Mordred in the Garden

An excerpt from a novel I was working on. The narrator is Sir Gareth of Lothian and the Orkneys, one of the knights of the Round Table. This section takes place towards the end of Camelot.

    ”Is it still worth it?” The cold voice was touched with frenzy, and I turned
to see Mordred perched on the garden wall, hunched in the shadows like a
gargoyle.

    ”Excuse me?” My query was cautious; speaking to him was always dan-
gerous, and lately his humors seemed even more unbalanced.

    ”That.” His tone was dull and flat as he indicated my bandaged left arm,
but then turned to melodramatic swooping as he continued. ”To be a pawn
in a fight, petty squabble, over that harlot of a woman.”

    ”I do not fight for Guinevere. I fight for Arthur, and for Camelot.”

    ”This?” He gestured grandly. Miraculously he kept his balance on the
narrow edge as he stood to his full, freakish nearly seven feet. After a moment
of surveying the area, he lept to the ground, landing crouched on all fours.
His behavior made me nervous, and so I stepped farther from his corner as he
straightened, spun in an erratic ellipse and then bowed with self amusement.
Running his hand along the wall he continued in a smooth whisper, ”a garden
slowly given over to weeds, through apathy and neglect? A brotherhood so
easily rent? A man who relied on loyalty, now betrayed?” Laughing darkly,
”especially when your own loyalty is being called into question.”

    ”By whom? Arthur?” My response was sharper than I had intended.

    ”Oh no. Not Arthur.” His eyes grew wide, perversely earnest. He looked
unnervingly like Mother. ”The King would never suspect one of his own.”
Then suddenly, that solemn tone was replaced by wry cynicism. ”The others.
The court. All the petty people who revel in their petty gossip, and think
that no one could possibly have any more honor than they do.” Tilting his
head, he looked directly into my eyes. ”They wonder how you could remain
with the King. After all, you and Lancelot were so close. He knighted you,
not Arthur.” Leaning forward, ”he was like a brother to you.”

    Suddenly, the rage I had been working so hard to control bubbled to the
surface. ”How dare you?” I was shouting and unable to stop. ”You have
no right to bring Gawain into this. Yes, I spent a great deal of time with
Lancelot. Yes, he once was a good man--and perhaps still is. But he has
made some grave mistakes, and no one is above the law. He allowed his lust
to consume him. He made a cuckold of his king and dear friend. He
interfered when she was brought to justice. He killed Aggrivaine. He killed
Geheris. He killed Gawain. He betrayed our family, striking them down,
my--our--blood brothers. Lancelot ran like a coward and allowed two thirds
of the Table to defect to him. Arthur did nothing to deserve this, save be
fated to love. Why should he be so punished for trusting his wife, Lancelot,
or the men who pledged their lives to him and his vision?”

    ”Because he was naive.” Mordred’s voice was hard, but quiet. ”And that
is what the world does. It wrings the innocence out of you. Perhaps the King
was lucky to have been allowed ignorance of the true nature of humanity for
so long, or perhaps it was a great cruelty to have his illusions shattered so
late in life, after they had a chance to build. But it does not really matter.
In the end, he learned the truth. ”

    ”By your machinations,” I returned sharply. ”Had you not ambushed
Lancelot"”

    ”Had I not ’ambushed Lancelot’ he would still be screwing Guinevere
behind Arthur’s back. Do you think our King ’deserves’ that?” I wanted to
make him eat his silky words, but he continued before I could work anything
out of my mouth. ”And besides, I was merely serving The Cause of Truth,
as you yourself have done for many years,” he continued mockingly. ”And
in time, everyone will know the whole truth. They will know exactly what
the king did before he married Guinevere, and then perhaps I will get what
I deserve.” His wolfish grin was too much for me.

    ”B*****d freak!” I smacked him square across his smiling mouth.

    He began to laugh hysterically. ”You certainly have your father’s temper.
Sound just like him too. Are you perchance going to to get drunk and tell
me I’m an abomination?”

    I hit him again. And again. He was just taking it. Letting me beat him.
    ”Where’s your chivalry now? All that code of the ’Brotherhood of the
Round Table’, and,” he had to stop when I got him in the gut, ”you’ll bloody
up your own brother?”

    ”Half.”

    ”I know, I know, no need for reminders. Just like we’re kids again. Call
me ’freak’. ’B*****d’. ’Evil’. Going to throw me out a window again? Tell
me I’m crazy as Mother?” He blocked my punch at his nose. ”I am not
crazy!” He hit me in the jaw, and we were fighting in earnest. But it was not
as it was when we were children--he had grown stronger than I, and we both
had more adult reasons to hate one another.

    It was Sir Parsifal who finally wandered into the garden and broke up
the fight. It was embarrassing, first to be fighting with someone so much
younger, and then lectured by one younger still. There is something about
Mordred that makes me forget my honor.

Author's Note

Any suggestions for improving the descriptions of the fight?
Any comments appreciated.

Reviews

[Easter3]

Hello Sir Foley. I, too, enjoy the rich complexities of the Arthurian legends. I also enjoyed this story. I felt you did a good job in conveying two divergents points of view. Mordred's need to be vindicated for his father's past misdeeds leading to his illegitimacy, and the suffering it has caused in his life (both real and imagined). And your other verbal combatant who remains loyal to the king and queen, and wants to help maintain the status quo at all costs.

I enjoyed your use of description and underlying analysis of the why's and wherefore's of your characters motivations.

I liked your ending, because all too often unpleasant and unsavory Truths often lead to forgotten honor.