There Was Once a Man

And with him there was a court at Camelot

King Arthur by Andrew Matthews and Peter Utton

I will not pretend to be what I am not. And though in general I consider nostalgia a poison, a curse, a wasting of time we do not have, I read recently a book I have had since childhood, which has cycled through my family many a time – which was read to me when I could not read myself – and which is illustrated in so vivid a way that I cannot but see those pictures, glimpsed first in early youth, now when I consider any part of the stories that are contained, or even alluded to, within. This is that book, written by Andrew Matthews and illustrated beautifully by Peter Utton.

The story of Arthur, of the knights of the Round Table, of the treacheries to which he was subject, and to his eventual defeat and death, are so well known that what point is there, really, in repeating them? Instead, I will talk of a few scenes I enjoy. You can think for yourself.

I like how ‘Merlin the Enchanter stepped out of the darkness’ to hand the infant Arthur over to Sir Ector, his adoptive father. I like how Arthur, as a boy, the squire to Kay, is sent off to fetch his brother’s sword after the latter left it behind, only to come up empty. ‘And then, in the middle of all his dark thoughts, Arthur saw a sword.’ What happens next puts one in mind of the monologue from Camelot, memorably performed by Richard Burton on the Dick Cavett Show once upon a time. ‘All he could see was the sword. Its richly jewelled hilt glittered above the top of the anvil; its blade ran straight down through the iron into the marble beneath.’

After Arthur’s sword is destroyed in combat with Sir Pellinore, he is granted another. ‘Something was happening to the light on the water around them. It grew brighter, and as it brightened Arthur saw a sword the colour of moonlight rise out of the lake beside the boat.’

And when it is decided to make a Round Table at Camelot: Merlin ‘raised his hand and light came out of it. The light twisted from wall to wall. The dragon circled, slowly at first, then faster and faster until it touched the tip of its nose against the tip of its tail to form a red ring of light. The ring sank to the floor and vanished.

‘A round table stood where the light had been.’

‘This is my wedding gift to you,’ Merlin says, ‘my last gift.’

I will not say more, not quote more. But I will say with some certainty that it is as I remember it being. And when you read something in adulthood that you realise you can quote by heart and offhand because you read it many years ago, it is a strange thing. It is a good thing, and a sad thing; a great and terrible thing, as Merlin might say.

Earlier in the year, I asked an AI system to tell me stories of the Matter of England. Great folkloric stories, and I told it over and over again to tell me more, like a child at bedtime who does not want to go to sleep. I asked it over and over again. What was I trying to get out of one of those systems, other than to test its capacities? I suppose it was the sense as a child that there is more to understand and to hear, an immense endless tide of stories to hear and to be told.

But you can never go home again. Buy this one for a child you know. Someone else’s or yours. You have no way of knowing, and that’s a good thing, how many years later they might think of it – and in thinking of it, think of you again.