THE POETRY OF ALEX NESS: Foes of Arthur

“Though much is taken, much abides; and though
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.”

Alfred Lord Tennyson, Idylls of the King and a Selection of Poems

Initially this work was going to feature art by Ed Quinby. We’d worked together previously on UNION OF THE CROWNS, THE RAVENS OF ODIN, and SACRED GROUND. Along the way, both of us had cancer. Our tales are both individual but really alike, since we both understand the experience. The word cancer alone is one that tells us all enough just by the word. Our society is aware of the toll of cancer through the years, and through the different family trees. I love Ed. We were comrades in arms. I thank him for bringing images of my work to life, and I am sorry to report that Ed was taken down by cancer. Sadly the art won’t be his here, but I dedicate this work to him, because he and I both were allies in a quest, and he was a wonderfully honorable and knightly man.

I have written in my volumes Lancelot, Arthur Rex Eternus, The Quest of Arthur: The Holy Chalice and KING OF AGES, about the heroes and their lives and losses. But in this work we are looking at the other side of the stories, those who fought against Arthur and his Round Table. Some were against him, in anger, some were simply not allied with him.

The present world aches for heroes, with various scandals, failures, wars without end, but they should look further away than King Arthur and his Round Table. The knights of Arthur were powerful warriors, with great emotions and thought, but they are every bit as flawed as the present, which is why they remain so perfect for reading and studying. If the heroes of the Arthurian literature are flawed, you can imagine the flaws found in the enemies of Arthur. A bastard child’s envious anger, a rejected lover, beasts with only desire to kill, and more, the foes are very diverse and wonderful to read about.

MORDRED

“And therefor, sir,' seyde the
Bysshop, 'leve thys opynyon, other ellis I shall curse you with booke, belle
and candyll.''Do thou thy warste,' seyde Mordred, 'and I defyghe the!”― Thomas
Malory, Le Morte D'Arthur

If I never spoke to my king, I’d never have spoken to my father. That is the deepest pain I have. To be a knight with a bastard’s legacy, I had to overcome so much, but to then have to recognize that the person I have to show loyalty, respect, and obedience to, is my father as well as my king?

I am the son of a man who was weak enough to be taken in and seduced by sorcery. I am the child of a woman who was refused when she showed that man, the king that her child bore his eyes, face, and inside a heart beating his blood. Yes, I am a bastard.

My mother named me Moderatus, and from that she took Mordred from that. I have a life in her eyes that is every bit as noble as Arthur’s. Some claimed my mother was Morgause, but she was not my mother. Morgana, the greatest of sorceresses was my mother. True I was born without people seeing my presence in her womb. But Morgause was with child with Gawain. Thus, we’ve been called brothers, and even considered nephews of Arthur, but this is false. Mother Morgana knew me before I was born, she knew me in her womb, making me wise beyond my years. She then burned demonic knowledge into my mind, by whispers of the deepest tone.

This document written before great battle is perhaps my final testament. Being my last words, thoughts and decisions, I will try to be very clear, honest and forward with every reader of this work. The battle with the King’s retinue, barely an army, is shortly to begin. I have gathered an army, many times the size of his, and they are hungry for dominance over all of Britain, as am I. The grounds of Camlann are the site of battle. When our “mentor” Roman masters left their fort at Camboglanna , we took it upon ourselves to build up the area for our own purposes.

As I write the mists from the lake rise, and our army’s scouts and their dog comrades are becoming agitated. This is becoming something of a concern. I give the order to unleash them, and for them to go search for Arthur’s band, small they are, but dangerous they will be. I have a grudge against Arthur, King of the Britons. I hold this grudge because he does not recognize me for who I am. He sees me as a knight. But I am much more. I'm the bastard child of Arthur Pendragon, and he is the bastard of Uther Pendragon, as made possible only by the wicked magic and dragon breath drawn forth by Merlyn, so that Uther could ride upon his lust and enter the Castle Cornwall. The chain of lust, rape and abandonment lay at the feet of the fool Merlyn, who is so selfish and power hungry he would do anything to keep what power he has, and more to acquire even more of the same.

I am but a mortal, while my father and grandfather both, carried the sword of kings forged by immortals in the distant past, Excalibur. The blood in their veins was acknowledged as being noble, immortal, and deigned to be that of the leader of all of the Britons. Our great king should be so thought as a god, and moral leader. And yet, here I stand. I STAND. My mother Morgana instructed me that there is Fae blood in my veins, and that with my father and grandfather’s Pendragon blood, those make me even more qualified of holding Kingship over all of Britain.

This battle, Arthur’s final stand, should I have anything to say about it, will leave me as the sole holder of kingship in this land, as it should be. Because I am the son of the king, I should be the king, and he will predecease me.

I despise the men of Arthur, King of Britain.

I end this with knowledge that my words will be read by people who have a different understanding of them. I swear by their truth. I am King Mordred, Son of Morgana and bastard child of Arthur

MORGANA’S DREAMS

“A priestess of Avalon does not lie. But I am cast out of Avalon, and
for this, and unless it is all to be for nothing, I must lie, and lie well and
quickly”― Marion Zimmer Bradley, The Mists of Avalon

Writing a journal, I feel no need to embellish, nor understate my accomplishments. Camelot is powerful, and power is akin to the lure of sexual desire.

No words can change the truth, so this, my journal, will keep the secrets of my life. I am the queen of Camelot, both as mate of the King, and mother of heir to the kingdom. My magicks are potent, but none of them are required to know the truth, Arthur lusted me in his heart, I acted upon it, and that lust brought forth a union that birthed the next heir and the next king of Camelot. This was an indiscreet affair I confess, but the truth is, Arthur wanted this. My son, Mordred, shares both my traits, of magicks and knowledge, and those traits of Arthur, of battle, wisdom, and the gift of leadership of men. Mordred was my clever boy, so very able.

As a sorceress my skills are unequalled by any other. As a seer I am nearly as powerful as Merlyn. But, he drew from the Eternity well to gain his wisdom, and vision. I gained my vision from my dreams, and future eye. I sleep, then, and gain a view of the future. How often do I sleep? That is not the question, sleep in itself is nothing, to dream, to dream is to be alive. As mistress of the art, I am certain most people are not aware of the difficulty to perform the way, to work the craft, and to create the art. Just how deeply important renewal through dreams is, well you must either dream powerfully or fall to earth in remnants. No being of the art can perform without knowing the dream spirits, they become lost in the maze of nightmares rather than know the source of power.

When young I watched as Uther Pendragon raped my mother. It was not with violence, but deceit, on the part of Uther, though I “forgive” this as an act in the play of lust by one with power absolute. The other player in the act of the tragedy of a play was Merlyn. His evil magicks created a mist, thick enough to carry a man and horse. His power allowed the mist to change the features of Uther. And there, Uther took upon the facial features, and form of my father, the Duke of Cornwall, Gorlois of Tintagel. When my father was killed at the same time of the rape, while attacking the camp of Uther’s men, I knew it'd been Merlyn who'd caused this. Why? Because in my dreams I saw my father die at the very time as Uther was raping my mother Lady Igraine. My mother was beautiful, brave, and beyond reproach. Yet she bore the child of a man who was not her husband, and to whom she had not given consent to for the coitus.

Dreaming allows me to plan my future, redress my past, and, truly, by doing so, I make the present serve me. The world is a confusing maze of circumstances, coincidence, and chaos. By being alive in my dreams I create magic that prior to the dream I had never understood, been aware of, or had any control of. Dreaming allows my third eye to see everything. The power of knowing the secret hopes, fears, and desires of weaker minds is not just alluring, but makes the magic under my hand work with even more potency. Knowing the subject’s secret name, or as some their soul name, as some call it, makes every spell under my hand work with precision, beyond any error.

In my dreams I find myself flying, creating, holding the men who have wronged me by their wee bag, and then with their compliance, make them pay for the poor choices. No, I wouldn’t torture them, but I wouldn’t forgive them without a cost. It is not from cruelty. Pain teaches lessons. Fear is another experience that teaches a person to behave differently. I’ve experienced both, and I learned that life is very crushing, so the best thing to do is take what you must, hurt those who might hurt you, and kill the people who choose to block your path to happiness. I am not cold, I do not kill without remorse, but I confess, there is a portion of my nature that enjoys it. There is an order in this world, and it requires my hand to act. That is all there is.

There are rumors and legends that suggest that I have romanced and wooed Merlyn. This is not true, in any way. He ardently longed to be with me. We spoke, yes. We challenged each other with contests of the knowledge of the art and the craft, and that was thrilling. Merlyn had an advantage, as he had been born in the days when humans hid in caves and under the earth. His knowledge was vast, his life knowledge extended so far, he had seen Atlantis and Hy-Brasil, and now could compare them to Camelot. Yes he was different. I would suggest, he has blood from some eternal species, perhaps a demon, or other similar beings. While I admired his mind, and would have loved to crawl through his mind, for all of its knowledge, he was repulsive, ugly, half of a man. He desired my body, I desired his mind, and neither wished what the other desired.

Lastly, the world before me is wide, and unlimited. I have lived in this land of Albion, the domain of Camelot? Yes, but, I also visited Tir na nOg, Brittany, the lands so far from here, and beyond the lands of sleep. But now I will pass there, to reside, because the worst possible event happened. My beloved and much cherished son Mordred and his kingship ended. My beautiful son, gloriously brave boy Mordred was murdered by Arthur or Arthur’s men upon Brwydr Camlan’s fields. This world offers nothing to me, and there is nothing that I care to be offered to remain.

GIANTS AGAINST
CAMELOT

“Fee-fi-fo-fum, I smell the blood of an Englishman,
Be he alive, or be he dead
I'll grind his bones to make my bread.”

Ancient English Children’s rhyme

Upon the pacification of nearly all of Arthur’s kingdom, from the Saxon shores, to the Pict north lands, the dragon west no one could have foreseen the monstrous enemy that made the peace go away. Albion under Arthur’s Camelot banner was united.

Outposts across the kingdom were wiped out. The methods were by boulders thrown from a distance with any survivors stomped into the earth. The enemy that had shown itself were the evil giants of Gath’s kin. They were a clan of speaking giants, so they were at least bright enough to communicate, and, that did make matters worse. This band of raiders used tactics and strategy to maximize their surprise and to commit the most damage.

The king was not worried, as such, he knew these giants were vulgar beasts but that they could be killed. It was the inevitable losses of men that would accompany the task of killing them that sorrowed him. The Round Table had men would offer their bones, blood, and heart for the kingdom. He knew that. But giants were killing machines, usually without deep thought or emotion. Sending his best and bravest knights into honorable combat would waste lives. He had to come up with a plan.

These giants were larger than any Arthur himself had encountered. His personal battles were upon the continent, in support of allies in Rome. The roaming bands of giants had made existence nearly impossible for nearly a century in the country of the Franks. Those giants were rather stupid, and while broad of build, were not nearly as tall as those infesting Albion now. Gath’s kin had chosen their name to remind their Christian opponents of their dark roots. Presumably they considered their ancestor to be Goliath of Gath. But as Arthur remembered, Goliath defeated a number of Israelites, but he lost to a boy with a sling and several smooth stones. To describe these giants regarding their features, well, think ugly, then add snot, drool, bulging eyes, teeth that protrude as tusks, and skin colored mostly yellow, with angry red boils.

Why did they attack here, and why now? Those were a couple questions Arthur had no answers for. But, to an extent those answers weren’t important. The Round Table discussion would take up the issue, and everyone would add their voice to the questions. Merlyn would share his wisdom too. Some believed that Merlyn was meek, with a great mind, but flawed as a warrior, but Arthur believed that Merlyn was an enigma hiding his past, which might have included time as either a war leader or advisor to the king about tactics and strategy. And that does require a warrior’s insight and ability. Swinging a sword is not easy, but you can train most anyone to do that. But being able to see flow and movement of troops from a distance, that is a talent of generals and war kings.

In a way, Arthur was relieved at the thought of this threat. It was not necessarily easy, but it was straightforward without fear of betrayal or magicks being used to confuse, deceive, or charm his knights into acting without reason. The typical response to a giant attack was to send 50 armed men and four or five knights to stop the attack, and kill the giant if possible. Since the means of communication were limited, many times it was impossible to stop the attack. Of all the knights of the Round Table, Arthur’s best knight for fighting giants was Sir Gawain. For a reason undetermined he grew enraged upon the sight of the giants, and if he didn’t wrestle them into submission he killed them. His ferocious assault was without any peer, and any villager or yeoman watching would assume Gawain was avenging a wrong done. Perhaps he had experienced, in his own life, quests where his friends or family met untimely ends, in the hands of giants.

While the giant attacks continued, they were able to pull away from Camelot many knights, and armed men, who would normally be at the ready. Gawain’s talents and rage were obvious and gaining renown, but what was happening was that Camelot had become, in a short time, vulnerable to attack. In time all that was left in Camelot were serving boys and girls, squires, and a skeleton retinue of old men, retired warriors, and women of skill and talent, but not in the field of battle. In time the giants gathered, and prepared to assault the walls of Camelot. There were many of them, all wore armor, seemed intelligent, and anxious to being their assault. They begin with a chaotic but loud, angry beat upon tribal drums, with skins of beasts as the drum’s head. Then they blew their horns, after marching around Camelot seven times, in vulgar display, to mock the biblical walls of Jericho falling. When the walls of Camelot did not fall, the giants rushed forward, using both violence and clever tricks to vault the outside walls, the giants gained the inside keep very soon. And the wails of the unprepared, the untrained and the unready went up, and their blood painted Camelot’s golden walls red.

Opening the gates of Camelot allowed all of the waiting giants to enter. And the destruction began. Two sets of knights returned. One bearing the mark of Mordred and his retinue began to take positions outside of the castle, perhaps to catch the giants in ambush as they left, or perhaps, he and his mother had other plans. The other knight and men rushed through the open gates and began to fight. Gawain was never one to retreat, and his men were similarly motivated. The charge and rush surprised the giant horde. And while the giants were taken back by the push, Mordred’s men then closed in.

Soon all the knight’s men, and all the giants and their kin were engaged. The violence grew to a pitch where the end could easily be seen. And that Camelot was saved by Gawain was of no question. But Mordred wished to be given credit also. Seer Merlyn and King Arthur both perceived in their wisdom, what had really happened. Mordred had saved his men and his own strength, from any action, until it was noted that Gawain had made it clear that Camelot would fall or survive by his courage. Mordred had waited to snatch the throne, after the giants had cleared his path, of any opposition. Without saying a word about what he knew, Arthur congratulation Gawain for his courage, and thanked Mordred for being ready if Gawain had not succeeded. This set Mordred’s blood to boil. And he stormed out of the palace, taking his few men with him. His orchestrated plan had come to naught, thanks to true courage by one, and the wisdom by others.

In later years Arthur’s forces came against giants in Bretagne and Bordeaux, and the results were even more bloody. But those battles were not fought with the same under laid treachery, so it seemed the less. Treachery makes every battle feel all the more acute in wounds, more desperate in tone.

THE CAMELOT DRAGON HUNT

“And though I came to forget or regret all I have ever done,
yet would I remember that once I saw the dragons aloft on the wind at sunset
above the western isles; and I would be content.”

Ursula K. Le Guin

The Farthest Shore

“How should we be able to forget those ancient myths that
are at the beginning of all peoples, the myths about dragons that at the last
moment turn into princesses; perhaps all the dragons of our lives are
princesses who are only waiting to see us once beautiful and brave. Perhaps
everything terrible is in its deepest being something helpless that wants help
from us.“

Rainer Maria Rilke

Letters to a Young Poet

There are dragons upon and within Albion, near Camelot, from the southern most isle, to the Orkney islands. They formed kin groups, and some wove alliances. They were powerful, and a threat to humans. Thus, the knights of Arthur had to spend time questing against them. This is a story of one of those quests, and one of the knights with the title of Dragon Slayer.

He rode upon a powerful horse, but did not wear the armor that required such a steed to carry such weight. He rode a beast of power to take him into the lands of despair, and danger. When in combat he would wear an armor woven of scales of steel, leather soaked in oil to make it supple, as well as a shield of very high quality steel. He looked almost, himself, like a dragon, covered in scales. Of course he wasn’t, he was a knight of Arthur’s table, tasked with a special quest, to hunt dragons.

To the far north of the Pict lands, Caledonia, is a world called the Well of Fire. They sit in the islands above the Orkneys and are volcanic, and dangerous for all. They are swirling plumes of white steam, and below them is a rain of ice crystals, falling, adhering to the surface of rock, the waters of the seas churn, and the gaping crack of the volcano still spews… in epic majesty. No humans lived there. It would seem to be a toxic, torturous uninhabitable place to dwell, unless you happened to be a dragon. The fires melt the frozen surface, causing steam to rise, but the cold isn’t about to relent, it attacks the steam and causes it to coat the surface with a hard frost, somewhat like a hoar frost, only more permanent, and more damaging. The surfaces of rock that are exposed become slippery, more so than if covered by oil or lubricant, for they are ice, constantly being misted with water, and gently being turned to ice, in the killer frost mist. To travel the Wells of Fire to slay a beast, not only is the quest alone more dangerous than most, but the site of the battle, itself, is dangerous enough to lead most to avoid both battle, and journey.

Sir Kristien of the Lowlands, also known to the Round table as the Slayer knew he had found the location. He had collected eyewitness accounts, and this was the last known sighting. It had to be the lair he had been searching for. This was the lair of the white worm, the very one who had been accused of scouring the surface world and destroying and killing innocents: whether Picts, Saxons and Britons, it did not matter. Kristien had spent a decade killing dragons. But had never seen nor killed a wyrm, let alone one so very large. He had killed many dragons, even without having slain any wyrm, and thus he was known as a warrior who could rightly be called the Dragon Slayer.

The region was not a living being, yet it seems to suffer, enduring the process of frost and fire daily. The process had turned an already isolated, almost wickedly and capriciously unpredictable place into a very dangerous one for any living creature. The only hope for any being is if it can escape, and of course almost none can do so. Sir Kristien realized this, and prepared accordingly. He also did something he had not ever done before, he wrote his will.

Despite the description of the Well of Fire, there is one resident. It is a large, old, angry, foul tempered beast, a wyrm, able to live in the water, the fire, upon the rocks, and the sky. His form is that of a dragon, but as he is ancient, he could possess numerous unique abilities, abilities that any mere warrior would be unaware of existing. Of the very old, very rare in number wyrms, many can change forms at will. They mix with human populations to study the young races that trouble them so, but they are also said, to be rather curious with regards to the humans.

In far distant times the wyrm, of the name, Elexuris, long forgotten by humans in the great length of time, was responsible for the keeping of the gate of a great land. His vigilance then was honored, gloriously rewarded, and feared. In time the humans grew had forgotten about this wyrm, when he’d hibernate. They also grew tired of the stability of the military order, or good kingship. Sadly, humans grew tired of anything that they did not fear, and ignored the good, if it did not excite them.

Sir Kristien body bore the scars of 30 years of combat. As Slayers perform in combat alone, his was a very long career. Many never fulfill a decade of work. He had wounds that had healed, and some that had not. His mind, soul and flesh were all a weapon, no less than the lance he used, no less dangerous, no less sharp and violent. Dragons and the very rare wyrms had to be slain. The reason was the grave danger they presented to order.Within a kingdom there is a king, but outside the kingdom there is only anarchy, and perhaps simply chaos.

Elexuris spent a couple hundred human years thinking and sleeping. Peace made Elexuris happy. The thought of it made him gently nod off to a ten-year sleep. The Wells of Fire therefore, were a perfect home for Elexuris. No one dared visit him there.

Sir Kristien found out about the Wells of Fire wyrm when a ship became lost and passed nearby. The sailors aboard all vouched for the sight of a great drake in flight.

Elexuris was asleep but not alone, without warning. As with any great dragon, of reasonably long years, he had grown able to set spells about to create wards of warning, and surprise, noise to wake him, to startle intruders, and traps to slow anyone who might approach. These tripwires and alarms were inaudible for human ears, but would be certain to wake a sleeping dragon. Elexuris had spent his time setting the traps and alarms wisely, for the warrior that approached was filled with guile, and was careful, even while watching Kristien step upon the ice covered rocks.

Sir Kristien thought to himself …
“Approach quietly, surely, don’t breathe…”

The sounds of alarm flooded over Elexuris and he woke quickly, the images from his lovely dreaming were fleetingly passing. He stirred without a sound, and only opened his eyes a slight amount, to be certain to spy what set off the alarms. He saw no great army of humans, no beast men or creatures of great stature or ability. He saw a single human, with a lance, wearing a true slayer’s armor, and it seemed to him, something was a bit off about the warrior. Elexuris couldn’t quite make out what the difference was about this warrior, but there was something, and it was sure to be important. A dragon always takes note of the dangers he faces, and analyzes what is going to happen. The lack of fully knowing an opponent can be deadly. In this case, it might have been.

With his lance at the ready, about a distance of fifteen feet from the dragon, sleeping it seemed, the slayer thought he could either charge it and perhaps kill it with one blow, or if it awakened before he got close enough, force the dragon to surrender. Closer the human approached…

Elexuris made no outward motion, gave no sign that he had, indeed awakened. When the warrior came near enough, with lance extended, and shield upraised, the dragon, without any visible effort or outward sign of motion, snapped his tail as a coil around the body, lance, and shield of the warrior. And in that moment, the prepared but falsely confident warrior met an awakened dragon.

He didn’t wish to crush the human, while he knew his tail had great strength. Instead he wanted to see what was it about this warrior that vexed him. What made this warrior different? In his days prior to finding the Wells of Fire he had indeed fought Dragon Slayers before. Along with the knights of Arthur, now slaying, in the deep past, there were a sisterhood of warriors, who banded together, trained and took solemn oaths, but for what reason he did not know.

“Why do you hunt my kind?”

“Because you exist.”

“I should kill you for the same reason” The Dragon spoke.

“So it be ever thus for all tyrants.” Sir Kristien replied.

“TYRANT? I COULD SMASH YOU WITH OUT ONE THOUGHT! How dare you!”

Sir Kristien of the Lowlands was set down, softly, upon the surface of the cave floor. Upon this, he looked up to see that the beast he had come to slay was unwounded and perfectly able to kill him now.

“Human, know this, you are only able to kill the unprepared, and the unintelligent, the weak, and the foolish. Those of my kind who are able to have gained my years, my wisdom, my knowledge, can not be killed by a wee human, without magicks, with only his pure heart, and prejudices against my kind. I have not killed or wounded any humans in the many human years I have lived. Take your broken lance, your useless shield, and pointless armor, and leave. I will not harm you, and will not be a party to any dialogue with humans. They love violence and the promise of it too much.”

Kristien felt rather childlike, being small and having been lectured by a being so much greater than he could imagine. He gathered his lance pieces, his shield’s broken bits, and turned to leave. But before he did, with a hoarse voice from being squeezed so tightly, he said, “Thank you.”

And Elexuris set his traps and wards, and set off to sleep, only to awaken, far far into the future.

Gawain prepares before his test.

THE GREEN KNIGHT

“No, I seek no battle, I assure you truly:
Those about me in this hall are but beardless children.
If I were locked in my armor on a great horse,
No one here could match me with their feeble powers.
Therefore I ask of the court a Christmas game…”

The story has been told, many times, in many versions, and imaginings. A knight of green armor, flesh and hair, visits the court of Arthur and lays out a violent challenge for the Round table. But deeper in the past is where the story has roots, and deeper within are the secrets that allow us to know, what was truly happening.

The world of Arthur was alive with the bluest skies, greenest forests, abundant crops, and clear streams. The King was the living representative of the land. But he was also a follower, of the One God. The kings before him, the tribes of Celts, and colonies of Rome had many gods. The worship of the many gods, and the Green still endured. Arthur was the arbiter between times, ancient, and future. The green lands were dark and mystical, the domain of Camelot powerful, and glorious. The worlds often were in harmony. But when Arthur became king, the future path was seemingly settled, towards the one God versus the many, Camelot and cities, versus the Green and the wilds.

Celebrating the winter festivals of the New Year, with joy and thanksgiving, Arthur and his Round table were enjoying themselves, with drink, story, and humor. The place for defending honor, and battle was outside the hall. The time for being heroic, and quick to act, was in the past, and in the future. The present, and here, was for remembering, for celebrating, and relaxing. The great hall was warmed by hearth fire, the talk was both lively, and reverent for the moment. The feast was going to be good, the fire was warm, the day of exchanging presents and time together was good. Before the feast Arthur asked out loud, tell the hall, any of you, have you a story of adventure to tell?

At that point a large knight, upon an enormous steed, all in green, with dark hues, and highlights, and a look about both, that came from a different realm, entirely. He wielded a great axe, the sharpest blade could be reckoned from a distance. He carried his helmet in his free arm, and it was highly unique in look, and frightening in countenance. His face was not scornful, nor was it frightening. But, he looked wild. His hair was green, thick, and his beard and mustache seemed unkempt, yet, both were fully cared for. The room had turned silent, staring and in some shock, awe, perhaps some fear.

His eyes of course were emerald, beautiful, but also very striking. He commanded the room, so far without a word. Arthur began to rise from his commanding chair at the head of the table. But others stood in response to protect him.

“Who are you, what do you mean by breaking into a celebration, a family, a community event?
Why are you here?” Arthur asked.

“You great King, are worthy of an explanation, and I shall answer you, as fully as I might. “ The Green Knight answered. “I am not here to harm anyone. I am here to give you or your knights a New Year challenge.”

He continued. “What is a great Kingdom, without a test, what is a great knight, without a quest? Here is my challenge. I offer you, Arthur’s men, or even Arthur, great and high King,” and his voice became low, “High over all the lands, this: One of you take this axe, and swing it upon my neck. And in one year, you come to my castle, and I repay you the same honor.”

“So,” Merlyn said, “This is not a challenge, but a threat to honor. If we refuse to do so, you taint our honor, if we do so, we kill a man for doing nothing.”

The Green Knight smiled, and with a look of scorn said, “Just fulfill the challenge, and the rest will be easily done.” The Green Knight stepped back and waited. Arthur looked at the assemblage. None stood to take up the challenge. None were eager to behead this odd knight, nor be beheaded in response, one year later. In some disgust Arthur looked at his knights in askance. “Are you all so cowed by a single knight?” And he rose as if to answer the challenge.

Sir Gawain rose first, beating Arthur the king to his feet. “Nay my king, I am willing.” The rest of the room breathed in relief, and Arthur smiled, knowing that his bravest knight, Gawain, if not his best in form, nor most perfect of art, was always willing, given time.

The Green Knight bent down, after handing his axe to Gawain. “Strike your blow knight, and do not quibble. I don’t want you to hack my shoulder rather than my neck.”

Gawain gathered himself, and struck. The head was perfectly struck off. The body then, to every one present’s shock, stood, walked to where the head rolled, and picked it up. The head aimed towards the gathering and Gawain then spoke, “Remember brave knight, in one year, I am to repay this deed, upon your neck.”

In the months of that year, Gawain did nothing different, his life was not one needing much reflection. He was fiercely loyal to the king. He was chivalrous to the ladies of the court. He treated people of Camelot with deep kindness and respect. Should the people vote for their favorite knight, Lancelot for his beauty would be chosen first, but Gawain would be second for all his great attributes.

But in time, he began counting down his days. He knew his time was approaching. He was not afraid, but he was also uneasy with the future. The unknown was a risky blackness to enter. So he rode. He carried his supplies, set out as a quest knight, and despite his many accolades, and banners of honor, he left Camelot feeling quite the squire. New, fumbling, without command of the situation, he felt as if he was without a greater knighthood, and was simply a battle knight.

He rode for days upon the assigned trail, and finally reached the area where he was told to find his opponent. He was greeted by a Lord of a manor, Bertilak de Hautdeser, and eventually the wife who was gorgeous, Lady Bertilak. In the tower there was an old woman, haggard of body, and ancient of age, who is present but unspeaking.

Over the course of the days, Gawain was told to prepare for his meeting with the Green Knight, and that while in the day the Lord would be out hunting or doing his work, the Lady would “entertain” Gawain. Whenever the Lord went away, the Lady attempted to sway Gawain. First she attempted to give him magic and things. Then her body and soul, her flesh would sing to him. And when the Lord returned, he demanded to know, what had Gawain received from the Lady. And all but once, Gawain spoke the truth. Soon the Green Knight beckoned, and Gawain rode out to meet him. Laying his head upon the stone, but wearing one of the magical items, Gawain was afraid differently than he'd been in his life. This was not battle, where he might use his ability to change an outcome of duel, or mass combat. At first the Green Knight taunted Gawain, saying he was afraid and not a true knight for his fear.

Then when the Green Knight began to draw down the blade again, Gawain flinched, and the Green Knight again hurled invective. What kind of knight was this? Finally Gawain cried out, “Just do your deed Knight, finish it.” And the Green Knight went into full swing, and came up short, just nicking the neck of Gawain. And then, taking off the helmet, Lord Bertilak could be seen to be the Green Knight. It was all a test. The old hag in the tower was revealed to be Morgana, and she had orchestrated this, to test the moral strength of Arthur’s knight. And he passed the test.

HUAIL MAB CAW OF THE
PICTS

He was a chieftain, and by name was called Kaw o Brydain, who ruled of Edeirnion, North Wales. His two sons, Gildas and Huail were warriors. Huail was gwr gorhewg anllad 'cheeky and wanton' in Pictish, and brazenly had stolen a woman, known and beloved to Arthur. The king and attendants found the two sons and both sides entered into horrific battle. Huail wounded Arthur in the knee, making an impression upon Arthur, should he now go to war, or give this warrior respect as earned. Peace was made between them, despite the seemingly uneven status of the participants in the treaty. As a result of the battle King Arthur would be lame in the leg, for years. And few ever understood why. But he remembered. As a warrior remembers a taunt or embarrassing defeat, he remembered well.

Arthur later had his seer Merlyn commence to concoct a spell to disguise his appearance, and he dressed as a woman of the courts of Kaw o Brydain. It is thought that Arthur meant to spy upon them directly, without having to endure the duplicity of spies. However, despite his appearance, and despite his best efforts to blend in Arthur was recognized, as himself, when Huail chanced to come by. Despite the best efforts to disguise Arthur, he could be seen through the sorcery and dress, by his wound, his lameness, as he was dancing in a company of girls, near the Cheiftan. Huail shouted “Da iawn ywdownshio velly oni bai'r glun 'This dancing were all right if it were not for the knee'. Arthur found himself to be outed as a spy, and fled. Embarrassed, and again angered, he sent men to steal Huail away.

Brought before King Arthur’s court, Huail was taken before and judged guilty by the king. The court’s executioner cut off Huail’s head on a stone in the market-place, Maen Huail. The king demonstrated little of his famous wisdom in his dealings with Huail. A king famous for his wisdom, restraint, compassion and forgiveness, he showed none of these great qualities. It would appear, to this scribe, that his human side had won over that of his divine spirit. As a memoir of the enemies of Arthur, while Huail was low upon the order of danger and power, that he brought forth from the heart of Arthur his darker human feelings, one must wonder what was the central issue between the two. Was it pride, was it honor, was it purely anger? From this distant place we can barely know, and it would be an ill formed guess, at best.

THE UNNAMED KNIGHT
AND THE SECRET HEX

The king and the best of his knights were invited to joust at a far off castle. At first King Arthur thought the invite, from an unnamed knight, from a far distant castle was an attempt to kidnap or ambush him and his retinue, and to leave Camelot unguarded, and unprepared. So he told the courier of the knight of the tournament to leave and inform his master that Arthur and his knights were not interested. This was a clear message there were no aspects of nuance, though it was polite. In his day Arthur understood how words could be woven, to deceive, to misinform, or to shower upon the one receiving the message flattery. But Arthur, regardless of how others treated him, was a king of renown, and mere words would not move him, nor would cowardly veiled insults or threat. And in his words in reply, he never offered false praise, but kindness and mercy were in abundance. So it was that the king was surprised by the response to his reply was quick, curt, and rather obscene in language. The messenger handed the parchment to the king, and therein Arthur read “This was neither a test or challenge, simply a fair offer. So in response to your discourteous refusal, let me suggest that you are an illegitimate king, of bastard birth, with no righteous cause. You are the reason for your own kingdom’s demise.” Arthur was king, and as such it was a vulgar way to approach him, even should the messenger was angered, even with a righteous anger.

From the perspective of the unnamed knight, from the as of yet location what he was doing was being provocative, if not quite honest, and while at least a bit untoward, and he was being both honest and not. For he was a fallen knight, one who had served Arthur, and one who had sat around the gathering of knights, in Camelot, the round table. He was found guilty by trial of combat, after being accused of a crime of carnal lust towards the queen. His desire was to joust, and by defeating Arthur, and the king’s best, and then unmask himself, showing that he was innocent, and the guilty verdict unfounded. His name is lost to the ages, but his castle was located half way from Camelot to the land of Lancelot, and he was not a king there, but a caretaker, for he refused, even from a distance to unseat Arthur from his throne. His land was an island, often obscured by the mists of the channel, and the castle, while not large, was yet impressive to behold. The knight wore a scarlet cape, with red lion as his shield heraldry. And he called himself Mysterioux, an apt name, for while he was a brilliant warrior, he refused to speak to anyone but who he desired. He kept himself from others, and practiced, so that when he finally would meet Arthur, he would in fact, be prepared to restore his true name.

When Arthur’s second reply came it was very blunt, “Meet with me near the shores of Wight upon two weeks from this exchange. Bring your retinue, and prepare to stand for how you’ve attempted to shame my throne” They indeed met, two small parties. The knights of both met in joust, without an audience. The action was not lethal, but the contest between each side showing honor, but also, excellence in battle. The day went forward mostly in silence, as Arthur waited to see who his opposite was. Finally when it was time for the last joust, Arthur called for his shield and lance, and called over to the unnamed knight, “Prepare yourself, this will end the matter.” The unnamed knight in reply called out, “This will be my redemption, and I am willing to combat to the death.” This was, perhaps, allowed, but Arthur had to agree. And, without knowing this knight, he could be accepting a death sentence. So he yelled across the field, why do you wish to die, when instead you might come to an accommodation. The unnamed knight took off his helmet, and the king and his men were shocked.

Arthur called over, “Let us battle sir knight, and see what happens. I will not kill you, unless it your desire.” Over time the two clashed, and both fought with skill, and honor. Neither attacked when the other had slipped or tripped, both offered their hand after a fall. Arthur asked, “Why do you wish this, when you could instead just speak to me?” The unnamed knight replied,“Because I was sent into exile my king. I had no choice.” The king remembered this knight, and remembered the trial by combat. In the end the battle was a draw, and Arthur offered the unnamed knight solac. “Sir knight, you are forgiven by the crown, and your actions are noble. Whatever you were found guilty of, you are no longer held as guilty by your trial.”

CAMLANN SITE OF THE FINAL BATTLE

Before the appearance of Uther Pendragon, a vast number of failed kings and war leaders had tried to be the leader of the people of Britain. Merlyn was the seer who gave wise advice and foretold future events. He saw the fire in the blood of Uther Pendragon, and while he was a great warrior, he was no king. But Arthur, he was filled through his body with Uther’s blood, but with the gentle nature required of as King Arthur. Every crisis, every event, King Arthur relied heavily upon the advice of Merlyn. Even upon learning the end, Merlyn was loyal. The end was foreseen by Merlyn, seer and mystic of the Pendragon.

The last Pendragon will stand, facing his blood kin

Bleeding on the field, the two armies will test

In Brwydr Camlan the grasses of the harvest

Will be slippery with blood, amongst those pierced

The dragon’s breast, and the golden age

Will end, without an heir to the throne

One will die, the other deeply sleep

Far in the future, the Pendragon will awake

And will make the unjust forever atone.

Both armies will meet at Brwydr Camlan, in 537AD.

King Arthur had lost the service of Merlyn over time, due to uncertain circumstances. And before the battle of Camlann, Arthur found the missing presence of Merlyn disturbing, and deeply worrisome.

In the early of the morning two unequal but great armies held the dominant positions on the field where battle about to take place, but neither could see each other. A mist, thick and unmoving, arose, much like the dragon’s breath that held tight Uther Pendragon as he crossed over to take the Duke of Cornwall’s Lady with his ruse, and his flesh, and his lust. But the end of era when Camelot was the high culture, the reign of Arthur was the high point of perfection, was about to end in so many ways. After the King lost his best knight Lancelot and his wife Gwynifer, in a grave betrayal, his body, however still youthful became taxed, and his mind became content to stare out upon the stars, remembering the days of youth of Camelot’s glory. Only the noble soul of the Pendragon was to keep his aim upon the kingdom.

Despite the ennui in his heart, exhaustion in his mind and body, Arthur yet sent his best knights to gather and find the relicts of Christ. So many had been lost, but Sir Bors, Sir Parcival and Sir Lancelot returned from that quest. Galahad, the most perfect of knights, was missing, but his was the hand that first reached the grail of Christ, and he was taken in a light. The quest was one that was to cover most of the lands reachable by horse and knight. So few returned out of consequence of the difficulty that they faced. But now, Arthur was restored, and now, so too, the land awoke from a ten year drought.

The King and his remaining loyal knights rode hard to answer Sir Mordred’s challenge in Camlann. The ghosts of failure, betrayal, and hurt, fled before the banner of Camelot, red, with gold dragon flying proudly, stretching far behind them as they drove their mounts to reach the heights before midnight. Meanwhile, Sir Mordred gave his captains of his army, orders, and commands to fight in his decided fashion. He was a born tactician of battle, but he never accepted council of his captains, they were there to control his lowbrow men of arms. These men, given armor, shields, and weapons, were bestial at best, and men who would never have been allowed to fight with the Celts tribes, or for the Romans. These were ungoverned and superstitious creatures who when given weapons solely longed to kill, and eat, and gather. To call what they did fight, would cheat the scribes of words for warriors. These were beasts with claws. And their overlords knew, only the punishments and whips were what could keep them in line.

Sir Mordred sought after his mother’s advice, but she was in commune with some spirits or other sorcerers. She was completely awake, but, without any sort of acknowledgement of Mordred’s presence. Perhaps she’d imbibed drugs, or her potions had placed her in some fugue state, but she could not give any sort of advice, she herself was not there, outside of her flesh. Morgana had kept her beauty all the years her world surrounding had aged. She, in the meantime had gathered power as well. She was covered in gold, fine jewelry, and gems, each with different aspects of focus, allowing her to perform spells, and magic.

Mordred had an uneasy relationship with his mother’s magic, because despite the obvious power she had, and he respected and admired power, he understood most raw physical violence. It is perhaps not surprising in such a person that felt so wronged, that he’d look to violence to restore his prominence and rightful place. Sir Mordred feared that he’d go into battle in a wild unpredictable fog/mist, without his mother’s guidance. Because, while Mordred was without any desire to be ruled by other men, or by any single man, his heart constantly sought to be addressed, directed and approved by his mother. Some might point out that he was a mighty warrior, a driven soul, and one who was given his drive by his mother’s attitudes towards his father. To imagine a different knight, imagine a different parenting situation. In any event, Mordred was longing for his mother’s attentive eye, and longer he waited, the more anxious he became.

Many ocean winds tossed the clouds about, leading to a strange swirl of winds and mist, making the sounds of movement also very difficult to perceive. Only the barest smoke from distant camps the fires of morning breakfast before battle could any of Arthur’s scouts report. While Sir Mordred’s mass of men were blind and deaf, so too were Arthur’s Knights, and they were far fewer. Arthur rode off to be alone and a raven landed upon a nearby rock next to him. To some it might have appeared that they had a conversation. To others, the King was collecting his thoughts prior to leading his men. His eyes, normally piercing, bright, and clear, were misted with tears.

When Arthur returned to the gathering of his knights he spoke at length to them. “We have fought for Camelot, under my banner for peace, for good, and for the people of our land. We have taken our time of peace and created castles and domains where the poor and hungry could find solace. Some have asked about the world in which lived outside of Camelot. Have we caused this attack, or have we ignored the world because we were so in love with the peace behind our walls. Peace does not invite war. We did not cause the enemy to attack.

It is true that some are jealous of what Camelot is. We are wealthy, we have beautiful castles and walls. We are what many desire to be. That is perhaps why some would attack. But I do not believe that is why Sir Mordred attacks. Our world, Camelot and our domain, looks to be ending. We face Sir Mordred and his army, of men who are not knights, who have taken no vows, and who are neither chivalrous nor honourable. We shall not back down or away from them. I believe that Sir Mordred is not attacking Camelot or its domain, out of jealousy. He is claiming the Kingship of Camelot. Make what you will of this.

Should this be my last battle, as some seers have said, then it has been my great joy to lead such men as you in combat. We are fighting for the future of men, not for the present, so should you shed your blood and pass, it is for your children’s grandchildren that we fight. We are standing between the anger, hate and depravity versus the future of all Britains.”

With his words done, he rode forward of the troops, and the knights gathered their arms, secured their armor, and prepared their mounts. Riding from a trot to a gallop, Arthur shouted… “Merlyn spoke to me, and assured me, we will find victory upon this day here on this field!” Beginning with Mons Badonicus when Arthur, war king led the troops of Britain against the Saxons and drove them from the heights, and then drove them from the lands, to this point, was a mere twelve major battles. While battle filled the records kept, journals, and memoirs, King Arthur’s days of fighting Saxons and other enemies were not the greatest events or accomplishments of his reign. The great peace and plenty that came with his reign were the greatness. Pax Arthurus was the time when peace, hope, and restoration returned to Britain. Thereafter, his land was to be fought over by people bleeding foreign blood.

Unlike any battle prior led by King Arthur, every single knight and squire were covered with what seemed to resemble a holy glow as if sent by the heavens. They rode from the heights downhill and at such a speed, whoever stood before them, had to fall. No Saxon shield would hold, and no army of men without training would hold.

As the charging line went heedless into the mist, Sir Kay turned to his adopted brother King Arthur, and asked, above the sound of the horses gallop, “Merlyn spoke to you?” King Arthur barked his reply, “He is watching over us even as we speak.” As the knights charged, now, here and there they could see the camp fires through the mists, of the unprepared army they were about to charge through. But the vast number of lights alone suggested to all of the wise knights that the numbers told against them. And that was almost enough to deflate the optimism that comes with any charge that accompanies complete surprise.

Sir Mordred was crowded by his captains, them asking what should they do. Mordred quickly told them all, lead your men, take your arms, and I will be at the front immediately. I have to consult with my queen before entering battle. Rushing into his mother’s tent, he shouted, “Mother, of all the times I’ve ever needed you, it is now that I need you most.” Her eyes were still fixated with pupils dilated, but she did speak in response. “Mordred, my love, enter battle, you have the advantage of numbers, of vengeance fire in your heart, and I promise that you will always have my love. You are my king, my love, and my deepest hope.”

The look upon Mordred’s face was blank, his eyes stared still, but,his mouth was agape with a form of incredulous disgust, and fear that he was alone now before his greatest battle. Mordred didn’t need someone to love and support him. Before this battle he wanted advice. He didn’t need hope, he wanted battlefield secrets to victory. As Morgana stood to kiss him, he swung around and stalked off out of the tent, and Mordred said, ”Be Damned, foul witch.” His black horse was brought to him, fully armored, barding shining, ready for the master’s reins and stirrups.

The battle, at first, was not a fair exchange. At least a full third of Mordred’s men were disabled, wounded grievously, or dead in the initial charge. Those who were not thus destroyed, fled the field. Some ran back towards the rushing forward host of Mordred’s army. They were cut down as cowards without any mercy. Some fled towards the body of water, but not being able to swim, they tried to take shelter and avoid capture or being slain by either side. None who lived dare flee in the direction of Arthur’s charge, the psychological effect of the attack had left that portion of the army in shambles, mentally and physically. Once the remaining army of Mordred had pulled forward, Arthur’s men were surrounded, fully overwhelmed, and all use of tactics in battle were lost. At the same time, every knight had 5 times the skill in battle that any man of arms for Mordred.

Over the course of the day, battle washed up and down the field. The numbers did show, exhaustion made the warriors on either side sloppy, and any anger was vented long before the end of the battle. Eventually four of Mordred’s captains and Mordred remained, and an equal number of Arthur’s knights and Arthur survived as well. Sir Bors stood at Arthur’s side, limping with a wound that would kill most men, but just made him weak. When the three Arthur knights pursued Mordred’s men, they fled, leaving just Arthur and Mordred to fight.

Arthur still held Excalibur, but his sheath was missing, so his armor was not in any fashion as brilliantly powerful. Mordred, known for his use of a black spear, oft dipped in poison, revealed the sword Clarent, the rightful king’s Sword of Peace. He had stolen it to give himself a feeling of authenticity as king. But now, he performed the ultimate betrayal, when the son kills the father, or rather, the rightful King is killed by the Heir to the throne, (at least according to the heir.) Together the two battled and spoke to the other with terms of respect, but absolutely not one bit of true sincere honor. The truth of what was being said, was that Arthur was unwilling to acknowledge Mordred, and Mordred was not going to kneel to the king, embrace his father, or become in anyway the son he had always believed himself to be.

At last the two were entirely covered in blood, both of themselves, and of their foes from the various melees. The grounds of their battle were slippery, even greasy with blood. They slipped, they stumbled, exhaustedly they battled. And then after the dance of death, Arthur was stabbed through the side with Clarent, a ceremonial sword, but deadly sharp, nonetheless, and Mordred in the killing strike, exposed his heart to Arthur, who shoved a lance through him.

Before Arthur bled out, he could hear the Sirens calling him to Avalon. And he began to feel the mystical sleep taking him. Quietly he urged Sir Bors to take the Sword of Kings Excalibur and return it to the Lady of the Lake, by throwing it to the center of the nearby lake. Sir Bors did so, blessed in his life to have touched the Holy Grail, and the Sword of Kings. Bors then returned to his king. Arthur was gone. With this he saw the final gasps of Mordred in final, unconscious death’s throes, and he heard the screams of a witch crying out, “my beloved son!” A raven settled down to alight upon the grass next to Sir Bors. In his mind, Bors heard a familiar voice. It was Merlyn. “I have taken Arthur to the Island of eternal youth, Avalon. There he will sleep, sleep, until the future calls. And he will someday wake. For Arthur is the once and future King; he is Arthur, Rex Eternus.”