The High King's Return: a Modern Tale of King Arthur

Swish, swish.

The sword moved slowly, keeping pace with the seconds. "Hey buddy, are you one of them Beefeaters?" One of the friendly-faced Americans called to the sword-wielding man in a Southern drawl. Judy and Claire looked to the man with the sword and waited for his reply. Of course, they knew he wasn’t one of the Beefeaters, the guards attired in black and red Elizabethan garb who guarded the gates at the Tower of London. Judy and Claire had no idea who he was. A tour guide?

Then the fire-haired man shot a lilting reply in a language that wasn’t English. After experiencing a moment of confusion, or else perhaps affronted by the swordsman’s rudeness in not responding with something intelligible, the large American man frowned and turned away.

"Hey, Judy, I reckon that’s Welsh." Claire whispered, beginning to place his dialect.

"Oh, yeah?" Judy's tone held a note of skepticism; Claire apparently wasn't known for her intellect.

Meanwhile, the mediaeval Welshman had moved on past the group of Americans.

"Here, where does he think he’s going? Into Buckingham Palace?" Claire asked, making a joke.

However, the Welshman really was heading towards the motorway in front of the Palace gate.

"Hey, you can’t just walk across the roundabout. Here, you’ll get yourself killed, you will!" Claire yelled after him in growing concern, and the group of Americans turned around to gawk at her.

"Get out of the road!" A rough-faced man with his head poking out the window thundered at the Welshman as the cars zipped by.

The Welshman took a few steps into the traffic, unsheathing the magnificent, hard-edged sword he carried. The crowd watched in confusion, but the Welshman seemed to know what he was doing and where he was going.

Just then, a wren wheeled above the traffic, high above in the lead grey sky; the fire-haired man craned his head back a moment to look at it as though intent upon reading an augury.

There was a long pause; no one moved. All eyes flickered between the bird and the Welshman. Then, the Welshman suddenly stepped forward without looking. Before anything could be done to stop him, a speeding red Audi struck him just below the waist. The force of the impact flipped the Welshman up and over the car, and onto the tarmac.

The girls on the pavement screamed. The tourists stared; several passing drivers slowed to get a look at the accident.

The car that had hit the Welshman had stopped. After a moment, the driver got out and waved his arms about, quite obviously in a state of panic. There was a gash across the Welshman’s temple; he was lying on his back, with his arms and legs stretched in an unnatural position.

"Someone call an ambulance!" The driver yelled. Claire nodded hurriedly, then turned into a strange woman who had appeared behind the crowd.

The woman spoke no word as she threaded her way through the tourists. She was tall and her bearing regal, her long hair flowing like gold gilt over a heavy cloak that was out of time and place as the Welshman’s mail. The tourists stared as the woman passed by and stepped into the empty lanes on the motorway.

The fair-haired woman reached the point where the Welshman had fallen and slowly knelt at his side. She smoothed aside the blood-soaked hair across his forehead. Then she picked up his bright silver sword, Caladfwlch, with a ghostly, milk-white hand and returned it to the gold and crimson threaded scabbard at the man’s side. Her face showed no sign of effort as she reached under his arms and legs and lifted him easily. Her back was straight and her manner ethereal as she carried the wounded man back to the side of the motorway, her soft, white shoes now stained in blood.