Ambrosius was succeeded by Uther his brother, who picked up cudgels against the Saxons and drove hard into Kent, pushing them back to the coast. He wanted them out and was conscious that somewhere on that Saxon-held shore lay the bronze horse of Brutus with the sacred images of Diana and Apollo within it. Uther knew that Brutus had hidden it well, but he also knew that the Saxons, should they discover it, would be tremendously boosted, as were the Greeks when Odysseus stole the Luck of Troy – the Palladium – while the Trojans slept, divesting the city of heavenly protection and dooming it to destruction. But Uther was killed in battle and Arthur, his son, was crowned High King in London.
Arthur was brave, charismatic, visionary, and dynamic. He formed a mobile cavalry unit of three hundred men, clad from top to toe in mail. They rode from place to place at lightning pace and the barbarians had no answer to their speed and skill. His fame blazed across Europe like a comet and the finest men of the time, energised by his example, rushed across the Channel to join him.
The Scots were sent back to Ireland, the Picts pushed into the Highlands, and the Saxons, Jutes and Angles driven out entirely. A Te Deum was sung at Saint Mary’s Abbey and Arthur was given a second coronation – at Paternoster Square in York – as Roman Emperor. ‘After forty years,’ he announced, ‘an Imperator is once more in situ in the West.’ Some lieutenants urged him to take back Gaul and march on Rome, but Arthur declined. ‘Rome is Britain now,’ he replied, ‘and Britain Rome. We alone in the West stood fast against the enemy. We alone kept faith with Brutus and Aeneas. We are an Alter Imperium and I will not risk our future on overseas jaunts. For I must ensure that the Roman fire burns here still a thousand years from now.’
He built a mighty army and a first-rate fleet, but his purposes were purely defensive. ‘I am not a conqueror,’ he snapped at those chieftains still agitating for war. ‘I am a guardian and protector.’ He took this calling so seriously that he had Brân the Blessed’s Head brought up from its chamber and cast out upon the sea. ‘I am the Bear of the Island,’ he bellowed, ‘and I alone am responsible for its security. Brân has done his work and done it well. The torch is now passed on to me.’
Arthur’s success had gone to his head and megalomania was starting to creep in. But he was a genius nonetheless, a champion and an innovator who invested not just in arms but in churches, cathedrals, hospitals, schools, universities, and all manner of glorious enterprises that made Britain the Wonder of the West.
Yet his reign had a shadow side – rule with a rod of iron, which Arthur called the price of unity but which many nobles found limiting and oppressive. He demanded high standards in public and private life and those who fell short were flung into the Imperial Dungeon. Frustrated by the glory denied them by Arthur’s refusal to wage war, some worldly-minded lords started to grumble against him. Rumours concerning his childless marriage to Gwenhwyfar of Gwent began to circulate. It was whispered that she preferred Lancelot of the Lake, the Emperor’s right-hand man. Speculation swirled that Mordred, chief of the dissenters, was the product of an incestuous liaison between Arthur and his sister Morgause. Mordred himself did nothing to deny such gossip as it served his wider purpose of undermining the Arthurian régime. It was easy for him, in a climate of growing discord, to promise the dissatisfied – in the event of his taking power – the easy conflict, material gain, and luxurious lifestyles they felt entitled to.
Mordred knew how to hurt Arthur too. He knew how devoted he was to Our Lady of Glastonbury and the Holy Grail. Arthur made frequent pilgrimage to Saint Mary’s, receiving counsel from Nasciens, the Grail Priest. So Mordred stole the Grail, carrying it North on Mid-Summer’s Eve to a woodland fortress in a remote, well-concealed place. From there he watched and waited, knowing exactly how events would unfold.
As he had foreseen, Arthur’s best men – Galahad, Lancelot, Percivale, Bors, and many more – left London at once, splitting into separate directions in search of the Grail. Saxons and other undesirables had been sneaking back of late and Britain was no longer safe terrain to freely ride around in. Mordred rejoiced and sent word to his supporters, instructing them to stay in the city. With his friends gone and surrounded by foes, Arthur discerned that should he leave his capital for an instant, then one of Mordred’s lackeys would straightaway seize control, keeping the throne warm, as it were, until his master’s return.
But Mordred wanted more. Night after night he sat alone with the Grail, bending it to his will and turning it against the Emperor. He unleashed psychic war on Arthur and the Great Bear’s mind cracked beneath the strain. He ran screaming out of London, while Mordred’s followers raised the black flag of Baphomet, the one deity Mordred served, from the Tower’s highest battlements.
Arthur was a broken reed, haunting the Southern Marches and hunting in vain for the bronze horse of Brutus and the healing, regenerative images of the gods. In a midnight storm on a blasted heath he bared his breast to the elements and cried out to Brân, begging forgiveness for his rashness and pride. He sought the legendary tunnels of Constantine too, but nought did he find save rock and stone and water that tasted like lead.
Mordred sent missives to the Army and Navy, declaring a National Emergency and naming himself Supreme Commander. He ordered a Black Mass to be celebrated at Glastonbury. Then he picked up the Grail, gathered his servants about him, and stepped out onto the Great South Road. And it was night.