Did King Arthur exist?

I won’t even attempt to answer that question—‘tis folly. A simple Google search reveals hundreds of articles and a vast corpus of literature devoted to either making the case or debunking the myth.

I’m no Arthurian scholar, but I believe a historical Arthur existed … though not as the myths would have you believe. I believe he was no king, but a British warlord. And that he won a great victory or victories against the Saxons in the former half of the sixth century. The evidence for this is not archeological, but the loose outlines of the story recur in several old medieval manuscripts, including Welsh poetry, and Geoffrey of Monmouth’s History of the Kings of Britain.

I’m joined in this belief by Bernard Cornwell, author of the Warlord Trilogy, a modern retelling of the King Arthur myth set in sixth century Britain, deep in the dark ages after the fall of Rome.

Beyond the scant details noted above, we know almost nothing of the “historical” Arthur.

Who Arthur was, how he lived, who he surrounded himself with, are essentially unknowable, which makes 95% of the myth a likely fiction. He was no king, of any sort we’d recognize. Launcelot, Guinevere, Excalibur, the shining fortress of Camelot, the quest for the holy grail, etc., are all very likely manufactured by the likes of Thomas Malory and Chrétien de Troyes.

You’ll notice I’m hedging here by adding, “likely.” Because we don’t exactly know why and how these stories took root, or why they survived when so many others were lost.

Besides, only fools would have you believe that there is no truth (or Truth) in the stories themselves.

Historical accuracy is vital for understanding sequences of events, socioeconomic realities, and technological progress. These are small “t” truths, defined as either relatively well-known and observable facts, or commonly held and accepted beliefs.

Then there is capital T truth, the truth of emotional and human existence. Which historical truth in no way negates. The story of Arthur contains truths equally as important as historical fact. Some will tell you that only material facts matter; do not heed them. They will mislead you, or present a version of reality that misses the interior life of human existence, all itsmessiness and passions and swings of emotion.

L. Sprague de Camp, being a historian and scientist, was a stickler for historical detail. Which made him a poorer author of sword-and-sorcery fiction than Robert E. Howard (De Camp admits this in an admirably candid manner in his autobiography Time and Chance). The more emphasis you place on stirrups and sallets, the more you detract from the clocksprings of human emotion, and how we make sense of the world.

What are the truths in the Arthurian myths? That there is a human nature. That there is worthiness in the struggle on the side of right, even against hopeless odds. That we must submit to duty, and responsibility … which taken to their extremes will conflict with personal relationships. Of the importance of order. Of keeping one’s oath, balanced against the need for freedom, magical thinking, and even a little chaos in our lives. Of the devastation of betrayal, and how the betrayed is irreparably altered by such an experience.

One author who understands this is Cornwell. I recently re-read his Warlord Trilogy and found it to be a compelling take on how a (loosely) historical Arthur might have operated. Cornwell places deliberate historical anachronisms in his story, because he couldn’t bear to give up the likes of Launcelot, Galahad, Excalibur, and Camelot. That would not do.

But from these scant details and some admitted and dear fabrications Cornwell creates a compelling and believable version of what Arthur’s life and times in Dark Ages Britain might have actually looked like: A war torn land beset by marauding Irish raiders and Saxon colonizers, opposed by scattered British kings ruling over a splintered land, against a backdrop of decaying Roman architecture and the clash of fading pagan belief against upstart Christianity.

This rich historical background adds believability to the tale of Arthur, a warlord who united a splintered land and temporarily checked the Saxon incursions through a series of shrewd political maneuverings and battlefield victories. Not while wearing plate armor and riding out of a turreted castle, but in the dress of a rough battle lord, standing in a shield wall in ring mail or crude scale armor, fighting the Saxons with spears and swords and brute force.

Some Britons abandoned the desperate fight and fled for France (which explains why the myths sprung up so strongly there), but others remained, and fought against the encroaching dark, and chaos. This is the story of The Warlord Trilogy. Says Cornwell:

“The Winter King is, then, a tale of the Dark Ages in which legend and imagination must compensate for the dearth of historical records… But for those Britons who remained in their beloved island it was a time when they desperately sought salvation, both spiritual and military, and into that unhappy place came a man who, at least for a time, repelled the enemy. That man is my Arthur, a great warlord and a hero who fought against impossible odds to such effect that even fifteen hundred years later his enemies love and revere his memory.”

In addition to his faithful portrayal of the facts of sixth century Britain, Cornwell also conveys a powerful Truth in the stories themselves. Arthur is a hard man, and he has to be, because he is all that stands between an ordered Briton and the chaos of Saxon invasion. At heart he wants to live the life of an ordinary farmer, but sadly that is not his lot:

Ceinwyn held me. “Did you not know that hardness in Arthur? she asked me softly.

“No.”

“He is all that stands between us and horror,” Ceinwyn said, “how could he be anything but hard?”

Gnawing away at the back of the mind while we read is the question, was Arthur right, or was he deluded? Do men really want peace? A glance around us today—when we have immeasurably superior material conditions and enjoy far greater prosperity and peace than a sixth century British warlord ever did, but use this bounty to tear out each other’s throats on social media—is probably all the answer we need. Cornwell supplies this insight, from the wise words of Merlin:

“Men don’t want peace, Arthur, they want distraction from tedium, while you desire tedium like a thirsty man seeks mead. Your reason won’t defeat the Gods, and the Gods will make sure of that.”

Arthur’s hardness and principled leadership threaten his friendship with Derfel, his lifelong companion and narrator of the story. They cost him his relationship to his sons. And ultimately they undermine his marriage to the headstrong, passionate Guinevere.

But we love him, and follow him, all the same. All the way to the end.

I’ll close with some rank speculation.

Can we be sure these old myths don’t have more (small t) truth to them then we are willing to admit? Entire libraries of ancient works were destroyed in the centuries following the fall of Rome. We have many blank spaces in our collective past. What did they contain? Why do some “myths” survive, while others are irreparably lost to time?

Read the scholarship, do your best to separate fact from fiction. But ultimately there is enough in these stories to lead me to believe there is more truth here than the most ardent skeptics would have you believe.

No matter how unbelievable the subject matter, the best fantasy tells the truth. Story piled on story over centuries thickens the veneer. From Malory to Tennyson, to Twain and White, to David Drake’s The Dragon Lord, and Excalibur, and today, to Cornwell and others.

Historical fiction—a combination of history and mythmaking—is the perfect genre to explore this intermingling of powerful myth and tenuous but persistent history. And Cornwell’s Warlord Trilogy lends a truth (and Truth) to the Matter of Britain few have equaled.

Brian Murphy is the author of Flame and Crimson: A History of Sword-and-Sorcery (Pulp Hero Press, 2020). Learn more about his life and work on his website, The Silver Key.