|
|
The Lost Land Of King Arthur By J. Cuming Walters
CHAPTER IX
OF CAMELFORD AND THE LAST BATTLE
"O'er Cornwall's cliffs the tempest roar'd,
High the screaming sea-mew soar'd;
On Tintagel's topmost tower
Darksome fell the sheeting shower;
Round the rough Castle shrilly sung
The whirling blast, and wildly flung
On each tall rampart's thundering side
The surges of the tumbling tide:
When Arthur ranged his red cross ranks
On conscious Camlan's crimson banks."
WHARTON, The Grave of King Arthur.
" On Trinitye Mondaye in the morne
This sore battayle was doomed to be;
Where many a knight cry'd 'Well-a-waye!'
Alacke, it was the more pittie." Percy Reliques.
SHEER over the bleak Cornish hills, fifteen miles from Launceston, lies a small white-looking town with a precipitous highway along which the principal houses and one or two poor-looking public buildings are ranged. It is a town without a church, and, except on market day, without the signs of stirring life and business; a remote and isolated little place which nevertheless once had its own Parliamentary representative and not unfittingly chose " Ossian " Macpherson as its member. This is Camelford, and the ride by coach from Launceston is not uninteresting or uninstructive. The desolate aspect of the land, the poverty-stricken appearance of the few tiny villages passed on the way, the barrenness of the hills, the scantness of the population, all serve to reveal the history, past and present, of this portion of England where only the hardiest of the race could live, and live somewhat precariously. The land itself yields little; there are no rivers upon which a boat could be used, and the line of rough hills which form the spine of the county pent the people as within a prison. Even now, Camelford and half a score of like places seem shut out of the world. The stream of life is sluggish, luxuries are scarcely known, the habits of the villagers are primitive, and yet the Cornishmen retain that rugged independence for which they have at all times been noted. In old times the county produced a race of heroes and giants who preserved their liberties and were among the last to be subdued by English rulers. Both modern and ancient history, legends and facts, bear testimony to the constant struggle which prevailed in this part, and had there been no "giants" in Cornwall, neither its traditions nor its history would be what they are. Queen Elizabeth said that the further she travelled west in her dominions the more convinced she was that the wise men came from the east. In a sense this was grossly unjust, for the Cornishmen, though they may have seemed a little uncouth, were by no means an uncultured race, and their literature proves how early they had their thinkers and their scholars, their bards and their chroniclers. Taciturnity on the part of this people need not be taken as a sign of unintelligence; rather is it proof to the contrary, for the Cornishman thinks for himself; he has his own opinions, and sturdily maintains them. A certain aloofness is discernible, and this is characteristic of a race which has so many claims to a distinct record of its own. In the character, bearing, and habits of the men of today may be found considerable corroboration of the truth which underlies the myths and legends of antiquity. If Camelford is now commonplace, with its market, its commercial inn, its linen-drapers', ironmongers', and greengrocers' shops, there may yet be found within and around it much to charm and much to kindle the enthusiasm of the lover of romance. Here and there are the relics over which the antiquary gloats, and now and then a name is heard or seen which at once revives olden memories, or suggests with more or less distinctness a real connection with the last of the British race. It is not a little remarkable that while not a trace of the fourteenth century Charity Chapel remains, the sites of camps and the scenes of battles of much remoter date are still to be found. Signs of British occupation are not lacking, and one entrenchment known as Arthur's Hill takes us right back to the time of the great king. Mere names may, however, in most cases count for nought, and the fact that hills, tarns, and fords bear the classic designation and are reputed to have had connection with Arthurian deeds is not equivalent to tangible proof of the truth of the stories. Camelford is chiefly noted today for being the principal town within access of the slate quarries, and of being within easy and convenient distance of some of the most imposing and enchanting scenery of the north Cornwall coast. From a few points of vantage a glimpse of the sea may be caught, and the lanes branch off to famed Pentargon Bay, Trebarwith Strand, Black Pit, St. Knighton's Kieve, and Tintagel all Arthurian haunts.
At the bottom of the hilly highway, beyond which stretch the meadows, one catches the first glimpse of the shallow little river, more properly called a brook, which, small and insignificant as it is, has become so prominently identified with the concluding scenes in King Arthur's history. This is the river which gives its name to the town, the Alan Camel, 'or Camlan (from Crum hayle, meaning "crooked river"), by the side of which the last battle is said to have been fought. It is a shallow stream and it has to find its way to the sea by a tortuous course between the hills which extend to the coast, a fact which the poet has not failed to turn to account, for Drayton wrote
"Let Camel of her course and curious windings
boast,
Her proper course that loosely doth neglect,
As frantic, ever since her British Arthur's blood,
By Mordred's murtherous hand was mingled with her flood."
No one can look upon the Camel, and trace its rippling course between low banks until it passes beneath the dark stone arch of Slaughter Bridge, a mile or so distant, and feel that it is quite worthy of its fame. It is scarcely picturesque, and it needed a very daring and imaginative poet to speak of it as "frantic" or to make reference to its "flood." At its deepest one could wade across it and not be wet above the ankles, but in most places there is no need to get wet at all, for a single stride would suffice to carry one from bank to bank. Nor does the little stream in its course pass through that part of the land which appeals most strongly to the imagination of the pilgrim. It runs sluggishly and muddily beneath the heavy-looking bridge, much too large for it, bearing an almost grotesquely terrible name in commemoration of the fearful battle which took place thereabout between King Arthur and his rebellious nephew. Where Slaughter Bridge not by any means an ancient structure, by the way crosses the Camlan Arthur is said to have received his death-wound, and to have given a fatal blow to Mordred. If we could only believe one-half that is told of Slaughter Bridge it would be veritably one of the most fascinating spots in all England, a Mecca for pilgrims and students, poets and romancists. But alas ! Slaughter Bridge, despite its awe-inspiring name, is the greatest of illusions, and the most striking of proofs that the real land of King Arthur is lost or changed beyond all recognition. Never can we believe that this most insipid scene in all north Cornwall was the portion of Lyonnesse where the last great battle in the west was fought, where Arthur met his doom, where the knights perished, and of all the great and noble company on either side only two knights survived to carry out their master's last behests.
But the tradition remains. Mordred had set his heart on the kingdom, and Arthur foresaw the end. "Never," says the chronicler, "was there seen a more dolefuller battle in no Christian land: for there was but rushing and riding, foining and striking, and many a grim word was there spoken either to other, and many a deadly stroke. But alway King Arthur rode throughout the battle of Sir Mordred many times, and did there right nobly as a noble King should do; and at all times he never fainted. And Sir Mordred that day . . . put him in great peril, and thus they folight all the long day, and never stinted till the noble knights were laid to the cold ground. And ever they fought still till it was nigh night, and by that time was there a hundred thousand laid dead upon the down. . . . ' Jesu mercy,' said King Arthur, ' where are all my noble knights become? Alas, that ever I should see this doleful day; for now,' said King Arthur, ' I am come unto mine end. ' Then was King Arthur aware where Sir Mordred leaned upon his sword among a great heap of dead men. ' Now give me my spear,' said King Arthur, ' for yonder I have spied the traitor which hath wrought all this woe. . . . Betide me death, betide me life,' said the King, ' now I see him yonder alone, he shall never escape my hands. ' Then King Arthur gat his spear in both his hands, and ran towards Sir Mordred, crying, 'Traitor, now is thy death-day come! ' And when Sir Mordred heard King Arthur he ran unto him with his sword drawn in his hand, and there King Arthur smote Sir Mordred under the shield, with a foin of his spear, throughout the body more than a fathom. And when Sir Mordred felt that he had his death-wound, he thrust himself with all the might that he had, up to the end of King Arthur's spear with his sword, that he held in both his hands, on the side of the head, that the sword pierced the helmet and the brain. And therewith Sir Mordred fell down stark dead to the earth, and the noble King Arthur fell down in a swoon to the earth. And Sir Lucan and Sir Bedivere often-times heaved him up, and so weakly they laid him between them both, unto a little chapel, not far from the seaside." Historians differ widely as to the date of this event, but most are agreed that the time was winter some say Christmas Day.
Mordred, Arthur's great opponent and eventual vanquisher, is the dark and sinister character, the man of mysterious origin and of blighting influence, moving gloomily through the drama. By some said to be Arthur's own son, a child of sin and crime, and by others said to be the son of King Lot and Arthur's sister, his life was miraculously preserved when the king ordered the slaying of all children born on May-day, in the hope of removing the infant who, as Merlin had prophesied to him, " shall destroy you and all the knights of your realm "; and thereafter he played a malignant part in the drama. If ill-news were to be borne to the king, Mordred bore it; were trust to be violated, Mordred violated it; were knights to be betrayed, Mordred w r as the spy and informer. Left to rule the land in Arthur's absence, he usurped the throne; left to guard Guinevere, he carried her away and attempted to force her in marriage; an outcast, he became Arthur's deadliest rival and fulfilled Merlin's prediction. It was he, and not the racial antagonist, who was destined to give the final blow to the Order that the king had established. Tennyson, following the suggestion of the chroniclers, has sharply contrasted Mordred with Lancelot, whose enemy he was, not so much because Lancelot was sinful, as because his sin gave him the opportunity of striking a blow against Arthur's favourite knight.
He was Lancelot's rival, too, his secret and cunning rival, for the love of Guinevere. All the pictures we have of Mordred are adverse; he is the " passing envious " man who hates all more successful than himself, the man who "laid his ear beside the doors," who was "always sullen "; the tale-bearer, whose narrow face and thin lips pictured the petty, spiteful spirit within; the man whose shield was blank and unblazoned, but who
"Like a subtle beast
Lay couchant with his eyes upon the throne,
Ready to spring, waiting a chance: for this
He chill'd the popular praises of the King
With silent smiles of slow disparagement;
And tampered with the Lords of the White Horse,
Heathen, the brood by Hengist left; and sought
To make disruption in the Table Round
Of Arthur, and to splinter it into feuds
Serving his traitorous end; and all his aims
Were sharpen'd by strong hate for Lancelot."
Such is Tennyson's portraiture of Mordred, and the depiction is justified by all that the chroniclers relate of the false knight who by fraud gathered the knights around him, caused himself to be crowned at Canterbury, and at Winchester declared that Guinevere should be his wife. The chronicle explicitly declares that the queen repelled his advances, and flying to London, took refuge in the Tower, which she garnished with her army. Sir Mordred, "wroth out of measure," laid siege to the Tower, defied the Archbishop, and at length, by spreading evil reports of King Arthur, drew " much people " to his side. This defection supplied Malory with a fine opportunity for moralising on the defaults of Englishmen, who are seldom satisfied "for there may no thing please us no term." When King Arthur arrived off Dover with a great navy of ships, galleys, and carracks, he found Mordred and his host awaiting him. Here the first encounter took place, and Mordred, being worsted, removed to Barham Down, where he again suffered defeat. But these skirmishes, desperate as they were, were but preliminaries to the real battle for which both sides were preparing. Mordred 's force was drawn from those "that loved not Lancelot," and from the people "of London, Kent, Southsex, Surrey, Estsex, Southfolk, and Northfolk "; and Arthur, with his faithful band, moved westward past Salisbury, and on to the shore. Despite the warning of Sir Gawaine's ghost "in no wise to do battle," but to make a month's treaty in order to profit by the presence of Lancelot, King Arthur found himself compelled to engage in the contest. A fair and generous offer had been made to Mordred: Cornwall and Kent were to be his during King Arthur's lifetime, and on the king's death he was to have "all England." But when the treaty was made an adder stung a knight's foot, and his cry of pain was like a clarion call to battle. In a moment the swords flashed, the trumpets were blown, the horns sounded; and at sunset Mordred was dead, and Arthur had received his death-wound.*
* The ancient ballad, discovered, annotated, and to, a slight extent supplemented, by Dr. Percy, follows very exactly the story of Arthur's last days as given in the romances except that it ascribes to Sir Lucan the acts usually credited tD Sir Bedivere. Not a detail is omitted, not a point is missed. On the morning of Trinity Monday the ghost of Sir Gawaine is said to have appeared to the king and warned him not to fight if he prized his life, but to wait until Sir Lancelot returned from France. The parley which followed between Arthur and Mordred is next described, but just as a month's league had been decided upon the adder's sting brought about the " woeful chance As ever was in Christentie." When the wounded knight drew his sword the two hosts immediately "joined battayle," and fought until only three men were left alive.
Undeniably the most picturesque and romantic portion of the river Camlan is about half a mile away from Slaughter Bridge, towards Tintagel, where it has worn a way between the grassy hills and lies half-hidden far below, crossed and recrossed scores of times by fallen and inclining trees. The waters here hurry and chatter about the stones, and find their way about the rank weeds and undergrowth which here and there impede their journey. It is with some difficulty that the river is found at all, and with greater difficulty that it is approached. But those who persevere will find, where the banks are steepest and the herbage and weeds thickest, that the brook washes a huge engraved stone lying flat and half embedded in the earth. This is King Arthur's grave, a secret place, and so near Tintagel that the poet did not strain facts greatly when he pointed out that
"No other place on Britain's spacious earth
Were worthy of his end but where he had his birth."
Pilgrims find their way to that lonely spot, and resting near the huge stone, they may reflect at will upon the wondrous possibility of there being, after all, by the side of this stream, a tangible link with King Arthur. The stone lies in a nook between two rocks, and three graceful and luxurious trees watch over it as if they were the metamorphosed three Queens who received the wounded king in the magic boat which glided to Avalon. All around is a profound calm; not a sound but the occasional buzz of an insect comes from the long grasses of the meadows above, or from the ferns and ivy which spring from the shady channel below. At sunset the scene is delightful. The high meadows are kindled with brilliant light, but not a ray comes to that hollow where, it is said, Arthur was laid. His grave is in perpetual shadow, and when I last saw it a long, gaunt, withered branch stretched over it like a spectral arm. The edacious tooth of time has bitten away the letters, and moss has overgrown a portion of the stone, so that the inscription is barely decipherable, but the words are known to be
"Cotin hie jacit filius Magari."
The actual history is best given in the words of the local antiquary Borlase, who in his noted 1769 volume gave an illustration of the relics and said
"This inscribed stone, nine feet nine inches long, and two feet three inches wide, was formerly a foot-bridge near the late Lord Falmouth's seat of Worthyvale, about a mile and a half from Camelford. It was called Slaughter Bridge, and as Tradition says, from a bloody battle fought on this ground, fatal to the great King Arthur. A few years since, the late Lady Dowager Falmouth, shaping a rough kind of hill, about 100 yards off, into spiral walks, removed this stone from the place where it served as a bridge, and, building a low piece of masonry for its support, placed it at the foot of her improvements, where it still lies in one of the natural grots of the hill. This stone is taken notice of by Mr. Carew in the following words: ' For testimony of the last battle in which Arthur was killed, the old folks thereabouts (viz., round Camelford) show you a stone bearing Arthur's name, though now departed to "Atry." This inscription has been lately published; but so incorrectly that it may still be reckoned among the nondescripts. It is said there, "that this stone lay at the very place where Arthur received his mortal wound." All this about King Arthur takes its rise from the last five letters of this Inscription, which are by some thought to be Maguri (quasi magni Arthuri), and from thence others will have it, that a son of Arthur was buried here; but though history, as well as tradition, affirms that Arthur fought his last battle, in which he was mortally wounded, near this place, yet that this Inscription retains anything of his name is all a mistake. The letters are Roman, and as follow: Cotin hie jacit filius magari. By the i in hie being joined to the h, by the h wanting its cross link, the bad line of the writing, the distorted leaning of the letters, I conclude, that the monument cannot be so ancient as the time of Arthur.' 'It seems quite clear that what is now called King Arthur's tombstone was originally called, when in position, Slaughter Bridge, a name which has been transferred to the modern structure. That the stone once served actually as a funeral monument is also pretty obvious, but whom it commemorates is a mystery. The engraved letters belong to an era posterior to Arthur, and there are, as a fact, relics indubitably of an earlier date in the locality.
"Graves" of King Arthur are so numerous as to make all claims more or less ridiculous. Even Camelford, as if fearing that the evidence in one case may not be strong enough, provides an alternative, and points out that near at hand is Warbelow Barrow, an ancient fortification of considerable extent, in the centre of which is a large mound reputed also to be King Arthur's burying-place. It would be easy to reduce the whole subject to absurdity by saying that if there were a doubt that King Arthur ever lived, his numerous " graves " conclusively prove that he died many times, despite the tradition, too, that he did not die at all. The jumble of foolishness and contradictions does not of course affect the real story; it is the resultant of popular superstitions and confusing traditions. Upon the smallest basis of ancient fact superstition rears a stupendous edifice, and these many claims to possess King Arthur's "grave" arise from the eagerness of a people to support the idea of their direct connection with a lost hero, and from their readiness to attach his name to those places which naturally suggest a possible or a poetic connection. That a very strong and sincere belief exists that Arthur was buried near Camelford is, however, not to be questioned, and there is perhaps a better reason for conceding the point in this case than in all the others. All traditions agree that the last battle was fought in the vicinity and that it was fatal to Arthur, and his burial close at hand is the most natural of conclusions. Mr. King, an antiquary, declared that on the bank of the Camlan could be seen "a fallen maen of the later British era, having the name of Arthur inscribed on its lower side," but this seems to have been conjecture rather than established proof. Yet it is flying in the face of the most cherished of beliefs to admit that any grave of Arthur exists to say nothing of a multitude of them'. If he passed into the land of Faerie, if he did not die but only awaits a call to "come again," why do we expect to find the place of his sepulture? why are tombs discovered? why are lovely spots called King Arthur's graves? What said the ancient triad?
"The grave of March is this, and this is the grave
of Gwyther,
Here is the grave of Gwgawn Gleddyfrudd,
But unknown is the grave of Arthur."
The more popular and more befitting tradition deviates entirely from any commonplace termination of King Arthur's career, and gives a magical end to his miraculous history. The king's brand, Excalibur or Calibur, the emblem of his kingship and the symbol of his power, the sword which he alone could wield, and by winning which he had gained his crown, was given to Sir Bedivere by the dying chief to return unto the Lady of the Lake. "My time hieth fast," said the king; "therefore take thou Excalibur, my good sword, and go with it unto yonder waterside, and when thou comest there I charge thee, throw my sword into that water, and come again and tell me what thou shalt see." Twice did Sir Bedivere falteringly go to dark Dozmare Pool, a melancholy sheet of water overshadowed by high and dreary hills which seem to keep gloomy watch over Camelford. Twice did Sir Bedivere 's heart fail him, and instead of flinging the wondrous sword into the depths, supposed to be unfathomable, of the black lake, he hid it among the many-knotted waterflags that whistled stiff and dry about the marge. "Authority forgets a dying King," said Arthur to the faithless knight; but for the last time asserting his power, he threateningly bade him to fulfil his task; and the knight ran, leapt down the ridges, and threw the splendid brand into mid-water.
" But ere he dipt the surface, rose an arm
Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful,
And caught him by the hilt, and brandish'd him
Three times, and drew him under in the mere."*
* It is interesting to compare Tennyson's lines with
Longfellow's in The Spanish Student, the similarity of phrasing
being so marked. Victorian, the student, observes that it is in
vain he throws unto oblivion's sea the sword [of love] that
pierces him
"For like Excalibur,
With gemmed and flashing hilt it will not sink.
There rises from below a hand that grasps it,
And waves it in the air: and wailing voices
Are heard along the shore."
Poets, in describing this scene, have found it scarcely possible to do other than follow closely the words of Malory, which relate the incident with directness and yet with a charm of picturesqueness scarcely to be surpassed except by much elaboration and elaboration would be out of place in such a case, and would destroy the subtle effect of the narrative. After telling of the hiding of the sword by the reluctant knight, and of Arthur's indignation at his evasive words and long tarrying, the chronicler says: "Then Sir Bedivere departed, and went to the sword, and lightly took it up, and went to the water side, and there he bound the girdle about the hilts, and then he threw the sword as far into the water as he might, and there came an arm and a hand above the water, and met it, and caught it, and so shook it thrice and brandished it, and then vanished away the hand with the sword in the water." "The hand that arose from the mere," says Renan, "is the hope of the Celtic heroes. It is thus that weak people, dowered with imagination, revenge themselves on their conquerors. Feeling themselves to be strong inwardly and weak outwardly, they protest, they exult, and such a strife unloosing their might renders them capable of miracles." Four miles to the east of Camelford is Row Tor, 1,296 feet high, its sharp spine, broken and projecting in parts, no doubt suggesting the name it popularly bears of the Rough Mountain. On the left is Rame Head, another typical hill, bare and brown, and it is between these two that Dozmare Pool, the reputed scene of the incident with the sword and the magic hand, may be seen dimly glittering. It is a weird legend-haunted spot. The traveller finds himself shut in between the frowning hills and beside a dark tarn of most dismal aspect. It has been supposed that the waters of Dozmare Pool were once tidal, and from this supposition the name is derived, dos meaning a drop, and mari the sea. Instead of being unfathomable, however, the pool is now only a few feet deep, though its black appearance certainly suggests a great depth. This and all other superstitions have probably been suggested by its gloom and desolation, by its situation among the dreariest of hills, and by tragic events for which there is some historic foundation and which occurred in the vicinity. The wraith of the place is one Tregeagle, an unjust and tyrannical man of yore, who in expiation of his many sins is doomed to visit Dozmare Pool, where amid the terrific storms on the hills and moors during winter his piteous howling can be distinctly heard. His punishment is to empty the pool with a limpet shell, and it may be due to his labours that the waters have so considerably diminished in bulk since the time that they were "unfathomable." But Tregeagle loudly mourns because he considers his task a hopeless one, and then the Evil Power comes in person and pursues him round and round the dismal tarn until at last Tregeagle flies shrieking to the sanctuary at Roche Rocks, fifteen miles distant. This is the tale told of the "middle meer " in which Excalibur was flung and lost to mortal sight for ever.
Such is Camelford; such are some of the traditions which make it alluring to the pilgrim. Leland was convinced that here the " British Hector " was slain, and Stow in his Chronicle affirmed that "after many encounters in which Arthur had always the advantage, the two parties came to a decisive action at Camblan, on the River Camalan, in Cornwall, near the place of Arthur's birth." These specific details leave no doubt as to the place meant. But Stow did not believe the last battle occurred in the winter season. He declares that Arthur survived his wounds "a few days," and died on May 25th, in the year 542, at Glastonbury, to which shrine the pilgrims should last repair. From Camelford in Cornwall, therefore, we pass to the most mysterious region of all, the legendary and haunted Vale of Avalon.
