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 to-day 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 to-day 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 fought 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
was 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.”
[Illustration: _Photo: R. Webber, Boscastle_]
MOUTH OF ROCKY VALLEY AND LONG ISLAND, TINTAGEL
[_To face p. 202_]
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.[28]
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 re-crossed 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 hic 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 hic jacit filius magari_.
By the _i_ in _hic_ 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.”[29]
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.