Tag Archives: King Arthur

Fiction, Reviews

Rise of the Merlin: The Darkness Within

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A lot of foreshadowing preceded episode six of Rise of the Merlin. We’ve seen a woman watching Merlin and riding beside him in his imagination, and in the last episode we learned she was King Custennin’s daughter, Ganieda. But what happened to her? Why did Custennin accuse Merlin of refusing to save her?

Now we know the intense story that provoked the legendary mage to run from civilization when we first met him. After leaving his tutelage with the Hill Folk, he meets a woman who’s hunting a boar, follows her to her fortified city, and learns she’s the king’s daughter. He also learns the people are Atlantean whose boats had been separated from King Avallach and thought to be lost. Both groups thought they were the only ones to survive the ruining of Atlantis.

Did I mention Ganieda is adorable? A year later, she and Merlin are married, and they live happily ever after, which is enough to drive any man mad. (I was going to leave it at that to avoid spoiling the story, but I’ll go ahead and say it. Bad things happen, and Ganieda dies. I’ll get to Merlin’s reaction in a minute.)

Ganieda is a figure from the old Welsh stories, but she isn’t described there as Merlin’s wife. She’s his sister or even his twin. In one story, she’s the wife of a Scottish lord who battles and kills Merlin’s patron. In another account, the Scotsman and patron fight together. Either way, the patron dies and Merlin is distraught, while Ganieda is an observer either grieving or reacting to her brother. Lawhead makes this relationship more personal and so the tragedy that pushes Merlin to madness makes more sense.

At the end of episode two, we meet Merlin under a rock in the pouring rain. This was his response not only to losing his wife (who was with child) but also to his reaction to that loss. We see a moment of that reaction in the trailer. We hear about it when he returns to Maridunum the first time. In two different battles, Merlin falls into a battle trace. The first wins him the throne of Maridunum for his defense of the king and the people. The second is his merciless rage over the death of Ganieda, when the barbarian raiders return to the scene of their crime. Dozens of barbarians charge one admittedly intimidating young man and none survive. Even after they realize they’re getting slaughtered and begin to run, Merlin pulls them back to gut them. It’s this and one more outburst that drives him to renounce his life for many years to follow.

With the finale coming in two weeks, viewers have at least one question to consider, and it’s raised by Charis (in episode four, I think). Though Merlin has refused to take up Avallach’s sword for fear of his battle rage, Charis asks whether the salvation of Britain will require it. When the Saxon hoards are crushed, as surely they must be, will it be the people led by High King Aurellius or Merlin on their behalf? And what terror will Morgian accomplish?

Fiction, Reviews

Rise of the Merlin: Who Is High King?

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The Pendragon Cycle: Rise of the Merlin continues grim and sober in episode five. Last time, Merlin met two of the lesser kings and persuaded them to pledge loyalty to Aurellius, or at least think about it. This time, he rides into The Old North to urge Custennin and the Northern kings to join. Tension has been building since he left Ynys Avallach. None of the kings have welcomed the prospect of fighting the Saxons, seeming to prefer keeping their heads down until the fight comes to them.

Custennin doesn’t welcome Merlin either, but for different reasons. They have history, which has been described and hinted at. In fact, everyone who remembers him knows of these dark deeds. If you’ve seen the trailer, you’ve seen a key moment that has defined Merlin’s present-day character but has yet to be explored for viewers. I think we’re going to get that in episode six. I’ll let you know.

This episode is entitled “The Price of Failure,” which is how Merlin approaches the anger he gets from Custennin. He believes he failed. On the other side of Britain, Uther explores his failures by continuing to bark at the lesser kings when he should be building their confidence in their cause and Aurellius as the High King. He’s not working with soldiers; he’s working with proud men who are used to commanding those around them. Scottish actor Chick Allan (shown above) plays the proud, but sensible, King Gorlas, who may be the strongest warlord among them. Will he submit to Aurellius’s leadership?

As you can tell, the series plot isn’t galloping along. It’s walking at a good pace, focusing on the main characters. This ep. relieved a little tension with two climatic scenes near the end, but the main wire that’s been taut for so long doesn’t slack. The brief scene at the close had me asking, “What?” aloud, because I thought that’s what we were getting this time. Now, I have to wait a week.

I’ve read comments from people who aren’t watching the series complaining about the Christian themes they’ve seen or heard about. It’s lightly handed (is that a phrase?). It’s more demonstrative in this ep. than the fourth and is perhaps most in the foreground in the second, but it comes to mind now because even this light theme gives everything the depth of interest it needs. A story needs a soul, a hearty soul that breathes life into every details. Kudos to the showrunners and writers for having the depth of soul to craft a good story.

Fiction, Reviews

Rise of the Merlin: The King of Maridunum

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We see brutal melee in the fourth episode of The Pendragon Cycle: Rise of the Merlin as Merlin, Pelleas, and Uther travel north to rally lesser kings to fight for Aurellius against the Saxons.

First, Merlin recommends the High King take refuge in Ynys Avallach, the realm of former Atlanteans, now considered fairies or elves by men. King Avallach is hailed as the Fisher King, because they find him fishing, but I don’t know if the writer is teasing us with Arthurian easter eggs or intends to identify him as the Fisher King who keeps the Holy Grail. It could be the latter, because Avallach is wounded as the Fisher King is wounded and his kingdom is in decline.

Thinking Merlin may be raising an army for himself, Uther insists on travelling to Maridunum with him. When they arrive, we learn more of Merlin’s past and why Uther has good reason to fear him. In the image above, Finney Cassidy as Aurellius is in the foreground, Myles Clohessy as Uther behind him.

A lot more fighting this one, some of it brutal. About half of it had me wondering what a real melee would look like. I’d think there’d be more shield usage and no cracking someone’s helmet with your sword hilt and pushing them behind you. Aurellius goes against a brute in one scene that leaves you feeling the blows.

I didn’t talk about the power-hungry Morgian before. She appears again in this episode, having established herself as the wife of one of the lesser kings (and, of course, rooting for the Saxons). It’s clear she was a bad egg from the start. She sought out the deal Taliesin rejected at the start of the series. I’d love for it to turn Faustian on her because she’s earned that, but I doubt that’s where the story will take us.

Speaking of that, I assume this seven-episode series will leave us somewhat hanging. This is only the first part of a longer story. Will they attempt to wrap it up, believing they can’t afford a second season?

Fiction, Reviews

Rise of the Merlin: A Fatherless Child

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The third episode of Jeremy Boreing’s The Pendragon Cycle: Rise of the Merlin continues in the series’ strengths. Tom Sharp as Merlin (shown above) brings appropriate gravity to the role of a 75-year-old mage who has been an established legend for many years, according to all the people who meet him.

It begins with Merlin in the wilderness and a voiceover telling us what people say about him — that he was mad, that he was a king of renown, a bard, a prophet, and a slayer of hundreds. A figure and voice reminiscent of the old man who confronted Taliesin charges him to “go back the way you came.” And so, our man with falcon eyes returns to the land of the living.

The easiest way for me to review each episode would be to simply recap what happens. I don’t want to do that. I want you to enjoy the show yourself, whether it be on DailyWire+ or on another method of release (surely they will sell DVDs). Still, I’ll share what I can.

Merlin delivers the episode’s theme when telling Aurellius, “First, there is a sword, a sword of Britain and the sword is Britain.” Aurellius is of Roman decent and aims to reclaim his father’s land from the Saxons (or Saecsens, as the show spells it). One historical account says he was the one who directed the building of Stonehenge, which would be an impressive real-world tie-in. Right now, he is avenging his father’s murder and rallying other warlords to his banner.

Aurellius’s brother is Uther Pendragon, who appears as his more pessimistic partner in the fight. The story makes it clear Aurellius is in charge, but Uther looks to be his equal in many ways.

This series isn’t going to put the cookies on a low shelf. Viewers may ask if they are supposed to know who someone is or how to read Welsh, and if you’ve taken a course in Arthurian legend, then yeah, you should know. The rest of us will need to get comfortable with ignorance. I haven’t felt lost yet, and most of my knowledge of Camelot comes from the musical.

I love what they’ve done with magic, so far. Episode one got gritty with the pagan stuff, but when our leading men exercise power, it’s natural and sometimes marvelous.

And there’s a scene in this one that is a bit more thrilling for its close resemblance to the hobbits hiding from the Black Riders. I almost stopped it to stare at the tree roots. It’s not the same forest, but when you see it, you’ll know what I’m saying.

Fiction, Reviews

The Pendragon Cycle: Taliesin Episodes

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DailyWire+ has released its beautiful, 7-episode series The Rise of the Merlin, based on The Pendragon Cycle, Stephen Lawhead’s six book series, to regular members last Thursday. The first two eps are up along with a podcast that explains some of the details.

The first episode introduces Charis of Atlantis and the destruction her civilization. It’s an impressive scene in a Greek-style arena. Charis is the head of a seven-person team, male and female, who summersault over running bulls (see the photo of a Minoan fresco above). It isn’t just sport. It’s ritual for the bull god, Bel, to whom Charis is praying when we first see her.

The Atlanteans speak a language invented for the show by Spencer Klavan. It has a great, authentic sound. I picked up notes of Indo-European and Phaffinnic intonations under a clear faux-Latin influence. (I say this as a guy who can spot the subtle flavors in a Hersey’s, so I know what I’m talking about. Don’t get me started on peanut butter blends.)

Twenty years after their home is destroyed, the Atlanteans have established a kingdom in southern Britain, where the Cymry find them, having fled their land to escape barbarian raiders. Taliesin, a bard, is the adopted son of King Elphin. On the first evening, we hear him sing for King Avallach, Charis, and the other Atlanteans a moving song about the Welsh king Pwyll meeting the fairie lord of Annwn in the forest. It’s the first of two songs Taliesin sings in these episodes, and I like them, though they aren’t 4th century ballads. (I assume Lawhead wrote them.) This one in particular has been stuck in my ear for days.

The theme of this part of the series is the move from paganism to Christianity. Both main characters reject offers to sell themselves completely to their pagan gods, and at the end of episode one, the Lord catches Taliesin by surprise. “Look upon me then, Shining Brow!” It’s marvelous.

I love the look of this series so far. The actors are wonderful. (James Arden looks and sounds great as Taliesin.) Dialogue is strong. My one criticism is that a few scenes feel clipped. A dramatic scene at the start of episode two could use a few more minutes of explanation. Or maybe it lacks a foundation. They do explain why everyone is angry in that moment after the scene, but I could use three more minutes of talking it over—maybe hearing the offer put on the table and hearing it rejected before tempers flare.

Episodes drop every Thursday. I’ll try to review the next ones as they come out.

Fiction, Poetry, Reviews

Sir Gawain: What It Means to Be a Real Man

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I didn’t realize Sir Gawain and the Green Knight was set at Christmastime when I picked it up several days ago, so reading it during the Christmas break was seasonal as well as enriching. It could be the poem for modern men today. It’s focus on chastity in the face of strong seduction would make modern readers heads spin.

Sir Gawain and the Green Knight begins with a striking man walking into King Arthur’s court.

“For all men marvelled what it might mean
That a horseman and his horse should have such a colour
As to grow green as grass . . .”

He says he’s looking for sport, which is the feeling of everyone in the court already. Arthur loved hearing the exploits of his men. The green knight offered a challenge: Any man could strike him with a fierce blow if he would agree to seek him out in one year’s time to receive a blow in kind from him. Even though everyone thought such a challenge was madness, they also couldn’t refuse it.

“‘By heaven,’ then said Arthur, ‘What you ask is foolish,
But as you firmly seek folly, find it you shall.'”

Sir Gawain, who is the greatest of Arthur’s knights (in the early tales) and his nephew, is the one to suggest to the king someone else accept the challenge in case it goes the way everyone suspects. No need to lose the king to a jolly green giant.

This is the part of the story you’ve likely heard. What follows is another regular year until All Saints Day when Gawain leaves to find the Green Chapel, because “Why falter I or fear? What should man do but dare?” He searched without any prospects until Christmastime. Then he prays and then comes across “the comeliest castle” that “shimmered and shone through the shining oaks.”

He stays there several nights enjoying great and chivalrous hospitality, and that’s when things get weird. The host and all of his men intend to spend the next day hunting, but he urges Gawain to continue resting at the castle, and he proposes this “bargain”: whatever gains they earn in the woods or in the castle will be exchanged. Gawain thinks it’s a great deal.

I found this bargain very strange. What could Gawain possibly achieve within the castle? Spoiler alert: It’s his good host’s wife!

Part three describes three temptations or seductions paired with the exploits of the hunting party. Readers and listeners are meant understand the hunting party illustrates the Gawain’s seduction. That’s the reason I say young men ought to read and talk about this poem. If a woman boldly invited you into adultery, how would you handle it? For Gawain, chivalric manners are high virtue, so he can’t just turn her away. In fact, he seems to agree with her proposal, “but Sir Gawain was on guard in a gracious manner.”

The text seems to say Gawain would not indulge this woman because he is his imminent death at the hand of the Green Knight (line 1285). Maybe that is one motivator, the other and primary one being Christian morality, and if it is factor, doesn’t that strike sparks against modern men who would likely argue the other way. Believing they were about to die, why not take the host’s wife?

One theme we can draw from Sir Gawain and the Green Knight is a common question that brings out bucket lists: If you knew you were going to die in a year, what would you do? The greatest knight in Camelot not only sought out the man he believed would kill him but also sought every virtue he could recognize.

Why would anyone choose to throw all morality in the bin because he believed he would die in a year? We’re all going to die–this winter or next, this decade or next. Does believing you can see your finish line approaching mean virtue no longer has value? Wouldn’t that argue that you believe virtue has no real value for you now, while your death is still hidden from you?

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Where do legends come from?

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Robin Hood on a horse, ca. 1475. Wikimedia Commons.

As you may recall, I am peripherally involved in the world of Viking scholarship – not as a real researcher, but as a lowly translator. I am also, of course, a creator of historical fantasy, which means I’ve had to learn a few things. Not as much as I think I’ve learned, of course, but a few things. And, of course, I have ideas.

Here’s one of them.

The scholarly controversy over how the Icelandic historical sagas should be understood, as I’ve often mentioned, is about how much we can believe of what the sagas tell us. Many historians won’t use the sagas at all, because they were written after a period of oral transmission. And a lot of historians are very suspicious of oral tradition.

For instance, I often come across a statement like this: “Historians disagree whether King Harald Fairhair of Norway ever actually existed.” They mention that there are no clear mentions of him anywhere except in the sagas.

For some historians, in fact, it seems that a mention in a saga is proof of non-existence.

Which makes no sense to me.

One comes across the same argument with figures like King Arthur and Robin Hood. “There are legends about these characters,” the historians say. “Therefore, we’re sure they never existed.”

“Why?” Walker screams.

Historians seem to think that legends spring out of the human mind, ex nihilo. As atheists think the universe was created – by nobody, out of nothing.

It makes more sense to me that legends probably come from something. Perhaps something trivial, perhaps they happened to a different historical character – but they came from something.

What historians don’t seem to remember is that in this real world they write about, actual things do happen. Sometimes they’re quite exciting things. People remember them, and repeat them to others.

At the Green Bay Viking festival, a friend told me a story about building a working guillotine on commission, and nearly chopping his hand off. I’ve been retelling that story ever since.

It happened. Interesting things do happen in real life.

Why should the default explanation for a good story be that somebody just made it up?

Fiction, Reviews

‘Arms and White Samite,’ by B. A. Patty

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What Arthur saw was nothing like what Moren saw. He saw no silver trees, nor the shining suns of souls, nor the blue glow of possibility, of hope, or of longing. Arthur saw before him the legends, rising up in shapes like griffins and dragons, growing about him in the way that lilies grow up like miracles in a forest where once stood some forgotten cottage. They stole his breath, and for a time it was so quiet in his tent that even the roar of celebration outside seemed to vanish away.

B. A. Patty blogs at Grim’s Hall, one of the blogs I’ve been following for years. He’s a reader of my novels too. But he’s even less aggressive about marketing his novel, Arms and White Samite, than I am in regard to mine. In fact, I’d forgotten he had one until he offered a deal recently, and I picked it up. It’s an impressive book, one that deserves greater recognition than it’s received.

Our hero is Moren, a warrior of Arthur’s Company of the Wall (the book is set in “King” Arthur’s original historical context, with certain supernatural intrusions). One day a lady dressed in white rides into Arthur’s hall, pursued by a great, fearsome knight armored in black. In spite of Arthur’s men’s attempts to protect her, the knight carries her off. Moren takes upon himself the quest of rescuing the lady. He follows her through a forest, where he rescues another lady who becomes his companion, and later into a fortress, where he is taken prisoner. A group of his brothers follow to help – or rescue – him. Meanwhile, the Saxons are harrying the land, and Arthur faces the challenges and sacrifices of total war against an enemy led by a king who is more than human.

For me, the greatest appeal of the Arthurian stories has always been, more than the tales of chivalry and valor, the hints of mystery behind it all – ancient names of places lost to history, shadowy characters who seem not quite human in some undefined way. Arms and White Samite is rich in those elements. It’s actually as much about the realms of faery as about this world (though the battle scenes are excellent, and seem historically plausible).

Quite a lot of time is spent in discussions about the intersection of this world and the Otherworld, and the nature of life and eternity. Questions of theodicy (the problem of evil) are central. Although the matrix of the philosophy seems Christian, there are elements that seem Buddhist and syncretist. This left me puzzled, but I’m not sure I understood it well enough to judge.

There were a couple typos (at least I think they were typos; perhaps I misunderstood the antique diction), and on very rare occasions the author made the questionable artistic choice of using exclamation points in exposition.

Still, all in all, I think Arms and White Samite is the kind of book C. S. Lewis would have liked very much.

Reviews

Excalibur by Bernard Cornwell

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First off, my prayers go out to the families and friends of the victims of the Virginia Tech atrocity. Commenter Aitchmark tells me that one of his good friends is an instructor there. According to the last message I got from him, his friend would appear to be all right. But lots of other people’s friends weren’t so lucky, and there are just no words to say except that we are thinking of them and lifting them up to God.

The news didn’t match the weather, at least not here. It was an exquisite day. Seventy degrees. Last Monday it was winter. Today it was summer. It’s enough to give you whiplash.

I had a busy weekend. On Saturday my new renter moved in. So far he’s been the perfect tenant—he’s hardly been here at all. He brought three carloads of stuff in on Saturday, and then I didn’t see him again. I didn’t see him on Sunday, but while I was gone he seems to have brought some more in. Today, nothing as far as I can tell. I don’t have a number to call to check on him. Hope everything’s all right.

On Sunday I did one of my Viking PowerPoints for the Norwegian Federation in St. Paul. It’s a Norwegian-American friendship organization. They fed me a nice lunch, laughed at my jokes, bought a good number of books and promise to send a gratuity check. I have no complaints. On top of that the meeting was held at Luther Seminary, so I can now put “Lecturer, Luther Theological Seminary” on my resume. (I’m joking, I’m joking.)

When I got home I was pretty wiped out, as I usually am after public speaking engagements. But the day was so gorgeous I forced myself to go out for a walk, bribing myself by designating the local Dairy Queen the terminus of my route. There were two long lines strung out in front of the place (it’s one of the old-fashioned ones where you stand outside). Minnesotans have a lot of pent up cabin fever to work off right now. I think if the Blizzard machine had broken down, it might have gotten ugly.

I finished Excalibur, the final book of The Warlord Chronicles trilogy by Bernard Cornwell, on Saturday. I think I have rarely both enjoyed and disliked a book so much.

I enjoyed it as a drama and an action book. The battle scenes were outstanding, particularly the Battle of Camlan, Arthur’s last battle. As I read it, I couldn’t help thinking, “I can’t believe that someone could figure out a fresh, exciting way to do Camlan, after all the times it’s been done before.” But Cornwell achieves that. He mixes action, suspense, pathos and lyricism in a way I only wish I could emulate.

What I disliked was the general picture of religion in general, and Christianity in particular. Cornwell seems to hold the view of the average “sensible” Briton today, that religion is all well and good, but all you really need is a little simple humanity, because religion tends to get out of hand.

Cornwell clearly isn’t promoting heathenism. Although his narrator is a heathen (through most of the book, and always in his heart), Cornwell pictures the old gods of Britain as cruel and bloody. They are, however, powerful.

Christianity, on the other hand, doesn’t seem to have any inherent power at all. The great advances it makes in this story are all due to the priests telling lies and extorting conversions.

Cornwell’s position, it seems to me, is the very one that’s killing Europe. “If we’re just sensible, practical agnostics, everything will be fine. We can counter militant Islam through our enlightened culture and comfortable lifestyle. We don’t need to believe anything ourselves to defend our civilization from holy war.”

Sorry. I’m obsessed with Europe these days.

Anyway, I give Excalibur high marks as a novel, low marks in the culture wars.

Addendum: I forgot to mention he puts horns on the Saxons’ helmets. This is an egregious fault for which I can think of no excuse.

Reviews

The Winter King by Bernard Cornwell

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Just as I expected (let’s face it—I’m always right, and it sucks) we had snow on the ground this morning. I can’t describe it as a blanket of snow. More of a sheet, with a low thread count. But it was white, and it’s not what we want to see in April (though we do, we always do). Most of it melted in the sun today, though the temperatures stayed below freezing. Tomorrow will be a little warmer, but it will be slow warming up. Easter, I think, will be about fifty.
Dave Alpern sent me Bernard Cornwell’s three Arthur books to read. I’d been thinking about reading the books, since I really like Cornwell as a writer (I especially enjoyed his seafaring thrillers, which he’s given up on because they didn’t sell). But I hesitated with these because I’ve become leery of all contemporary treatments of the Matter of Britain (reasons to follow).
Everybody, it seems, wants to write about Arthur, and some very good stuff has been done. I’ve thought about doing it myself, though it would mean trying to master a whole new cultural idiom. Stephen Lawhead did a series that pretty much accomplished what I meant to try (probably better than I’d have done it), so I figure, why bother?
Not that Lawhead entirely succeeded. I don’t think anyone has succeeded in writing a great Arthur novel since T. H. White. Since White everybody tries to set Arthur in his proper historical period. That’s fertile ground, and yet… no novel ever seems to achieve the promise.
When I read Thomas Mallory’s Le Morte D’Arthur, or any of the earlier Arthurian material, I feel as if, from time to time, I get to peek through a spy hole in a theater curtain, looking at a great drama being performed. I can only see bits of the action and hear scattered words of dialogue, but it looks like a great play. Modern attempts to retell the Arthur story always look to me like attempts to reconstruct that hidden play, but they never live up to my hopes.
That said, Cornwell’s The Winter King (first of a trilogy) is pretty good.
Cornwell’s Arthur is not a king, but a “warlord,” regent for a king who’s still a small boy. This agrees well with the (meager) historical record, by the way, since our earliest reports of Arthur never call him a king. Also authentically, his primary concern is defending Celtic Britain from the inroads of the Anglo-Saxons. His primary challenge is the disunity of his own people, a situation he himself makes worse when he breaks an oath to a neighboring king. Real tragedy is at work here, in the classic sense where a man means to do good but is frustrated by his own passions.
The narrator is Derfel, a Saxon by birth and a former slave, who rises to become one of Arthur’s lieutenants. Derfel is a sympathetic voice, a deeply feeling and compassionate man, yet a great warrior, who writes the story in a monastery in his old age.
It was the religious element that made me wary of these books. The second volume is called The Enemy of God, after all, and that accords with some of the earliest accounts of Arthur in books of saints’ lives. Arthur seems to have had a bad reputation with the church. It’s been speculated that he appropriated church treasures to pay for his campaigns. There’s much opportunity here for an author with an anti-Christian axe to grind.
I wasn’t entirely happy with Cornwell’s treatment, but it could have been much worse, and I can’t pretend it lacks historical probability. Cornwell’s Arthur is a man of no particular religion in a Britain divided between Christians and heathens. The wars are not religious ones, and any given kingdom or army is mixed. One Christian priest is pictured pretty negatively, but other Christians look good (though it seems to me they are treated more sympathetically in reverse proportion to their orthodoxy).
On the other hand, Cornwell does not, as so many do today, gloss over the ugliness of heathenism. His Druids, even the friendly ones, are dangerous and half crazy, and their rites and ceremonies are bloody and ugly.
Merlin is presented as a Druid. He’s amusing, and reminds one of Gandalf, if Gandalf were utterly amoral and ruthless. He’s on Arthur’s side here, but everyone knows that that’s only because he finds Arthur useful. If Arthur becomes inconvenient to him he’ll throw him away like a small animal whose guts he’s divining from.
Cornwell doesn’t stick strictly to historicity. Later accretions like Lancelot and Camelot are included without apology.
As in any Cornwell novel, the battles are well thought out and vividly described. The end is extremely satisfying, but you know there’s more coming. Fortunately there are two more volumes.
I liked it a lot. It was as good as any Arthur book I’ve read, since White. It may even be the best since White.