We are on our way now to the spot that was long believed, and is still believed by many, to be the scene of his last battle: Slaughter Bridge. We turn off to the left in the outskirts of Camelford on rather a rough road to Camelford Station, and there take a narrow lane on the right which leads in a moment to the little grey bridge with the grim name. There is grim truth behind the name, moreover, for if it was not here, but in Scotland, that Arthur died, there has been slaughter on a large scale on the rushy banks of this brook that sings so gaily. Here, in the ninth century, Britons and Saxons fought and died by thousands, and no one knows to-day who won the battle.
On the left is the old gateway of Worthyvale. A little way within it is a wooden shed, where we shall find a guide to show us the ancient stone that does duty alternately as Arthur’s grave and his resting-place when he was wounded. Its age and position and probable origin are sufficiently romantic, for it is thought to be the tombstone of some warrior who was slain in the great battle. It lies now on level grass below the rocky bank, with the stream close beside it, and tree stems fringed with hart’s-tongues leaning over it. The path that leads to it is very steep and very slippery, and as one struggles down it the little barefooted guide prattles cheerfully of the ladies and old gentlemen who have, from time to time, fallen headlong into the stream.
From Slaughter Bridge a few miles, a few lanes, a few hills bring us, with hearts—even middle-aged hearts—beating a little faster than usual, to the very citadel and stronghold of that Land of Faery of which Arthur is the King.
Who can tell wherein the enchantment of Tintagel lies? Its crown of towers is gone; its glory is departed. Only, on the summit of the dark, steep island a few low walls, a doorway, and a window remain of the mediæval castle that seems to have no history. Not a stone here speaks of Arthur. Yet it is of Arthur only that we think.
And if there is no fragment here of the castle where Arthur was born, neither have we any visions of the Table Round, nor of Guinevere and her ladies, nor of Launcelot, nor Galahad; for the King’s court was not here. Only La Beale Isoud we may see sitting in her bower upon this rock, and Tristram kneeling at her feet, and behind him Mark with the uplifted sword. This was the stronghold of the ancient Cornish Earls; and if Arthur was born here it was because his birth was the result of magic, and not because Uther Pendragon had any rights in this place. But since we are here in a world of legend we may surely take the legend of our choice. Let us forget the ugly tale of Uther and Igerne, and remember only how, after the thunders of the storm upon this shore—
“There came a day as still as heaven, and then
They found a naked child upon the sands
Of dark Tintagel by the Cornish sea;
And that was Arthur.”