Serial Sunday: The Return of King Arthur, Act 3

By David Flin.

Act 3: A Constellation of Stars

Scene 1.

A homeless shelter, with overworked staff, altogether too many customers being served soup, rain pouring down outside. The tables and chairs are second-hand, don’t match, and everything looks old and worn-out and barely holding together. Arthur is talking with the manager of the shelter.

“This is unconscionable.” It wasn’t often that Arthur got angry, but this was one of those occasions. He was working as a volunteer for this homeless shelter one night a week, and the conditions that he saw some people struggling to survive in shocked him. “Why is this allowed?” he demanded of the manager. “Why is something not done?”

The manager was in awe of Arthur. Arthur tended to have that effect on people. The manager was glad that the anger was not being directed as him. Even so, he was nervous. “Not enough money. We do the best we can with what we’ve got, but there’s just too many homeless and not enough resources.”

“Why is this permitted?” Arthur thundered. “Why do those who have responsibility for the care of this country allow this obscenity?”

“I really can’t say, sir.” The manager then wondered why he automatically called the volunteer sir, but it just seemed sort of natural.

“I will tell you why. It is because people have forgotten that the strong need to protect and care for the weak. It is because people think only of rights and not of responsibilities. Duty and service have been forgotten.”

“We do what we can.” The manager was feeling apologetic.

“Indeed, you do, and you do so heroically. If there were more like you, then there would be no need for this work. And why do the powerful not fulfil their duties?”

He’s about to tell me, thought the manager, feeling proud that Arthur had called him heroic.

“I shall tell you why. It is because the link between the powerful and the weak has been broken. There was a time when the powerful had to care for the weak, because their power depended on the strength of the weak. That link has been broken, and this is the result. No-one protects the weak.”

The manager shrugged uncomfortably. “Well, that’s life. What can you do?”

“What can I do?” Arthur had mistaken the rhetorical question for a specific question. “I shall see to it that this obscenity, this perversion of the proper order is brought to an end. I shall see to it that the powerful are reminded of their responsibilities. And if they pay no heed, then they shall be powerful no more.”

As soon as he said the words, he felt better. He now had a purpose, a Quest. He would gather the others and explain to them what they had to do.

Scene 2.

Bill’s flat, early morning. Bill, Arthur, and Marion are talking. They’re standing, drinking coffee, but the atmosphere is tense. The lighting is harsh and bright, and the rising morning sun can be seen through the window.

“Bill, something has to be done. I will not stand by and allow this to continue.” Arthur wasn’t showing any signs of anger, but he was clearly firm and unmoving on the issue. “My knights stand firm with me on this.”

Bill waited for Marion to disagree, and he knew that he was in trouble when she didn’t.

“Arthur is completely right,” said Marion. “I fought against poverty and oppression in Sherwood, and nothing has been done to end it. We can relieve a bit here and a bit there, but we cannot stem the flood without going to the source.”

“Are you agreeing with me?” asked Arthur in some surprise.

“When you happen to be right, I will agree with you. It doesn’t happen very often, but I am fair. In this case, you are agreeing with me. I have been fighting poverty and injustice for far longer than you.”

“I ensured that there was no poverty and injustice to fight against.”

“What makes you think you would have known if there was poverty and injustice? Who would have told you?”

“My knights were charged with seeking out such.”

“And who would have told them? Would they have told you?”

“I went in disguise to see for myself.”

“Right, because no-one would ever see through your disguise. Arthur, you stand about as much chance of passing yourself off as a peasant as Bill has of passing himself off as a man-at-arms.”

“At least I know for certain you will always speak your mind to me,” Arthur said.

“Is that a compliment?” Marion sounded surprised.

“It is. A king needs someone who will always speak truth to him, and I love you for it. I came to Britain in its hour of need, and I cannot do this without you.”

“I came for the same purpose, and I arrived first. Therefore, it is I who cannot do it without you.”

Bill was happy while they bickered. It had given him a chance to think. “Do you really think that I hadn’t thought this through carefully? We need to go wisely and slowly. Those who rush, stumble and fall. We need to prepare the way.”

“So, what is your careful, well thought out plan?” Arthur asked. The scepticism in his voice was very evident.

He’s on to me, Bill thought. “We need to raise your profile so that you’re both top drawers. We need to raise the profile of the others so that they are known. And we need to raise the profile of the subject. It’s all about persuasion of the public.”

“Bill, you’re simply making this up as you go along, aren’t you,” Marion said.

Arthur laughed. “Have you only just noticed?”

“There’s no need to pretend that you noticed before.”

“I’ve had long experience with Myrddin’s so-called plans. And in dealing with the schemes of Morgan and Mordred and Morgawse. Those were challenging.” Arthur glanced at Bill. “This is but the scheming of a child.”

Marion grinned. “It looks like you’ve got problems with people whose names begin with Mor?”

Arthur snorted. “The accent has shifted because my current problem is with a Marion. Now it is Mar, no longer Mor.”

“You think that I’m a problem?”

“I think you’re an irritant, and an irritant in an oyster makes a pearl; to me, you’re a pearl beyond price.”

Damn, that’s good, thought Bill. I may have to steal it.

“You will, Bill, you will. What is your well thought out plan?” Arthur seemed amused.

Damn. Now he’s a mindreader. “A new film. You are both superheroes, and you both have a secret identity as investigative reporters for rival papers. You are both great rivals, and you are constantly bickering, although I’ve no idea where I got that idea from, and you’re both competing with each other for stories. Neither of you know that the other is really a hero. This leads to the humour, where each of you tries to hide your secret when you are both summoned to an emergency. Obviously, when you meet as heroes, you get on well, but otherwise you constantly bicker. If you can imagine that.

“Then you both start to investigate a big story that takes you both into the world of those struggling to survive amidst poverty, where you meet your comrades, who are doing what they can to alleviate the ills. Frank is perhaps a Fagin figure, keeping orphans alive and forming a band of young crooks to survive; Wayne is a priest protecting the green sleeve ladies [1]; Harold is a soldier broken down and down on his luck, and so on.

“Then a threat arises, and the rich and powerful flee, leaving you two alone to face the threat. With help from your new comrades, you triumph. Then, when the rich and powerful return once the threat is defeated, Arthur says: “Things will be different from now on.” Then we fade to credits.”

He could have guessed. Marion had something to say. “Why does Arthur get the final line?”

“Because it needs gravitas to deliver, not petulance,” said Arthur.

“So why you, and not me?”

“Because I led a kingdom and have gravitas. You led a motley crew, although I will grant that you do well in that. For a maid.”

Desperately, Bill intervened. These two could bicker all day. He started improvising the ending wildly. He could always change it. “Arthur gets the last word. You get the last visual. As the camera fades to credits, you’re seen with your hand on your belly, looking content and happy. A new life for a new world.”

“How the hell did you know?” Marion demanded.

Scene 3.

A busy film set, with huge amounts of confusion in the background, and people waiting around for their time to get involved. Focus is a small waiting area where people sit around and talk.

“Of course not,” Marion said to Arthur. “It was just very amusing to see both you and Bill silenced for once. A moment of peace, and your face was a picture. But we’ve a realm that we have to save first.”

“It is a jest that will not work a second time, but this once, it succeeded.” Arthur paused. “And I admit to being disappointed. A son will be nice.”

“What’s wrong with a daughter?”

“Nothing. It’s just that it is preferable if the first-born is a son.”

*****

“What are they arguing over now?” Gawain asked his wife.

“Whether their first-born should be a boy or a girl,” said Ragnall evenly as she knitted.

Gawain consider this. “He never argued with Gwen so much as he does with Marion. In fact, I can’t recall him ever arguing with Gwen.”

“Aye. And look how that turned out.”

“But we never argue.”

“That’s because you have the sense to leave decisions regarding the home to me, and I have the sense to leave decisions regarding adventure to you.”

*****

“Caradoc, why did it take you so long to get across London?” Geraldine stroked the wolf that was at Caradoc’s side.

“Because I tried to use the giant metal worm that carries people.”

Geraldine thought for a moment. “The Tube? But that’s fairly quick.” She was puzzled.

“That may be true, but getting to the metal worm took hours.”

“Why is that?” Geraldine was curious.

“Because of the sign at the entrance to the descent into the Underworld.”

Geraldine raised a questioning eyebrow.

“Because of the sign,” said Caradoc. “Dogs must be carried on the escalator. I didn’t have a dog to carry, so I had to seek out a dog that I could carry. This is Cú na hoíche – Hound of the Night.”

Geraldine stroked the wolf under the chin, the wolf raising its head in pleasure. “Where did you get him?”

“From the Park of the Regent.”

*****

Francis was wary of Chris. He had known him back in the day, and knew him to be one of Walsingham’s men, a rakehell involved in much scandal, especially as with regards to Lady Arbella Stuart. Some people had all the luck. Sixteen and very beddable. And, by all accounts, quite biddable.

“Chris, how on earth did you get here? I heard Frizer had stabbed you. What was it over? Money? Women? Walsingham?”

“All three, actually. We’d just solved the Babington plot, and I was reporting to my handler. There was only his wife and daughter there, and you know how one thing can lead to another. Then he refused to pay me, claiming I had already taken my payment. Then, in the pub afterwards, I got into an argument over the pay with Frizer, who hadn’t earned his share. I stabbed him, and he stabbed me. He did a better job than I did, and I died.”

“That’s rather the point, though. You died. How did you come back?”

“Look who’s talking,” said Chris.

“That’s different. There was a prophecy about me.”

Chris shook his head sadly. “Frank, there was a note found on my body saying I would be murdered and would serve my country again when the time was right. Written in iambic pentameters, so I guess we know who’s responsible for that. And they said I was in league with the Devil.”

*****

Bill and Geoff were talking. “Look, Geoff, the film is nearly finished. We’re running out of time for that document to be found. Can’t you hurry things along a bit?”

“What can you do? I’ve been sending underlings to seek out information on procedures in bizarre situations, always where the document is, but they’re so stupid, they can’t find it. I suppose that’s the level of stupidity you have to expect from Oxbridge layabouts. They’ll find it in the end. I’ve given them enough clues.”

“You’re confident about Parliamentary precedent?”

“Of course. My son was Speaker of the Commons. I made the document back in the day, along with a whole bunch of others. He filed all the records I might possibly need. Now it is just a matter of making sure that the right ones are found.”

“Including the details of succession if a King should come back to life?”

“There’s not a lot of precedent for it, but I’ve got it covered. You need to worry about making this film a success. Let me worry about the documents.”

Scene 4.

An expensive hotel ballroom, filled with people in very expensive clothes, journalists checking on possible stories, waiters circulating with drinks and tiny meals on trays.

They had done the red carpet thing at the premier of the film. The heroes had taken pretty well to being treated like, well, heroes. Caradoc had brightened someone’s day by pausing on the carpet as he was entering and inviting one of the crowd to join him and Cú na hoíche. To the surprise of absolutely no-one, the person he invited was a pretty lady. Security had a fit, but it is strange to relate that heroes from legend rarely have much concern about others protecting them.

They’d had the post-Premiere party, at which the great and good were entertained and had their egos massaged by being present in such exalted company. Marion had fed the gossip monster by not drinking alcohol, saying that she was on antibiotics for a stomach upset. While the heroes circulated, posing for pictures with many at the party, Bill and Arthur discussed what Arthur was to say at the upcoming press conference.

There were many film-critics present; their job was to explain to their readers why things that are popular are, in fact, rubbish, and why things that are not popular are, in fact, works of fine art. They were a bit disconcerted by their discussions with Cuthbert, as he explained about the need for unification in matters physical, mental, and spiritual. The critics realised that Cuthbert had to be highly intellectual because they couldn’t understand him.

Eventually, once those from the Press had been sufficiently entertained and put into a good mood, Arthur indicated that the press call was to take place. Arthur went to the podium, Marion stood beside him, and the heroes lined up behind them, looking for all the world like a still on a publicity photograph. Marion and Bill knew that whatever Arthur might say, he would not lie. This worried Bill, who regarded a lie as simply a play on words. Arthur’s refusal to lie also pleased Marion’s sense of honour.

“Your Majesties,” Arthur started, with a slight trace of humour in his voice. “Well, you never know when a monarch might be hiding in disguise amongst the multitude. We trust you enjoyed the film, and we trust you worked out who the heroes were. Marion and I played the lead, and we had powers, but we weren’t the heroes.

“My colleagues, who played the supporting roles, were playing heroes, but they weren’t the heroes of this story.

“The heroes of this tale are those who do for real what we merely displayed. The scenes of squalor and deprivation that we showed are a much-sanitised version of what is happening for real on our streets, and it is a disgrace that such things are allowed to exist. My comrades and I have seen these things for ourselves. We give our services to shelters and centres, and we have seen the real heroes, those struggling without money or support or even recognition, working selflessly to make a difference and to improve the lot of the less fortunate.” Arthur’s voice took on an edge.

“A long time ago, there was a man with the same name as me, Arthur Pendragon, and I have a great interest in his life. He ruled Britain, and he knew that with power and wealth, there came a duty to protect the weak. The code of chivalry may have fallen out of favour, but I think he would be much angered at the obscenities I have seen in my small time volunteering.

“Everyone here has riches beyond the dreams of those in distress. Well, enough is enough. My comrades and I are in agreement. We shall take action.

“Firstly, we have agreed that every penny of profit from the film shall go to the aid of the shelters for those unfortunates depicted. I urge everyone to see the film. Hate it, by all means, if it is not to your humour. I gather the film critics are united in their dislike of the tale. But spend your money to see it, for it will bring help to others.”

Not all of Arthur’s comrades seemed quite so keen on the prospect of no profit from the film, but they seemed to accept the decision.

Arthur went on. “Secondly, we are all agreed that anyone who works for us must, as part of their Oath of Employment, carry out some voluntary work in accordance with their skills and capabilities and beliefs. This is inviolable, as it should be obvious to all that with Rights come Responsibilities, and with Privilege comes Duty. King Arthur knew this to be true, I know this to be true, and I am certain that you know this to be true.

“We hope that this will be an example. I expect we will be seeing many of you people of the media performing an hour or two of voluntary work.

“Third, my comrades and I agree that it is not the people of this country that are broken. We have seen enough heroes labouring for the good of all to know that the people of this land are of good heart. If it is not the people that are broken, then it is the system. And if it is the system that is broken, then it is up to us to fix the system.

“We cannot do that as actors, nor as volunteers, nor by simply giving money to those we favour. There is only one way that we can change the system. That way is for the people of the United Kingdoms to elect me as Prime Minister. Arthur Pendragon was once Over-King, and it seems only right that Arthur Pendragon should be Prime Minister. I understand that in a few months, there will be an election. Arthur Pendragon will enter the lists. Does the Press have any questions?”

“Omotope Haranganda, BBC. How will that work, exactly? You stand as an MP, and the party with the highest number of seats wins, and the leader of that party becomes PM. Are you joining a party? Which party?”

“I will not join any party. They are the ones that have broken the system. Thus, I shall lead the Independents. Any Independent candidate that will swear fealty to me shall be part of my Independents. When we gain a majority, then by the laws, I shall be the Over-Prime Minister.”

“But even if you won, how would you get anything done? They’ll all have different opinions, and there will be constant arguments.”

“Have you heard my wife and myself discuss things? And yet we get things done. Marion, do you have anything to say?”

“First of all, Arthur, I am not your wife. You are my husband. You agreed to marry me, not the other way round. Second, constant argument means that ideas get exchanged. You listen for good ideas, you test them in the fire of robust debate, and you choose the best. How can you test an idea if no-one puts it under pressure?”

Arthur continued. “I do not care a jot if a constituency representative believes that the world is a ball circling a fiery orb, and some invisible power keeps us fixed to the ground. If they represent their fiefdom strongly and well, ensure that it is well-run, and serves honestly those that they represent, then no leader can ask for more.”

“John Baxter, Sun. Marion, our readers want to know if you’re pregnant. There have been a lot of rumours.”

Arthur looked as though he might explode. Marion put a hand on his arm, and she answered. “That is your question? You’re told of a scheme to help this country, of vile oppressions that are taking place, worse than anything in Sherwood under King John, of the failure of the privileged to fulfil their duties, and the question you want answered is whether I’m pregnant?”

To give the reporter his due, he stood his ground. “Changing the country, that’s not something our readers can do much about. Celebrity gossip is always of interest.”

Marion bristled and sounded annoyed. “To answer your question, the first person to hear any such news will be my husband.”

“And as for the point about changing the country,” said Arthur. “Your readers will have a role, and an interest. The constituency MP will be held accountable by that constituency. If your reader does not like what their chosen representative is doing, then they can speak their mind to them, and the MP will have no protection from the party or from anyone outside of the constituency. The MP serves the constituency, and if the constituency likes not how it is served, then the MP is out.”

The reporter was puzzled. “But how will national decisions be made?”

“I’ll be giving details during the election tournament.”

“Laura Aresi, ITV. Is what you’re proposing even legal?”

“Laura, one thing I am very certain of is that there will be many lawyers looking into this.” Arthur smiled. He’d got through that without having to tell a single lie.

Scene 5.

A journalist at her desk, overflowing with notes. A busy newsroom, people rushing around, phones constantly ringing.

Sian Hill thought she was going mad. How much of a journey that would be might have been in question, but she kept going over her notes, and she kept coming to the same impossible conclusion.

The Internet was home to all the weird and bizarre conspiracies known to humanity, but this took the biscuit. It was the Area 51 of the Elvis Lives Flat Earthers. She knew about insanity. She’d done an article on crazies, and she had interviewed dozens of them. Most of them were obvious crackpots, but a few sounded plausible.

Tom, for example. Apart from being a complete creep and a total arsehole, and his medical notes said that he was a potentially violent sexual predator, he knew his Arthurian myth. OK, he claimed to have written it, which rather dented his credibility. [2] Luckily, Sian could claim journalistic protection of sources to conceal the total lack of credibility of her sources.

But he knew his Arthurian myth, and a phrase he had used niggled away at her. He’d said: “Arthur Pendragon is Arthur Pendragon.”

The worrying part was that it was starting to make a crazy sort of bizarre sense. She’d looked at Pendragon’s records, and they came across as something that a civil servant might create for someone. Whenever she spoke to people from his supposed background, none of them could remember him, which didn’t sound terribly likely. Some people claimed that they did, but Sian was, like any good journalist, skilled at spotting when someone was trying to ride coat-tails.

She had checked the pictures of Arthur Pendragon and compared them with descriptions of King Arthur. As far as she could tell, they matched. Mind you, probably a million men in England matched the descriptions, so that wasn’t much in the way of proof.

Then she looked at Arthur’s wife, Marion. Marion Fitzwalter. That happened to be one of the names attributed to Maid Marion. It was the same story when back-checking her history, and the same story when checking against historical descriptions.

With a growing sense of disbelief, she checked up on the others in Arthur’s film. Wayne could be Sir Gawain, Harry could be King Harold, Cary could be Caradoc, although that got complicated by the fact that he was usually called Caractacus by the Roman sources, and there were several famous Caradocs anyway.

She took a deep breath and wondered if she should take up drinking. If she was right, this was a huge story that no-one would publish. If she was wrong, then she was ready for an asylum.

If she was going to follow this up, she would have to do so without authorisation, because no editor would approve this. She had to disguise it somehow. Still, Arthur was a celebrity, so she could chase up a story about him, and kill two birds with one bush. Maybe her own story could be written up as fiction. Most of her articles were fiction anyway. “Arthur Pendragon is Arthur Pendragon,” she muttered.

She needed three things: an in, a cover story, and an assistant who wouldn’t ask too many questions, or have an original thought. The cover story had to be this publicity stunt of becoming a politician. Why the change, giving up a new career in acting for one in, well, acting? She would have to work out the details of her line of questioning on the fly.

As for the assistant, that was easy. The intern that no-one wanted, who drifted along dutifully, doing as she was told, getting involved with totally unsuitable men. What was her name? Something Welsh.

Gwyneth, that was it.

Scene 6.

Bill’s flat, late morning. Papers scattered around, and signs that the normally spotless flat is receiving less attention than before.

Bill was annoyed. Arthur was taking control of the situation, and it was supposed to be the three puppet masters that were in control. Heroes should be simple to control. Just give them a taste of glory, and they could be led by the nose. Kings and Queens were much the same. A dollop of flattery, and they would order you to do what you wanted and pay you handsomely for it as well.

As usual, Arthur and Marion weren’t following the script. That whole business with donating the profits of the film to charity, it was a masterstroke of publicity. Bill would have applauded it if they had been making a sequel. As it was, they would be stuck with the miserable profits they would make from the merchandising. If he had known what they were going to do in advance, he would have included more merchandising options into the film.

And Arthur had simply announced that they were going into politics. That had been the plan anyway, but Arthur was supposed to be following the timetable Bill had in mind.

God knows how they would get this Independent scheme sorted out. Geoff and Chris had shouted at him for the complications this had caused, as though controlling Arthur was easy – or even possible. Luckily, Geoff had precedent on his side with regard to what constitutes a political party. It seemed different members of the same party didn’t have to agree on anything other than the name of the party. How it was organised or funded or run or made policy decisions was up to the party. It had taken a bit of arm-twisting, but with the details Chris had on some of the legal experts, they had been persuaded to advise the Government and Opposition that there were no legal grounds for objection.

Now he had this meeting with this stupid journalist. Honestly, when he was trying to get publicity for the film, no-one was interested. Now, everyone wanted to talk to Arthur and Marion.

A knock on the door and two women entered. One was a harried looking journalist, and the other was the most beautiful woman that Bill had ever seen.

“Sian Hill,” said the journalist. “My intern, Gwyneth. She’s learning the ropes. I hope you don’t mind her sitting in.”

Bill sighed.

“As an imperfect actor on the stage

“Who with his fear is put beside thy part.

“I shall try to answer as best I can.”

“My ancestor wrote those first two lines,” Gwyneth whispered.

Bill’s heart sang. The angel was a relative of his, and she had the most beautiful voice. “Your ancestor?”

“That’s right. The Earl of Oxford. He wrote plays and stuff.”

Bill’s first reply was so high-pitched that it could only be heard by dogs. When he got his voice back, he said: “The Earl of Oxford didn’t write that. I, that is, Shakespeare wrote that.”

“It’s the same thing. Everyone knows that Shakespeare’s stuff was written by the Earl of Oxford. Personally, I don’t like it, but some people do. But the plots are, you know, silly. I mean, those witches in MacDuff never made sense.”

“Well, that’s Jimmy for you,” Bill began. He drew himself together. “Look, perhaps we had better get on with the interview.”

Sian had several questions for Bill. He was depressed to discover that they were all about Arthur and his background. Where had he come from? What did he do before acting? How did he meet Marion?

Bill sighed. It was always about Arthur. “Before acting, he was on the stage. He was a poor player on the stage, but I saw that he might do well in front of the camera. It seems to have worked.”

“Did you get that, Gwen?” Sian asked.

The interview went on. Bill would have spun it out for ever, if he could, just to spend a few more moments with this angel. He had a little authority, and he tried all his word tricks, and Gwyneth, this Gwen, she seemed to understand them. She said little, but he could see her jotting down little improvements to his words.

Eventually, Sian came to the point. Obviously, she wanted an interview with Arthur.

“I’ll see what I can do. Obviously, I’ll sit in on the interview, and I’m sure your intern will learn a lot.”

Sian agreed, and Bill’s heart sang at the thought of his seeing Gwyneth once again. Bill promised to get in touch with details of the arrangements for the interview.

Sian nodded. “That’s fine. Are you ready, Gwen?”

Bill watched dreamily as the two women left. He corrected himself. One woman and one angel from Heaven.

Bill felt like writing a sonnet to Gwen. The very name had a fair ring to it. Her voice was like the soft caress of clouds, and her face would put Helen of Troy to shame, and he longed to stroke, even with just the merest touch, her face.

Hang on, Bill thought. What was the Earl of Oxford’s name?

Edward, that was it.

Edward de Vere.

Hang on, that meant …

His Gwyneth was Gwen de Vere.

Oh dear.

Interlude

Chorus on a bare stage.

The stage is now set, the players in place.

The King has returnéd, his crown to claim.

In days to come, his Britain will have need

Of Arthur’s honour and knightly virtue.

Though wise he is, he is a man unwise.

Alas for Britain, for Arthur seems fit

To be undone by a lass and a queen.

A maid holds his heart just as he holds hers,

Thus marrying his love, his Marion.

But the course of true love never runs smooth

And if the Queen of Hearts doth break some hearts

Then what will be the Bill for Britain?

A contest to be won, and foes undone

A task so heroic for our legend

With staunch allies that do beside him stand,

And Death already a foe overcome

What need the King to fear save fear itself?

Will love undo the last hope of the land?

The game is afoot, the actors in play.

The King, his Maid, the Queen, my humble self.

So let the play unfold, the chips shall fall

As they may, and this day, we cry: “Game on!”

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[1] “Green sleeve ladies” was an Elizabethan term for prostitute 

[2] Thomas Malory, author of Morte d’Arthur.

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David Flin has written & edited a large number of alternate history books and all-ages novels, and edited Comedy Throughout the (P)Ages and How To Write Alternate History.