KING ARTHUR IS SITTING ON A PLATFORM IN A LARGE pavilion, surrounded by hundreds of knights and bishops. Sir Kay, Sir Lucan, Sir Bedivere, Sir Dinadan, Sir Grummor Grummorson, the Bishop of Rochester, the Archbishop of Canterbury. All the great men of the kingdom loyal to him except for the three knights of the Holy Grail.
“In my dream,” he calls out, “I was dressed in cloth of gold, and all around me and under me was deep water; black as the devil’s tongue, seething with serpents and slimy beasts, sea creatures with snouts and fangs.
“I woke up, crying for help, and when I slept again, I saw Gawain with many beautiful ladies and young women.
“‘I was with you when you died,’ I told him. ‘But now I see you’re very much alive! Who are all these ladies and young women?’
“‘All the ones I fought for while I was alive,’ Sir Gawain replied. ‘They begged God to let me warn you, and they’ve led me to you. Don’t fight Sir Mordred tomorrow, or you will be killed. You, and all your followers.’
“‘What shall I do, then?’ I asked.
“‘Make a treaty with Mordred, and be as generous as you have to be,’ Sir Gawain told me. ‘Offer him Cornwall here and now. If need be, offer him Kent. Offer him all England, after your death. Buy yourself time! Within one month Sir Lancelot and his army will sail home; he will fight and kill Sir Mordred and whomsoever is loyal to him.’
“Then Sir Gawain vanished,” the king tells his knights and bishops. “I have always loved and trusted him, and I will do as Gawain says. I name Sir Bedivere and Sir Lucan to ride over to Sir Mordred and offer him terms.”
King Arthur’s knights and bishops remain silent.
“Tell him I will meet him on that hilltop at noon tomorrow, each of us with fourteen men, and I’ll sign a treaty with him. And you, all of you, keep watch!” the king calls out. “Mordred’s as slippery as a snake. He’s a traitor! If you see a sword blade flash, sound the horns and trumpets, and gallop up the hill as fast as you can. Kill Sir Mordred!”
“I don’t trust my father,” Sir Mordred tells his men. “Why this sudden change of heart?”
Many of his knights murmur in agreement.
Sir Mordred looks round his pavilion. “I don’t trust him!” he snaps. “He’ll try to take revenge. I’ll talk to him, but you keep watch, each one of you. If you see a sword blade flash, storm up the hill. Kill my father!”
Now Sir Mordred mounts his black horse, and he and fourteen of his knights canter up the sandy ridge to the top of the hill.
King Arthur and his men are waiting. They have brought a low table, and set it in the shelter of a gorse bush, and laid out beakers and jugs of wine.
Sir Mordred dismounts. He stalks towards his father. They do not embrace, or clasp hands, or touch each other at all. Both men nod.
King Arthur repeats his offer; Sir Mordred agrees to it.
“In this way,” says the king, “each of us wins. Innocent lives will not be lost. There will be peace in England.”
“Give peace in our time, O Lord,” Mordred replies.
“Then let us both put our hands to this, and sign a treaty,” King Arthur says.
Now Sir Bedivere and Sir Lucan pour wine, and knights who once were friends and rode out from Camelot on adventures together begin to talk, and smile again.
Something winks in the gorse bush. An eye.
An adder writhes out of the bush, I can see the diamonds on its back; it shrithes across the sandy soil, and bites the right foot of one of the knights.
The knight yelps. He snatches at his pommel and draws his sword to cut the adder in half. The blade flashes in the sunlight.
Down below, horns and trumpets blow. Short, sharp blasts.
I can hear thousands of men grim and shouting.
“Alas for England!” the king calls out. “Because of an adder! There’s no stopping this battle now.”
Now Arthur-in-the-stone and Sir Mordred turn their backs on each other. They mount, and ride down to meet their armies, two dark breaking waves surging and scrambling and howling and heaving, seething up the hill.
My stone is grave-silent.
I can see shapes in the gloom. Mounds of arms and legs and torsos and heads. Eyes bloodshot and bulging.
Dear God! Two huge armies, one hundred thousand men, all the best men of England, and there’s not one man left standing.
No! I can see King Arthur, masked in blood, standing over Sir Bedivere and Sir Lucan.
“Jesus forgive me!” mutters the king. “My friends…my knights of the Round Table…my brother, Kay…all the good men of the shires of England. There has never been so bitter a day.”
Sir Bedivere and Sir Lucan groan, too drained to reply.
“I wish I knew where that traitor was,” the king says. “I wish I knew for sure Sir Mordred was dead.”
King Arthur sighs. He rubs the blood out of his eyes and looks around him.
“There!” he says. “Can you see him, leaning on his sword? Beside that heap of dead men!”
“Sire,” groans Sir Lucan, “leave him.”
“Give me my spear,” says the king.
“He’s no threat now,” Sir Lucan says. “He stands alone, and there are three of us. Sire, remember your dream.”
“My own son,” growls King Arthur, “he is evil. I have to put an end to him. Whether I die or whether I live, Sir Mordred will not escape me now.”
“God save you!” cries Sir Bedivere.
The king grasps his spear with both hands and runs straight at his son. “Traitor! You traitor!” he howls.
Sir Mordred runs at his father, his sword poised.
King Arthur drives his spear right through Sir Mordred’s body, just under his shield.
Sir Mordred still comes on. He thrusts his body right up to the bur of King Arthur’s spear. Gasping, he swings his sword, and the blade shears through his father’s helmet.
Sir Mordred falls sideways. Spitted on his father’s spear. His mouth gaping like the gateway to hell.
King Arthur collapses onto a bed of grit and mud and blood.