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Here Lies Arthur

There are two King Arthurs. The most familiar one, the figure who probably springs to mind when you hear the words ‘King Arthur’ is the Once And Future King of mediaeval romance and Pre-Raphaelite paintings; the ruler of an England that never was, whose knights ride out in shining suits of armour to do battle with giants and sorceresses in a magical landscape full of spells and enchantments. His story has been retold and reshaped ever since Geoffrey of Monmouth first wrote it down in the Middle Ages: by Malory; by Tennyson; by Rosemary Sutcliff and Mary Stewart and John Steinbeck. He is the hero of TH White’s The Sword in the Stone and John Boorman’s Excalibur, which is how I first came to be introduced to him.

The other King Arthur is a more shadowy presence, and not really a king at all. He is the man on whom all the legends might be based; a war leader who may or may not have existed sometime in the Dark Ages, and who perhaps tried to defend the remnants of Roman Britain against the encroaching Saxons.

It’s this second Arthur that I chose to write about when I began Here Lies Arthur. I had been wanting to write an Arthur book of my own since I was at college, but the magical Arthur has been done so often, and so well, that I couldn’t think of anything to add. I knew too much about him. But it seemed to me that the Arthur of the Dark Ages might be someone we didn’t know at all. Plenty of authors have written stories about him and tried to return the stories to their historical roots, but as far as I’m aware they all remain true to the idea of Arthur as a hero. But was he? If he did exist, he would probably have behaved much like any other warlord of his era, and warlords of any era tend not to be the most kindly and considerate sort of chaps. And however brave he was, he clearly wasn’t successful: the invading Saxons eventually triumphed, and the culture which Arthur hoped to defend was driven back into the fringes of Britain; the uplands of Wales and Cornwall.

So what if the real Arthur was just a small time thug; building a little empire for himself in the ruins of Roman Britain? What if he was no better than a gangster? What if the only reason we know his name is that he had a spin-doctor, Myrddin (or Merlin), who made up tales about his master to make him seem more impressive and important than he really was? And of course Myrddin, like any self-respecting sorcerer, would need an apprentice…

That’s where Gwyna came from, the orphan girl who we meet haring through the woods at the start of Here Lies Arthur. Through her words I told the old familiar stories, and some knew ones which popped up along the way, and through her eyes I have tried to look afresh at Arthur.

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