within ourselves. Please come and pray with me.”

Mewan led the company to a small wooden cross nailed to a tree some yards distant. There he knelt in prayer and bid them all to do the same. As Arthur knelt, Gawain was aware that a shaft of sunlight had suddenly pierced the clouds and the canopy of trees, and bathed Mewan in a pool of radiance. Arthur noticed it too, and Gawain saw him tense as he bowed his head in prayer. The knight could only wonder what thoughts were going through his uncle’s already tortured mind.

The company remained in prayer for several minutes. Only when Mewan rose did they all do likewise, and return to the cave. As they walked, Arthur caught Gawain’s arm and whispered in his ear.

“Did you see the holy aura? Have you seen the blood on Merlin’s hands? He has been transfigured. Merlin has been raised for Heaven’s duty. No wonder he has not returned to court. He is now in the service of God.”

Gawain did not know how to reply. The idea that Merlin would abandon the Old Faith for Christianity seemed impossible. In fact, Gawain had long believed it was Arthur embracing Christianity that had driven the mage from court. Maybe a deep guilt about this had brought the king to believe that Merlin was still alive and would one day embrace the Faith. But Gawain could see that there was no point in giving voice to these thoughts; Arthur was not in the mood to listen.

The king hastened back to sit by Mewan at the cave’s entrance. The holy man was pulling together the few pigeons he had plucked.

“I’m afraid I can offer you little by way of food,” Mewan apologized. “If you wish to wait, I am sure I could prepare some broth.”

It was only then that Arthur seemed to return to some normality. He gestured to his squire, who had remained respectfully at a distance with the horses and bags.

The preparation of a meal broke the spell for a short while. As they ate, though, confusion claimed Arthur again and he returned to his questioning of Mewan.

“Merlin,” the king began, “why have you come again to this cave where you taunted me when I was but a child? You have clearly passed through much in these many years, but what has brought you again to this place?”

“My lord Arthur, I do not know how to answer you. You believe that I am Merlin the Enchanter, whom I did once meet, many years ago. But Merlin and I are of different faiths and follow different paths.”

For all the holy man protested, Arthur would not accept his denial. “You have always followed your own path, Merlin, and I have never, in all my years, been able to change you from it.” Something sounded in the king’s voice then – a note of utter weariness. “I need your help more than at any other time,” he continued. “My kingdom is crumbling. There are plots against me and against my queen, and without your counsel I do not know which way to turn.”

“There are times when I believe God has forsaken me and my kingdom,” he said softly. “Perhaps I transgressed holy authority when I commanded the search for the Grail of Christ. I sought perfection which was not mine to possess, and in doing so I lost the most perfect soul to ever inhabit this earth.”

“You lost the soul of Christ?” Mewan asked, knowing full well this was not what Arthur meant.

The king shook his head. “Forgive me, Merlin. I surely did not mean to be sacrilegious. But if you had witnessed the purity of Galahad, you would know you had met a perfect soul. And because of me, Galahad died.”

If the knight intended to answer, he never got the chance. “It is all the same to me,” King Arthur sighed. “Galahad’s soul passed on, and we were left with a shell.”

Mewan paused and seemed to search for an answer in the air before him. At last he noted, in an uplifting tone, “I believe that Galahad saw what no earthly eyes can see and live. If that is so, then his passing was glorious and a matter for celebration, not mourning.”

“But so many of my knights suffered in the search for the Grail,” Arthur responded. “And the land is still split asunder and ravaged by blight. My search for perfection has led only to corruption.”

“Such is the fate of those who strive for something which no human can achieve without the aid of the Lord,” the holy man was quick to note. “Remember Icarus who flew too close to heaven and was cast down. Mankind is imperfect because of sin, and there is no way that you can change that, king or no. That was why our Lord Jesus came to earth as a ransom sacrifice.”

The company considered this for a time, though the lesson seemed to trouble Arthur the most.

“Tell me, Merlin,” he said heavily, “how can I save my kingdom without striving for perfection? What must I do?”

Mewan was quick to answer. “You must look to your heart, my king, and beseech others to do likewise. No one is perfect, and the more perfect they seem, the more dangerous they will be to you. Beware he who betrays perfection, for there is the destiny of your soul.”

The king rose to his feet. “Who, Merlin? Galahad was the only perfect soul. He is gone. Surely he can no longer be a threat to my kingdom.”

“I cannot help you there, my lord. You will know this seeming perfection when it displays itself before you. And when you recognize it, you must face your fate.”

Arthur struggled for words. Gawain could see a range of emotions contorting his face.

“I still cannot understand how perfection can be a danger,” the king said. “Surely, Merlin, you of all men have seen the miracle of perfection on earth. Can you not tell me more?”

“I cannot say what Merlin has seen. I can tell you that I have never witnessed true perfection – and do not expect to in this life.”

Suddenly Arthur reached for his sword and drew Excalibur from its scabbard. The sword shone and sparkled in the dappled light. Gawain even fancied he saw a shaft of light expand from the blade and cleave through the acrid smoke from the fire, as if banishing anything vile that lurked nearby. Instinctively, with the drawing of Excalibur, both Gawain and Agrivaine reached for their own swords, but the king motioned them to relax.

For the first time a look of childlike wonder came over the face of Mewan. He even reached for the sword but Arthur protectively – perhaps even possessively – held it just out of reach.

“I have never seen this blade before,” Mewan responded, almost in a whisper. “But I know of it, as do all in your kingdom. It is a sword of beauty, I cannot deny that, but an instrument of death can never be perfection. Also . . .” Mewan hesitated, knowing that what he was going to say next would find little acceptance.

Mewan continued slowly, weighing each word with great care. “This sword, as well as the scabbard that you once had but lost, are intended to protect you. Without Excalibur you are vulnerable, but you are human. With the blade you may be invulnerable to physical pain, but you pay the price in spiritual pain. In this way, the sword drains you of your humanity.”

“Are you saying I would be better rid of the sword?” the king exclaimed over the shocked gasps of his knights. “You gave Excalibur to me, Merlin. Did you not know then it endangered my soul?” Arthur’s voice turned from bewilderment to anger. “Was this a plot from the very start – a plot to damn my soul? Have you been in league with Morgan all along?”

Mewan did not move, but trapped Arthur with his eyes. Moments passed, then the anger fled the king and he slumped slowly back to the ground. He looked again at Excalibur, but now as if it were nothing but useless metal. Mewan spoke, softly and reassuringly.

“Excalibur was, and is, important to you. It gave you strength and allowed you to believe in yourself. Without Excalibur would you have risen to such might and fame? But can anything be perfect that causes its master such anguish, brings him to concentrate more on himself than on his subjects?”

Gawain found himself tensing and was aware that Agrivaine steeled himself, as well. Mewan’s words wandered perilously close to treason. Even if the king would not silence the old man, he was not about to let him speak so treacherously against the throne.

“My lord,” he interjected calmly, “I believe Mewan has said enough. He can help you no more.”

There was no question in Gawain’s mind that the hermit’s words had not helped Arthur at all; they had, in truth, wounded him far more grievously than might any sword. The king seemed unable to move, unable to stand. It was from that moment on, Gawain noticed, that a melancholy settled over Arthur, a dark mood that haunted them all for many miles on the road.

Gawain looked cautiously at Arthur. These were the first words the king had spoken in several hours, but they were no more encouraging for that. He remained slumped in his saddle, his face as sullen and dour as it had been when they left Mewan’s cave.

It was cold and damp up here on the moor, and Gawain had hoped they would have reached shelter farther to the north. But it was growing dark and Tintagel was at least three hours distant.

Arthur pulled his horse round and raised his eyes to Gawain. His shoulders slumped with all the weight and responsibility of his years and his crown. This was the Arthur Gawain had grown used to, though the demeanour was all the more troubling for the joy the king had shown just a few hours before.

“I wish to rest.” Arthur paused and looked toward the setting sun, already lost behind a haze of dark clouds. He sighed. “And there is something I wish to do.”

Arthur urged his horse forward. Gawain started to follow, but the king held up his hand.

“Get Kynan to prepare a camp for the night. I shall be back before it is full dark.”

With that, Arthur set off over the brow of a low hill and was soon lost to sight. Despite his uncle’s words, Gawain made to follow, but Agrivaine halted him.

Agrivaine snorted. “For what they’re worth. To me, they were just the ramblings of yet another mad hermit. This is Arthur’s country, Gawain. He grew up here. He knows it far better than us.”

Gawain remained hesitant. “I still think someone should keep an eye on him.”

“His orders were for you to see to camp, Gawain, not me,” Constantine offered. “Let me follow him – from a distance.”

Without waiting for an answer, Constantine spurred his horse on, but did not follow Arthur directly. Instead, he took a route slightly to the south. Soon he, too, was swallowed up by the terrain. Agrivaine watched him go.

“I’m not sure I trust him. You’ve seen how he fawns on Arthur. I’m certain he sees himself as the next high king.”

“What – Constantine?” Gawain snorted. “He’s no high king. Have no fear there, brother. No one would support him.”

“Constantine may not think that. We all know Arthur’s days are numbered, and there’s only one fit to succeed him.”

“And Arthur’s son and rightful heir,” Agrivaine noted. “Arthur may have disowned him, but the high king’s blood flows in Mordred’s veins and he can trace his descent from the great Caractacus.”

“So do we all, Agrivaine.” Gawain started to turn away. “Stop being paranoid, and help me get a fire going. The wind’s getting cold.”

With bad grace, Agrivaine snatched up some dried bracken. “This expedition was doomed to disaster from the start,” he pouted, “and I think it has tipped Arthur over the brink into madness. You saw how he reacted at Mewan’s cave.”

Gawain withheld his answer until the fire started to take hold. Finally, he wrapped his cloak around him and looked deep into Agrivaine’s eyes. “I, too, fear for Arthur’s mind. That was why I wanted to follow him. God knows what he intends to do.”

Arthur had not gone far. Less than a mile from the camp, but hidden by a crown of trees and tucked just below a ridge, lay the Dozmary Pool. In his youth, Arthur had fought and killed a monster here. With that battle, that victory, Arthur had become a man – at least in his own mind.

The pool had served as the stage for another important moment in Arthur’s life, too. Soon after he became king, Arthur returned there with Merlin. That was when he was presented with Excalibur by the Lady of the Lake. He had not returned since that fateful day, though the pool of Dozmary often haunted his dreams.

Now, in the gathering gloom of evening, the pool looked even darker and more secretive than he recalled. Nothing reflected from its abyss-black surface. Even the wind scarcely raised a ripple. It was almost as if the lake mocked him – mocked anyone and everything. Merlin had told him that the dark pool of Dozmary had existed since the dawn of time. As he gazed upon its sinister, impenetrable depths, the king could finally believe that to be true.

Arthur stood at the edge of the lake and stared across the waters. He was still uncertain of his course. Ever since seeing Merlin he’d been full of doubt – if it had even been Merlin at all. The king banished that thought almost as quickly as it formed. He had to believe he’d seen his mentor; otherwise, his whole world would collapse.

Arthur had hoped the meeting with Merlin would provide an answer, but if the mage had offered one, it was not the one the king wanted. Was his whole life a sham, a fabrication dependent upon the power of Excalibur? Had he no authority of his own? The sword had saved his life countless times, but was each rescue won at the cost of his kingdom?

Arthur had pondered this dilemma for hours, ever since leaving Merlin’s cave, and the only action to which Merlin’s advice pointed was one he hesitated to take. He must return Excalibur from whence it came. Yet the sword had been part of his life – maybe it had even been his life – for over thirty years. How could he part with it now?

If he cast Excalibur back into the lake, the king knew that he could never retrieve it. The sword would be gone forever. Instead, he might bury it here, at the lake’s edge; then he could return for it one day, when he had regained control of his kingdom, of his life. But someone else might find it in the meantime. Would it make them all-powerful? Arthur wondered bitterly.

Once again the king remembered Merlin’s words and knelt in prayer. He remained with head bowed for some while, but no inspiration came. Perhaps Merlin was right, he concluded. God would forsake him so long as he clung to the Old Faith. To the sword.

His mind was made up. Before he could hesitate again, Arthur stood, drew Excalibur from its scabbard, and held it high above his head. The bright blade turned as dark as the lake. For a moment, it seemed to Arthur that the blackness of both blade and water threatened to swallow the world. “But you will not swallow me,” the king whispered and brought his arm back.

“It is the concern of the whole kingdom, my lord.” Constantine’s voice was calm and reassuring. For a moment, Arthur almost relaxed his arm. But that urge quickly passed.

“Do not persuade me otherwise. This sword is the source of all my pain and anguish. It has severed my kingdom in two.”

“Has it, my lord? Or has it spliced the kingdom together? The sword has protected you, and in that it has certainly protected Logres. Without Excalibur, how will your realm survive?”

Arthur wheeled round to glare at his would-be comforter. “That is precisely the problem. Excalibur rules, not me. Why do you think Morgan tried to rob me of the sword all those years ago? So that I would crumble and falter. If I am to be at peace with God, it must be me that rules, with His grace. I can no longer rely upon this crutch of the Old Faith.”

Constantine could see the weakness in Arthur’s argument, but was cautious of what to say next for fear of provoking the king. In that hesitation Arthur saw vindication of his words. “You understand now,” the king said. “This is the will of God.”

“How do you know that this – the meeting with the hermit, the doubts assailing you, the conspiracies you perceive – do not form part of another of Morgan’s schemes to rid you of the sword?”

Arthur struggled again with his thoughts, not wanting to have to admit how powerless he might be. “How could she plan this, Constantine? She did not send me on my quest for Merlin. She was not there when he told me of the sword’s evil.”

“I would tend to agree, my lord, and yet I hesitate to underestimate the deviousness of Morgan.”

Suddenly Arthur slumped; the energy drained out of him. He stabbed Excalibur into the ground and leaned upon it.

“You have served only to remind me of all of my problems,” Arthur sighed. “How can one tell reality from illusion any more in this world? Morgan is not behind every fault, every disaster, every shadow in the world. If I credit her so, I am not fit to rule. Yet she has tried and tested me again and again. Her designs fail, but I must wonder now if I am unknowingly aiding her against me. All the time I cling to the Old Faith by relying upon Excalibur, I am denying God, and that is the one weakness Morgan can still exploit.” He looked down at the sword. “Once I am rid of Excalibur, she will have no hold over me.”

“To protect it, perhaps,” the king suggested, “or to tap its dark power for her own purposes.”

“Sire,” Constantine said softly, “if I may be so bold, might I suggest you consider this another way?” At Arthur’s silence, he continued: “Perhaps Excalibur draws its power from you, not the other way round.”

“I have no knowledge of such wonders, but it seems to me that you and Excalibur are linked in a special way, that the sword is only powerful in your hands. Has anyone else ever been protected by it?”

Arthur strained to remember. “Gawain used it once to devastating effect, but he is such a powerful knight and a brilliant swordsman he would likely triumph whatever the blade. No, I cannot say with certainty that anyone else has wielded its true power.”

A pleased smile flashed across Constantine’s lips. “Then might I suggest that Excalibur is not a crutch of the Old Faith at all. The sword reveals its power only in your hands. And if you draw your power from God, then it is God that wields Excalibur. That is the perfection we all glimpse in its working – the touch of the Lord.”

This conclusion surprised even Constantine, who marveled a little at the inspired logic of it all. The words had the desired effect upon Arthur, too. The king’s eyes visibly brightened, although his brow remained knit with concern.

“It would be so wonderful if you were right, Constantine. It would mean the Lord has recast the Old Faith as a tool, that even Merlin could be a servant of God, even as I had once thought.”

“And it would explain, too, why Morgan wants to destroy Excalibur – it is an instrument of God.”

Arthur clapped Constantine on his back and sheathed Excalibur. “You have resolved my enigmas, my friend. In that, you’ve shown that you are wise enough to be high king one day.” Smiling still, he started back toward camp.

Constantine untethered his horse and paused, glancing out over the lake. Was that a shimmering he saw on the surface? A white glow in the centre? Perhaps it was merely a trick of the wind and the dying sun. The son of Cador shuddered a little at the mysteries of Dozmary Pool. But even those dark thoughts were soon overcome by the deep glow of pride he felt at Arthur’s parting words.

Spurred on by Arthur’s newfound vigour, the company returned to Camelot in just two days. Gawain was astonished at the sudden change in the king’s character and though pleased, both he and Agrivaine wondered what part Constantine had played in this. Despite their questions, Arthur chose to remain elusive, saying only, “All is well.” It left Gawain uneasy. He wondered if the king’s transformation were built upon shifting sands.

Events moved fast upon their return. Arthur was determined to reassert his authority and so he sent out messengers to summon kings, lords, and the Round Table to Camelot for a major council. News of the gathering spread throughout the land, luring many who sought help from the court.

So it was that there arrived at Camelot a small procession of a lady with a litter and two horses, accompanied by a demoiselle and a page. The lady asked to see King Arthur, and she and the litter were brought into the keep’s great hall. Here Arthur and Guinevere prepared to have audience.

“My lord, I seek your help to cure my son, who lies in this stretcher,” the lady began, her voice quiet and quaking with age. “I have a story to tell.”

“Pray tell us, my lady,” Arthur responded. “But first, what is your name?”

“I am the Lady Philomela from Hungaria. My son is Sir Urfrey of the Mount, a valiant and brave knight who has been the victim of a curse.”

A gasp went round the hall, as much at the stricken man’s identity as in fear of his curse. Sir Urfrey had vanished early in the days of the Quest for the Grail, and many had pondered his fate. The whole court leaned forward to catch what came next.

“Seven years ago my son was challenged to single combat by the vengeful knight, Sir Alphegus of Iberia. Sir Alphegus was envious of my son’s victories in a tournament. And when they finally met on the field, the battle was long and hard, lasting from noon to dusk. My son was triumphant and at length slew Sir Alphegus, but not before he, too, was severely hurt. He received seven wounds – three about his head; three about his body; and one on his left hand. Seeing those injuries, Alphegus’s mother thereupon cursed my son that his wounds would not heal until he was touched by the best and most perfect knight in the world.”

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.

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.

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.”

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—”

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.”

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 CORRUPTION OF PERFECTION

MIKE ASHLEY