The Death of King Arthur Read Free

willing to ride all night.’ Even though night is an evil time they fled, turning their faces towards Tintagel. As soon as Pendragon knew of their departure he grew very angry. And, as the people of England knew well enough, the wrath of the king is death. He called together his council of nobles, and explained to them that he had been dishonoured by ‘that little duke who rules the little people of Cornwall’.
    One of his council suggested to him that he should call back the duke and his wife, under pain of his severe displeasure. Yet the duke’s answer to the summons was swift. He would never allow his wife into the presence of the tyrant. Pendragon then grew more violent still. He sent him a sword that had been bent in the middle, as a sign of contempt. ‘Prepare yourself for war,’ he wrote. ‘Summon your servants. Protect your castles. Uther Pendragon is coming to destroy you. I will grind you to dust. I will split your wife with my spear.’
    Once the duke had received the broken sword and the letter, he wasted no time in calling for arms and reinforcements. He left his wife in the Castle of Tintagel, where the rocks and the waves might protect her, while he rode out to command the castle known as Terrible. It was truly mighty to behold, made of black granite and black marble, filled with many cunning passageways and secret doors where death and treachery were waiting for the unwary.
    Pendragon marched out from his palace at Winchester and, with his great army, advanced into Cornwall. It was a desolate region, largely unknown to the rest of the country, where witches and warlocks were reported to have the mastery. Eventually he came to Castle Terrible, situated beside the confluence of two rivers, and proceeded to lay siege to it for fifty days and fifty nights. Much blood was shed, and many brave men lost their lives, in the skirmishes and sallies that sustained the siege.
    But then Pendragon grew sick. His face was pale, and his eyes large. He could hardly draw breath, his heart was so weak. One of his lords, Ulfius, approached him as he lay sighing upon a bed of silk wrought with jewels in the form of stars. ‘Ah, king,’ he whispered, ‘you are suffering from some great distemper. Do you know anything that might have caused it?’
    â€˜The two greatest enemies of man, wrath and love, are now fighting over me. My wrath for the Duke of Cornwall consumes me. My love for his wife, Igraine, is destroying me. Where can I turn? To whom should I pray? I know that I will die far from my family in this bitter land of Cornwall.’
    â€˜There is one person who can save you, sire.’
    â€˜Who is that?’
    â€˜Merlin. The great magician. He is the man who made the abbey church of Derby disappear into the earth. He will know how to heal you. He will find a cure.’
    â€˜Bring him before me. Let him work his magic on my poor bones.’
    So Ulfius rode out, whispering the name of ‘Merlin’ under his breath many times; he knew that the magician was aware of the secret life of all things, and would know that his name was being murmured in the wind. The birds, or the singing grasses, would tell him. As Ulfius rode on he suddenly encountered a beggar standing in the high road; the beggar wore a hood, and his back was turned to the knight. He seemed to be peering at something lying on the ground. ‘Move,’ Ulfius told him. ‘Get out of my way.’
    â€˜Do you begrudge a poor man the space of a dusty road?’ the beggar replied.
    â€˜Move on, or I will cut you with my sword. It is not right for a knight to argue with one such as you.’
    â€˜Even if I know for whom you seek? Even if I know that your name is Ulfius?’
    â€˜Who are you?’
    â€˜I am the one you wish for. I am Merlin.’ He put out his hands, palms outward, and his beggar’s clothes were transformed into robes of white satin. ‘I am the man of