Galahad - Paul Newman

 (Halsgrove, 2004, 126 pages)

I spent quite a while trying to pin down the genre of this idiosyncratic novel. Eventually I decided on the Polonius-style definition of ‘alternative historical fantasy’, and that’s about as close as I can get.
The narrative – ‘and I swear by the Holy Rood it is all true’ – follows our titular hero from childhood to adulthood, from innocence to experience. Galahad begins with the intention of becoming a novice monk, but alas, he is assigned to the monastery at Cerne Abbas, where he soon learns that God is not the community’s most prominent member. With his purity somewhat compromised and his religious ambitions thus thwarted, he embarks on knighthood, eventually becoming a knight of the Round Table, sent by Arthur on a quest for the Holy Grail – which is what forms the backbone of this book.
The setting, as my classification above hints at, is a somewhat elastic one. The fantasy label stems not so much from the inclusion of magic – there’s very little – but rather characters and creatures from myth and folk tales: Herne the Hunter, for example. I call it ‘alternative’ because the past it purports to be set in never really existed. Defined in the novel as the ‘Dark Ages’, it’s actually a realm where Iron Age tribes rub shoulders
with Roman names and dress, and marauding Vikings – although the milieu is overwhelmingly Medieval, with lots of talk of chivalry, knights charging around in hauberks (well, a bit more than hauberks, actually, but you get the idea), and castles in plenty. Many anachronisms are clearly deliberate (the proto-disco lights, for one); with others it’s harder to tell. Having read the novel before, I was prepared to take it on its own terms in this regard, and by and large that was fairly easy.
There were times, however, when the novel felt a bit uneven. Galahad wasn’t an uninteresting character, but in many ways I preferred his younger self; the older Galahad can be an endearing rogue, but he also has a world-weary cynicism that might have benefited, I feel, from more humour to complement it. That’s not to say that the novel isn’t funny: indeed, I could go further with my earlier definition and try terming it ‘alternative historical comic fantasy’. But that too can be a bit of a hit-and-miss affair: some parts are extremely amusing, whereas elsewhere, the humour can seem forced.
This sort of see-sawing characterises the novel as a whole for me. Sometimes the vignettes which form the tale are entertaining, sometimes they appear strained attempts to make a point or joke; sometimes Newman’s prose tips into cliché, sometimes it’s captivating and innovative; sometimes the dialogue snaps, sometimes it’s banal; sometimes Galahad’s ‘philosophical’ asides are tedious, sometimes they’re interesting; and sometimes the characters seem flat, whilst at others they’re appealing. I do wonder if tighter editing may have been beneficial here. Closer proof-reading would certainly have been so: there are numerous spelling issues (the Dylfric/Dyfric switching is enough to make your head spin), word muddles (e.g. ‘Father’ instead of ‘Farmer’), omissions, and repetitions, including one several lines long.
‘[T]his book’ says Galahad, ‘should appeal to all, from swineherds to archbishops’. Well, when I first read it back in 2008, I really enjoyed it. Now it’s a bit of a curate’s egg for me. In some places it definitely seems a bit off – but there are parts that are excellent. And as a final comment: I think it’s testament to Newman’s ability that, even though I knew the ending, it was still as poignant for me as it was four years ago.
A quirky reworking of the Grail Quest with some enjoyable elements. And disco lights.

Sword at Sunset - Rosemary Sutcliff

(Chicago Review Press, 2008, 495 pages)

First published in 1963, Sword at Sunset is perhaps Rosemary Sutcliff’s best known adult novel, a vivid re-imagining of the myth that is King Arthur. Sutcliff strips away the medieval ‘romance’ here, instead drawing sparingly on Welsh tradition, and grounding her tale very much in the realities of the post-Roman era, as the inhabitants of Britain struggle against not just the rising tide of the Anglo-Saxon ‘Sea Wolves’ and their allies, but dangerous division amongst themselves.  
The story is narrated by Sutcliff’s Arthur, Artos, as he lies dying of a battle wound in the monastery of the Island of Apples, and takes us on a journey from his early years as the Count of Britain, the canny head of a roving warband whose purpose is to break Anglo-Saxon power in Britain, through to his election as High King and beyond. But the novel doesn’t charge straight into battle: Sutcliff starts slowly, building up a detailed sense of Artos’ world and his character, so that although I was unsure about him at first, I gradually came to respect, and then to like him. Artos makes a thoroughly believable post-Roman warleader, not above using trickery and threats – even towards his own people – if it allows him to further his cause; but although he has his flaws, he’s also very human: dogged and made vulnerable by a fateful encounter in his home hills, committed to his cause, afraid of the loneliness accompanying authority, and in many respects honest, decent and loyal, it’s easy to empathise with him, and of all the characters in the book, he was my favourite. Sutcliff said that she was more 'deeply involved' with this novel than any other, and described herself as 'living' as Artos during the time she was writing it, and it’s perhaps a mark of this involvement that whilst her style is very distinctive, I never felt I was listening to anyone other than Artos himself. Her other characters were well drawn, their natures often deftly conveyed by just a few well chosen words, and the relationships between them are emotionally powerful and compelling – especially between Artos and his two closest companions, Guenhumara and Bedwyr.  
The descriptions of surroundings and events are, as ever, detailed and vibrant, especially visually – the passages depicting sunsets stand out particularly – which leaves a strong impression of having actually experienced them. Sutcliff, from what I’ve read of her work so far, wasn’t one to shy away from describing bloodshed and cruelty either, and this novel is no exception: there are several images of gut-wrenching violence, although it’s never gratuitous. 
As might be expected given the novel’s grounding, there’s no real magic in this book – and no Merlin, either, for that matter – only a strong sense of Fate, the whims of which some people can discern, and others can’t. At first I felt that the way in which Artos picked up each of his companions along the way seemed somewhat neat and linear, but viewed as part of the current of Fate, it makes perfect sense.
My only real niggle with the novel was the portrayal of the Little Dark People, a semi-subterranean race of pygmy people (rather like the Picts of legend) with Neolithic aspects, which occasionally brought me up short. But if I’m honest, they eventually blended in with the rest of the tale, and it ended up seeming as if they always had.
Overall, a masterful imagining of who and what the original ‘King Arthur’ may have been, well written and with deft references to the old legends. Towards the beginning of the novel, Artos, when trying Ambrosius the High King’s sword, speaks of it being ‘perfectly balanced’. I think the same can be said of Rosemary Sutcliff’s tale.