By Stephen R. Lawhead
In a forgotten age of darkness an impressive king arose to gentle the world.
They known as him not worthy to rule—a lowborn, callow boy, Uther's bastard. yet his coming were foretold within the songs of the bard Taliesin. He had realized the makes use of of energy from his advisor and protector, Merlin. He was once Arthur, Pendragon of the Island of the Mighty—who might upward thrust to mythical greatness in a Britain torn through violence, greed and warfare; the Lord of summer season who could bring in an excellent reign of peace and prosperity… and whose noble, trusting center will be damaged through treachery.
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Additional info for Arthur (The Pendragon Cycle, Book 3)
He had enjoyed the earlier train trip through Europe. In Rome he’d even got a chance to visit the room where Keats died and the Protestant cemetery, where he’d seen the poet’s grave. Standing above the simple headstone near the grand Pyramid of Cestius he’d looked down at the engraving of a broken lyre and the strangely ambiguous epitaph: Here lies one whose name was writ in water. The poet’s friend Charles Brown had interpreted this as Keats’ abandonment of any hope of posthumous fame, but standing there looking at it with the perspective of eighty years’ hindsight Arthur liked to think it was not this simple.
Part of its facade was covered in a crude scaffolding and half-naked workmen clambered over its stone like animated hieroglyphs. Arthur realised it must be Beit el Ajaib, the House of Wonders that Frank had written to him about, and on closer inspection he saw he was right. There, behind the scaffolding, the white walls gave to a shattered dark hole, the last remaining damage of the British shells that had thudded into the palace back in 1896 in what turned out to be the world’s shortest war. Just forty minutes long, Frank had said.
Her face dismantled under the weight of them, and gave way completely with a bursting sob as she pushed her chair away from the table and ran through the huge double doors into the central vestibule. They heard her small feet on the wooden floorboards receding behind them, then the slam of another heavy door. The merchant looked sheepishly around at them all. ‘Gosh, I do apologise. It’s been a long day, and the heat you know…I’ll just…’ He made to get out of his chair. ’ It was the Governor’s wife, speaking for the first time that night.
Arthur (The Pendragon Cycle, Book 3) by Stephen R. Lawhead