Myths And Legends At Tintagel 

There is more than just a sense of history as we approach the remains of the castle: Tintagel is the home of legends and mysteries, of royalty, magic and intrigue. Its setting is utterly dramatic on the colossal Atlantic coastline where rocky cliffs tower above the relentless ocean, the ruins split in half where erosion has broken through the rocks to turn a former headland into an island.

Consequently half of the ruins of this complicated structure remain on the Cornish mainland, the other half on the island joined to the land by a bridge of recent construction. The voices of history echo in the walls and outcrops, the wind whispers secrets as it brushes through the foxgloves and thrift, the Atlantic glances upwards as it keeps the knowledge of tales and legends hidden beneath its tumbling surf.

There is something spiritual here, something almost tangible, where the constancy of the waves simply adds to the feeling that the spirit of ages survives here, up on this imposing cliff.

I lay down on the grass with the scent of clover in my nostrils and the buzzing of insects around my head, and drift into a light, sun-kissed sleep.

I am awaken by Michaela tugging at my arm. She looks terrified. Her wide eyes, wild and dilated, motion me to look to my right, where the sturdy castle walls look damp, solid, unforgiving. How can we be inside this ancient castle, how can the castle walls be real? Have we been transported in time? A group of men, oddly dressed in robes and animal skins, laugh and chatter and quaff drink from dark coloured tankards, exchanging views across the round table of deep brown wood. A pungent sweet smell drifts through the air.

“Merlin”, bawls one, “at what hour do we expect the King’s arrival?”

The man opposite, long white hair and an equally white beard trailing from his chin, places a thumb and forefinger on to his eyebrows and passes into deep thought.

“The King is nigh”, he announces after a while, “riding now through Trevena. The King will be with us presently”.

One holds aloft his tankard.

“God bless the King, our country and Madge”, he bawls. “The King, our country and Madge” echo the others, raising their tankards high.

I glance back across at Michaela, sitting several yards away from me, in the corner of the room against the castle walls. Now her eyes are excited, full of childlike wonder. She smiles her broadest smile.

The heavy, sweet smell is coming from the table, the unfamiliar scent of an unknown drink, alcoholic yet cloying, intoxicating yet stifling. As I try hard to identify it, trumpets sound from outside, the castle door crashes open …

“All hail the King”, cries one, before a giant of a man powers through the opening and into the room, charisma and awe filling the void as the men at the round table stand as one, tankards once again aloft. “All hail the King”.

“I bring excellent news from Londinium”, bawls the King, “I have much to tell. But first, fetch me my mead, I am evidently in deficit due to my lateness and have some catching up to do. Lancelot, what news of Camelot?”

“Sir, I do not trust the Earl of Cornwall. I fear his service to the King is in question. My thoughts are that we should be wary”.

“Nonsense” bawls the King, swigging his mead, “Richard is a good man and I shall hear no ill words”. 

“Lancelot means no ill”, says another, “and I, Galahad, pledge my allegiance to you, Sir, our King, in the event of uprising. Your Majesty, may I ask if the royal hand has recovered?”

“Oh”, says the King, dismissively, “tis a small cut now, worth the pain to pull the sword from the stone, don’t you know”. Looking around the room, his eyes fall on Michaela.

“Who is this wench hiding in the corner?”, he bellows, pointing his tankard in Michaela’s direction.

Merlin speaks. “A harbinger, I fear, your Majesty, a harbinger of doom”. 

King Arthur looks her up and down, then grins a malevolent grin. 

“Give the wench some mead, let us see what she is made of”. And then chants:

“A wench who sinks mead is a fine wench indeed. A wench who sinks mead is a fine wench indeed”.

Michaela tilts the tankard and downs the mead. Now I notice the tankards in detail: they are made from wood and hide, the word “MEAD” laid out in medieval lettering on the side of each.

The King smiles at Michaela, then turns towards me.

“And the scrawny hairless one. Who is he, Merlin?”

“From his strange dress and his strange tongue, I believe him to be our latest visitor from the future, your Majesty”.

The King eyes me suspiciously. “From the future, he says. So tell me of the future, oh Hairless One. I have heard talk of a man named Stein who comes to rule Camelot in future times. Do you know of this man called Stein, oh Hairless One?”

“Yes I do, Sir. His name is Rick, Rick Stein. He is very wealthy and very powerful in these parts, he owns many…..” Ah, I can’t use the word restaurants. “He owns”, I continue, “much land. He is much respected”.

“He is your King?”

“Oh no”, I laugh, “Mr Stein is a chef”.

“A….chef? What is a…….chef?”

“A cook. He cooks so as to feed others”.

King Arthur ponders, then guffaws. “A cook! You are saying that a mere cook becomes powerful, becomes a landowner, becomes revered? What nonsense is this!?”

“He has fed many, many people well. He is much loved”.

“Silence” shouts Galahad, “you speak in terms of blasphemy. Only our Lord Jesus Christ can feed the thousands, not your man Stein”.

“Funny you should say that”, I say, “he’s not so hot on loaves but he’s certainly done well with the fishes”. 

There’s an awkward silence. I feel compelled to speak some more.

“Enough of Mister Stein. I could tell you about Prince Harry, your Majesty”.

“Ah, a Prince. Genuine royalty, unlike the man Stein. Tell me of Prince Harry”.

I explain, as best I can, as the faces of the knights around me look on, aghast and in despair.

“Ye Gods”, says Lancelot, “the man sounds a damned fool”.

“And then”, I say, getting carried away now, “there is the man known as Boris. Now, here is a man whose actions have even brought some to question the wisdom of the Magna Carta”.

The King eyes me again. “Tell us more of this man called Boris. And who, or what, pray, is the Magna Carta?”

Oops. “Ah shit, yeah, you won’t know about that yet, will you”. His stare tells me that I will have to explain. I do my best to find an essence of tact in my explanation.

“Well, errr…you might not welcome this, your Majesty, but the Magna Carta was the mechanism by which power shifted from the monarchy to the people, via something called parliament”.

King Arthur’s face reddens, reddens and reddens some more as his rage surfaces. He rises from his seat, boiling with anger, face fired with aggression.

“I will not hear such treachery”, he yells, “never will my England fall victim to such heresy, NEVER. NEVER, I tell you. Do you hear me, Hairless One?”.

He smashes his sizeable fist down on to the table, mead spills from tankards. Eyes bulging, face flushing, rage coursing through his veins, King Arthur turns towards Michaela. “I shall take the wench as my own” he rages, “AS MY OWN”, turning in fury to meet my stare. “I SHALL TAKE THE WENCH AS MY OWN!!”.

“No! NOOOO!!!”, I shout, leaping to my feet. The twelve knights leap to their feet too, drawing their swords and forming a barrier between me and Michaela. King Arthur has Michaela in his grasp, his large hands clamped around her helpless shoulders, and is pulling her away towards the door. Her poor, anguished face is full of fear – her terrified eyes fix on me, pleading, pleading. She is mouthing my name.

My time is up. My choice is Michaela’s honour, or my life. My wife’s honour or my  own life! One of these is to be sacrificed. I face the knights. I know that I have to save her.

In the rarefied silence, in the angst ridden stand-off, there’s a sudden, unexpected sound. My mobile phone is ringing. The ringtone breaks the moment, the knights stare transfixed as I take out the phone, its ringtone singing, its screen flashing, its buzz vibrating.

“What weaponry is this? What sorcery, what trickery? Merlin, what is this frightful object?”

Merlin stares, silent, dumbfounded. The ringtone continues….continues…continues….

I open my eyes. My phone is ringing in my pocket. Once more I can smell the clover, I can hear the buzzing of insects, feel the warmth of the sun on my face. Michaela smiles at me. “I think you’ve been dreaming”, she says, “you were making some very strange noises”. 

I squint into the bright sunlight. “Whoa, yeah. Weird dreams”.

We walk back towards the village, and into the pub for a quiet beer. Michaela orders a bottle of Peroni.

“Would you like a glass with that?”, asks the barman.

“No thank you”, says Michaela, “I’ve brought my own”.

She reaches into her handbag. She flashes me the strangest of smiles as she pulls the “glass” from the bag. It’s not a glass, it’s a wood and hide tankard with the word “MEAD” laid out in medieval writing on the side…..