“Good evening,” Roberto said casually.
“And to you. Were you coming to the store? I could stay open…”
“Oh no, thanks. I’m just taking a walk and looking at the neighborhood. I’m staying in a hotel nearby and I’ve heard about this old part of London. It’s fascinating. So’s your store, for that matter.”
Edward tugged at his beard as he talked. “There’s a lot of strange stuff in there and just as many odd customers to go with it! Stop by sometime if you’re back in the area. You might find a potion or two that you could use.”
Roberto laughed and began walking away. “Have a good evening.”
He couldn’t go back the way he came because he figured the little church would be closed by now. He walked up St. Mary Axe to the busy Houndsditch Street, turned left and then right onto Bishopsgate. A block from his hotel, his senses went on alert. Something wasn’t right. He walked right past The Liverpool Hotel and went another block, turning at the corner into a shadowed alley. He stepped into the darkness and watched.
In a moment he saw someone stop and look down the alley. Seeing nothing, the person walked away.
The man’s profile was silhouetted against daylight from the street. Roberto knew who’d been following him – there was no mistaking that scraggly beard.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Edward’s initial annoyance at seeing Inspector Dalton come into the shop disappeared as quickly as it had arisen. The officer was pulling one of those portable sets of wheels with a square box on it. Edward knew immediately what it was – the last of the seven metal boxes from the basement – the one Gordon Foxworth had stolen when he broke into the shop. Things had gotten so hectic he’d forgotten about it.
Dalton had obviously forgotten too. “Sorry to be so long returning this. Forgive me, but it completely slipped my mind. I should have gotten it back once Foxworth’s body turned up, but instead it’s just been sitting in our evidence room.”
“No harm done. Is this one full of books like the others were?”
“It is. I glanced inside this morning when the custodian brought it to my office. More of the same thing, I’d guess. Have you learned anything interesting from the other books?”
Edward shook his head. “There are over forty, as you know. I’ve cataloged them by name, language and anything else I could easily ascertain, but I haven’t really gotten into any of them. It’s been a little crazy around here. I just haven’t had the time.”
“Good thing you have help,” the inspector replied, gesturing to the young woman who was arranging items on a shelf. “Speaking of which, this looks like a rare slow moment for you. How about that quick look at the chamber?”
This time Edward was ready for him.
“The floor in the basement’s beginning to give way in several places. It’s not safe in the crypt anymore – or the basement either, for that matter. I’ve closed it all off until I can get repairs done. Once it’s fixed, I’ll give you a ring.”
The inspector wasn’t surprised at again being denied access. “I understand. I’ll look forward to your call when it’s all worked out.”
Once the shop closed, Edward removed eight books from the old metal box. This one held more volumes than the others because three of these books were very small, only slightly larger than a current paperback novel. Each had less than a hundred vellum pages and was bound in leather as most of the others had been. Etched into the leather cover on each were the initials G.P.
He flipped through one of them. It was obvious what it was, even though the words were in Welsh, a language with which he wasn’t terribly familiar.
Its entries were clearly laid out in the form of a diary. It was a daily journal written by someone whose initials likely were G.P.
And it was very, very old. The date on the first page was easy to decipher.
14 Ebrill 497.
April 14th in the year of our Lord 497.
CHAPTER THIRTY
The diaries turned out to be the most important things of all.
Edward hadn’t planned to spend much time on those three little books. He doubted they were any more significant than the other ones they’d found. Less, most likely. The others could be valuable – they merited further attention. The daily ramblings of G.P., whoever that was, could wait.
Edward was becoming overwhelmed. He had a locked door to open. He had the book he’d examined earlier – the one about Arthur and the Battle of Badon that might help prove the mythical king’s existence. There were fifty other ancient books that needed attention. He had a body in a sarcophagus. He had more mysteries to solve than one man could handle.
He could use some help, but the crypt held too many secrets. What he did have plenty of was time, as long as he could keep Inspector Dalton and the antiquities authorities at bay. And he could. His bookshop was private property. Maybe in medieval times the police could have forced their way in. But not today. In modern England the law respected a man’s right to privacy and ownership.
He prioritized his tasks. First he should deal with the body.
But something in his head kept steering him back to the diaries. A thought kept popping up. What if the diaries belonged to someone significant? What would it hurt to take an hour and find out? That night he settled in at his flat and opened each of the three small books, looking at the first date entry until he found the earliest. The first book was the one he’d looked at a few days back, the one that began in 497.
The moment he began laboriously translating the first journal, he became captivated. As he learned its incredible significance, he could think of nothing else all day long. He rushed home every evening and spent hours with the book. Soon he knew this trio of journals was the epitome of everything that they’d found in the crypt.
The diary was the secret journal of a girl whose name was Gwenhwyfar. Although it wasn’t mentioned, he immediately knew her last name too. He knew what the “P” in the initials “G.P.” etched into the cover stood for. The realization of whose diary he held made the hair on his arms stand up. It made him shudder as he considered whose hand had written these entries.
Her last name was Pendragon. Gwenhwyfar Pendragon.
Her name in English was more recognizable.
Guinevere.
Guinevere, the wife of Arthur Pendragon, a mythical figure whom legend said was King of the Britons fifteen hundred years ago, a man whose existence had never been proven.
Edward was holding Queen Guinevere’s handwritten diary. Suddenly the other book he’d seen, the one that was a supposed eyewitness account of Arthur’s battle, became very important. It spoke of the legendary King as well. Could it be that everything in this crypt, everything from the ancient Church of St. Mary Axe, was related to King Arthur in some way?
He could barely contain his excitement as he worked his way through the diary, spending hours translating page after page. Guinevere was faithful at keeping her journal, but the same couldn’t be said for her marriage. Mundane events of the day were recorded along with the thoughts and deeds of a devious, sneaky, crafty, beautiful and powerful twenty-three-year-old girl who loved sex and danger. She loved King Arthur too – that was evident throughout the book. But she strayed from the marriage bed as often as she thought she could get away with it.
“Either she didn’t get enough at home or she needed way more than a normal woman.” Edward chuckled as he read.
One evening he came to an entry dated the twelfth of October 498. The Queen wrote that she was traveling by convoy to London from her home in Glestingaburg. Edward stopped, astonished at yet another validation of legend. From medieval history classes he knew well that ancient city in western England, which today was called Glastonbury. He also knew the mystery associated with Glestingaburg.
According to legend, Glestingaburg was the mythical island of Avalon. On that island stood Camelot, the castle and home of Arthur and Guinevere and the seat of power for the King of Briton. If it could be proven a
uthentic, the diary Edward Russell held in his hands confirmed that the ancient tale wasn’t a legend. Arthur, Merlin, the Round Table knights – they had all existed. This would change history. People had searched in vain for proof for hundreds of years. Edward believed the confirmation lay before him.
He continued the translation.
On October 12 Guinevere had written two pages of thoughts and plans for her upcoming sexual interlude with a dashing knight whose name was … Lamorak.
Lamorak.
Edward began to hyperventilate. The man buried in the sarcophagus below the bookshop held a sword bearing that name. Up to this point Edward had thought Lamorak might be the occupant of the stone coffin, but there was no proof. Now the name appeared again – would this diary confirm that one of Arthur’s knights was buried downstairs? Would the burial itself be described in Guinevere’s diaries? This information could authenticate a story that had been purely speculation for over a thousand years!
He turned back to the diary, eager to learn more about Lamorak but also pruriently interested in Guinevere’s sexual ramblings. Despite their vast age, her words were very erotic. She was extremely detailed about the positions she wanted to try with her new lover, and Edward found himself looking forward very much to the next day’s entry. He wanted to hear the rest of the story – to find out how things went. He also saw that he was getting aroused.
It’s interesting how stimulating it is to read someone else’s secrets, even if they were penned fifteen hundred years ago.
Guinevere had been highly educated and was good at telling a story. Although it took Edward time to translate from Welsh to English, every minute was worth it. Her saucy journal could have made the best-seller list today, a Middle Ages Lady Chatterly’s Lover. A pornographic look at the life of a monarch in the fifth century. Who’d have thought that would be sensual? But it was.
He turned the page and began to translate the next day’s entry. He was ready to undo his pants, release his erection and take care of things while he read the Queen’s next steamy words. But he came back down to earth in moments. What he read was the polar opposite of the queen’s naughty thoughts yesterday. In places ink had run on the page, blurring a word here and there. He surmised those were the author’s tears. Once he finished the second day’s entry, Edward knew what Queen Guinevere faced. He knew she had likely sealed both her own fate and that of the monarchy itself. At the bottom of the page, her last three words said it all.
I am afraid.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Edward read the Queen’s account of her trip to London.
On a gorgeous October morning in the year 498, Gwenhwyfar was on her way by carriage from the West Country to London. The hundred-mile journey from Glestingaburg was into its second day, but the young queen’s retinues and handmaidens made the trip comfortable. Four brave knights who served as bodyguards, twelve mounted horsemen, servants of various types on horseback, and a wagon filled with provisions and tents accompanied the Queen’s carriage. The entourage moved briskly through the countryside.
Last evening and again tonight the men would set up the tents for sleeping and cooking while her ladies-in-waiting bathed her in a stream they invariably camped nearby. Last night after dinner, a perimeter had been established, guards were assigned and people sat by the fire, conversing and enjoying the cool evening breeze.
A troubadour was along to provide entertainment. After dinner he would present elaborate, fantastical stories of magic and mystery, complete with costumes and props. Other nights his bow flew across the strings of a vielle, an instrument similar to a viola, and the group joined in songs. One of the lady’s handmaidens sometimes played the lute – the soft sounds as she plucked its strings were soothing and beautiful. Every day around dusk she entered events and her thoughts in a small, secret book she kept constantly by her side. It was a leather-bound diary with her initials on its cover, a gift from her husband over a year ago.
Wouldn’t he be surprised if he read what I’ve written in this little book he’s given me! That was why she kept it secret. Everything … absolutely everything was in there.
The knight Lamorak pulled up alongside her open conveyance and said, “My lady, we are but a few miles from where we will camp this evening. We should be stopping soon, God willing, and be in London late tomorrow.”
She smiled and thanked the handsome young man. He gave his horse a flick with the whip and joined his companions bringing up the rear of the caravan. She felt safe and secure with these brave soldiers who had faced battle after battle in service to her husband. They would gladly lay down their own lives to protect her; Arthur knew which of his men were the most trustworthy and had chosen those to make this long trip. At the last minute she had asked him to add Lamorak, mentioning his bravery and her trust in his strength and sense of duty. “I’ll sleep better at night knowing he’s along,” she had told her husband.
Oh yes, I’ll sleep better, that’s for certain. Or perhaps I won’t sleep at all!
She had plans for that one. She smiled as exciting, naughty little thoughts danced through her head. She’d have to be careful. She always was – her husband was no idiot, but so far he hadn’t found out. If she were caught, his retribution could cause a faithful knight – a handsome well-endowed young stud – to lose his head. And possibly she’d lose hers too.
The only minor inconvenience was that other knight, the fearless one leading their caravan, steadfastly guiding them toward London. She’d led him to believe he might be the chosen one to share her bed tonight. But she’d had that one already. She wanted something new. She wanted the young knight Lamorak. The lead knight would be furious if he found out. But he wouldn’t. She’d be sneaky. She smiled mischievously, imagining the ecstasy she’d experience later this evening. She always loved the first time. Everything was so new, so exciting. She felt herself becoming aroused as she played out scenes in her head. Before dinner tonight, she’d tell her diary the plans she had for Lamorak.
The dashing young man had no idea he was the subject of her next adventure. He’d find out when they stopped for the night. He certainly wasn’t her first knight, and so far none had declined Gwenhwyfar’s advances. As dangerous as it was, none of the men she had selected in the past ever resisted the beckoning arms of this beautiful young temptress.
After all, would a knight deny the demands of the Queen of Britain?
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Precisely at one a.m. the flap of Gwenhwyfar’s tent slipped aside. Her trusted handmaiden Lydia ushered the knight Lamorak into the Queen’s makeshift boudoir. As she had done before, the girl would stand guard outside until Gwenhwyfar was finished with her new plaything. Lydia knew what she was doing was wrong, but it was exciting too, being a part of the intrigue – the secret late-night frolics of her lady the Queen.
For half an hour Lydia listened to whispers, laughs, coughs, grunts and groans of ecstasy as the pair jostled around inside the tent. Most of the entourage was asleep; a sentry came around every ten minutes. Each time he passed, he gave her a wink. The Queen’s misbehavior was a poorly kept secret, but no one would tell. Her husband would be furious. He’d likely also be heartbroken, the sentry mused. Everyone loved the King, and in turn he loved Gwenhwyfar dearly, or so it appeared to all who served the royals. Mum, therefore, was the word. No one wanted to hurt the King or lose his job – or his life – because of what he had seen late at night.
Lydia stood to stretch her legs. From the muffled sounds, the activity inside was nearing its peak and it wouldn’t be much longer now before she could at last go to bed. Suddenly a strong arm wrapped around her neck and a hand clamped over her mouth, stifling her startled scream. She looked into the eyes of the King’s most trusted knight and knew things would never be the same again. Not for the King, his Queen, even this knight, who undoubtedly would tell his master what had happened tonight.
The man pushed her away with a whispered admonition to be silent. Fearful for her
own life, she crept off to her tent.
The knight threw open the flap roughly. Candles provided dim flickers and outlined the naked bodies of Lamorak and Gwenhwyfar, both of whom were groaning as they simultaneously reached the climactic end of their lovemaking.
Lying on her back, legs spread wide open and Lamorak still inside her, the Queen glanced at the intruder. She finished the heaves of her climax and broke into a naughty smile.
“Well, well,” she breathed heavily. “Are you here to join us, Lancelot, my love?”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
13th October in the year of our Lord 498
I have deceived my husband, a man who loves me with all his heart. I am an adulteress, unworthy of the love he has for me.
I have betrayed him over and over again. So many times and with so many men that I cannot even recall them. I have excused my actions by saying that my husband is older. His interest in the physical aspect of marriage is far less than mine. I love him, I say to myself, but I demonstrate that love by having intercourse with the men my husband trusts the most. Men who would die – men who have died, giving their very lives for their King, my husband. I tell myself it means nothing. But of course it does. It means everything.
Lancelot has said nothing since he burst into my tent in the night. To my knowledge he and Lamorak have not spoken, because nothing seems changed. I fully expected Lancelot to expel Lamorak and send him home to confront the King and confess his misdeed. But both of them are honorable men. Lancelot fully understands the reason for Lamorak’s indiscretion. He knows it was my doing, not the knight’s. I know, however, that he will tell Arthur everything when we return to Camelot. Nay, not everything. Even the brave Lancelot has no desire to put his own life on the line. My dalliances with him shall remain a secret. I have no doubt of that. So we continue our trip to London. And I will be anxious until I return to face my husband.
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