The Call of Destiny (The Return of Arthur Book 1)

by Unknown

  Uther wasn’t sure if his leg was being pulled. ‘You are not saying you memorise telephone directories, are you?’

  ‘Used to, yes. To be honest I find them rather boring. I prefer Encyclopaedia.’

  ‘Encyclopaedia,’ repeated Uther dully. ‘Yes.’

  ‘May I ask how long it takes you to achieve this extraordinary feat of memory?’ Uther’s tone was now profoundly sceptical. ‘A month? A year?’

  ‘I should say – what? – a couple of hours?’

  ‘Come now, Thomas,’ said Uther with a smile, ‘are you telling me you can commit an entire encyclopaedia to memory in two hours?’

  ‘You misunderstood me.’

  ‘Aha! Thought perhaps I had,’ said Uther, winking broadly at the general.

  ‘Not one encyclopaedia. A set of encyclopaedia.’

  Uther’s mouth gaped. Recovering his composure, he laughed scornfully. ‘Who do you think you’re kidding? Pull the other one, it’s got bells on. Memorise a set of encyclopaedia in two hours! You expect me to believe that?’

  He looked around for support but to his surprise no one was paying him the slightest attention. Why were they not backing him up when the man’s claims were so patently absurd? He felt isolated and disoriented, being in a place he did not know, attempting to communicate with people he could not reach.

  Suddenly he realised what was going on. It was all a joke, a pretty feeble joke it seemed to him, but a joke nonetheless. What a gullible fool he was. They had really got him going. But if it was a joke, why was no one smiling? The colonel was looking for an ashtray, the general was trying to attract the barman’s attention. Both appeared to be seriously preoccupied. If not a practical joke, then, what could it be? Was it perhaps some sort of primitive initiation ritual that new members of the club were traditionally subjected to? Yes, that must be it. And the code of these grown-up schoolboys no doubt dictated that they act as if nothing odd were happening. Fine, anyone could play that game. No one was going to put one over on Uther Pendragon.

  ‘Forgive me,’ he said gravely, ‘but now that I think about it, two hours does sound feasible – quite feasible. For a genius, that is.’ That should fix them, he thought, with a complacent smile.

  ‘I agree,’ said the general. ‘A couple of hours sounds reasonable enough to me. What’s your view, colonel?’

  ‘I would have thought two hours was very reasonable indeed,’ said Colonel Armstrong, ‘especially for a whole set. Frankly, I’d call it cheap. Was it on sale?’

  ‘Actually, no,’ said Merlin, ‘I memorised it at full price.’ Uther’s mouth gaped. None of this made any sense at all.

  Were they all stark staring bonkers? Or were they still sending him up?

  ‘Even so, it’s pretty incredible,’ said the colonel. ‘Didn’t I say he was a genius?’ he observed to no one in particular.

  The back of Uther’s throat was closing up. Were they all quite mad? He had never experienced a panic attack, but this must surely be what it felt like.

  ‘I always say seeing is believing,’ said the general. ‘Damned right,’ said the colonel, nodding vigorously. ‘After you,’ said the general.’

  ‘No, after you, sir,’ said the colonel politely.

  Levitating about eighteen inches off the ground, and revolving slowly until his back was turned to them, the general floated out of the bar towards the members’ sitting rooms, followed closely by the colonel.

  Uther became aware that Merlin’s huge green eyes were staring at him. For some reason he was finding it difficult to think rationally. ‘What the hell’s going on?’ he demanded.

  ‘Something wrong?’ asked Merlin innocently.

  The sweat bloomed on Uther’s face. ‘I seem to be hallucinating.’

  ‘Quite possibly. I shouldn’t let it worry you.’ ‘Did I just see what I thought I saw?’

  Merlin hesitated. ‘I can’t be sure what you thought you saw. In any case, what you think you see is not always the same as what you see. And what you see is not always what is there.’

  Uther put a hand to his head. ‘Either I’m losing my mind, or you are some kind of illusionist. Are you?’

  The brilliant eyes shone like two miniature moons. ‘In a way.’

  ‘Then,’ said Uther, paying a rare compliment, ‘you’re the best I ever saw.’

  Like an owl’s, the eyelids dipped in acknowledgement.

  Something strange was happening, something Uther did not understand. ‘Who are you really?’ he asked.

  ‘I am Merlin.’

  That he knew already. Was the weirdo being deliberately unhelpful? Uther frowned. ‘What is it you want from me?’

  ‘Your son,’ said Merlin. He might have been asking Uther for a light.

  ‘What on earth are you talking about?’ asked Uther, mystified. ‘I have no son.’

  ‘Not yet.’

  Those damned eyes were so big and bright, they seemed to possess him. ‘Very well,’ he said, humouring the man, ‘let’s assume that at some time in the future I have a son. Give me one good reason why I should give him to you.’

  ‘To cheat fate perhaps.’

  ‘There is no such thing as fate,’ said Uther dismissively. ‘It is written that he will overthrow you.’

  That was too much for Uther’s pride to take. ‘Are you suggesting I should be afraid of my own son?’

  ‘Is that so surprising? Many men are.’

  ‘If ever I had a son, I would know how to control him.’ ‘Not this one you wouldn’t.’

  It was all rubbish, impossible to take seriously. There was no rhyme or reason to it. And yet . . . and yet, he sensed something about Merlin that defied reason, something spellbinding, buried deep in that entrancing voice, and in the depths of those hypnotic green orbs. He decided to put him to the test. ‘I presume you are offering something in exchange?’

  ‘You will become a member of Parliament.’

  Uther shrugged. ‘I hardly think I need your help to do that.’ ‘That will only be the start. You will be what you want to be.’

  ‘And what is that?’ ‘Prime Minister.’

  Dear God, how could he possibly know that? Uther’s pulse raced. Excitement blazed in him like a flame, then quickly died. The man was a nutter. ‘You can guarantee that, can you?’ he asked, with heavy sarcasm.

  ‘I can. If you promise to give me your son.’

  ‘I told you,’ said Uther irritably, ‘I have no son. What’s more, I have absolutely no intention of ever having one.’

  ‘Then you have nothing to lose by promising to give him to me.’

  There was, thought Uther, a certain crazy logic to that statement. ‘What the hell,’ he heard himself say, ‘this hypothetical son of mine sounds like a troublemaker. Take him, then, since you seem to want him so much.’

  Merlin inclined his head. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘You are welcome,’ said Uther dryly. ‘Mind you,’ he added as an afterthought, ‘nothing is set in cement.’

  ‘May I ask what you mean by that?’ There was a harder edge in Merlin’s voice.

  ‘I can always change my mind.’

  Merlin shook his head. ‘No, Uther. Once you give me your hand, you will never be able to break your word.’

  ‘Who says?’

  ‘Fate will not permit it.’

  ‘Fate again,’ said Uther disdainfully. ‘You must be joking.’ Merlin extended his hand. ‘Do we have a deal?’

  ‘Why do you want him?’ ‘To save the world.’

  Uther stared at Merlin. Was he serious? ‘You expect me to believe that?’

  Merlin repeated relentlessly. ‘Do we have a deal?’

  Uther raised his hand. Hesitated. Their fingers touched. They shook. The light in the green moons flared. Merlin sipped his beer. ‘Four actually,’ he said.

  The general’s eyebrows arched. ‘Four what?’ ‘Double firsts,’ said Merlin. ‘Four, not three.’ ‘I do beg your pardon. Was it really?’

  ‘Yes.’

&nb
sp; ‘Even more remarkable. Apologies. I thought I read it somewhere. I must have been mistaken.’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Merlin politely. ‘Believing is not always seeing.’ He turned away to Uther and winked solemnly before turning back to the general.

  Walking down the steps of Grey’s out into the reassuringly familiar world, Uther Pendragon had the feeling that he had just returned from a long journey, though he was not at all sure where he had been. Once more the paving stones were solid under the soles of his shoes, the sunlight golden on the buildings. Then suddenly a cloud shut out the sun and a breeze blew down St. James’s. The flag on the club veranda lifted and rolled. A muslin curtain flapped from an open first-floor window, and then hung limp. There was a crack of thunder. Umbrellas bloomed on the street and the first raindrops rapped the canvas awnings of the man’s shop on the corner of Piccadilly. He hailed a black cab, pushing in front of a man who had hailed it before him, jumped in and watched in amusement as the red-faced loser thrust two fingers in the air. Ignorant yobbo. Life was good. Life was bloody good.

  Sinking back he released a sigh of profound contentment. Stunning woman, Igraine. Now that Godfrey was out of the way, he would marry her – after a suitable interval, naturally. There might be gossip otherwise. Celebrity chat was what the mob lived on, wasn’t it? Poor sods, what else did they have in their lives? Of course he loved her to bits, or he would never have done . . . what he had done to get her. The most beautiful woman in London, and a Dowager Marchioness into the bargain. Two presents in one gift-wrap. Walking her up the aisle would do him no harm, no harm at all.

  Two

  That evening, in exuberant good humour, Uther announced over a glass of champagne in the bar of his favourite dining club that he was now a member of Grey’s. ‘How about that?

  Not bad for a boy from the wrong side of the river.’

  Igraine regarded him with fond indulgence. ‘This is the nineties, darling. That sort of thing doesn’t matter any more.’

  ‘Easy for you to say, duchess.’ Uther knew very well she was no such thing, duchess being his affectionate and slightly mocking soubriquet for Igraine. Nevertheless, the truth was that though he made fun of the aristocracy, titles impressed him. Igraine, Lady Truro; it had a certain ring to it; secretly he was hugely proud of escorting a Marchioness, even if, since the death of her husband, the Marquess, she was only a Dowager Marchioness. He was also proud of his own background, even prouder for having risen above it. Born in Peckham thirty- two years ago – father a railway worker, mother a cleaning lady – he had discarded the south London accent of his youth, together with outmoded working-class attitudes and socialist ideologies, much as a mountaineer, ascending from camp to camp, discards unnecessary baggage on the way to the top. A realist, he soon discovered that equipment and people indispensable at low altitudes became an intolerable burden in the rarefied atmosphere of the summit climb.

  Achieving the status of the most successful property developer in London fulfilled an early ambition. But once he had made his pile, other considerations became pre-eminent. The daughter of a viscount and the widow of a marquess,

  Igraine opened up for him an exciting new landscape of social acceptability and of power.

  ‘They’re lucky to get you,’ she said, adding fondly, ‘and so am I.’

  They had met at a New Year’s Eve party less than a year ago. Uther had a weakness for raven-haired beauties, especially when they were as luscious as Igraine; he had focused all his considerable charm on her. By the end of the evening she had fallen for him, and within a week they had begun an affair. She couldn’t believe what she was doing; she kept reminding herself that she was married with three kids; women in her situation simply did not do that sort of thing. Yet however guilty she felt, her feelings were beyond her power to control. She was fond of Godfrey, but with Uther she was irrationally and ecstatically in love; nothing like this had ever happened to her before.

  In character, Uther and Godfrey were as different as two men could possibly be. Godfrey was weak and indecisive, constantly in financial trouble, always cadging from his friends; Uther was strong, self-assured, successful, an independent spirit. Godfrey was the product of privilege, Uther the product of deprivation. In appearance, though, they were uncannily alike, the same height, the same heavy build, the same curly black hair, brown eyes and thick lashes. It was eerie and unsettling for her to be sitting opposite the living image of her dead husband. Godfrey was in his grave, yet here in the body of her lover he appeared again, a haunting reminder of the wrongs she had done him.

  After dinner they sat in the bar. From time to time she gazed into Uther’s eyes, or fondled his face, and once she undid a shirt button and slipped in her fingers to stroke and knead the warm flesh. Generally he discouraged such advances in public, concerned with what people might think. She, on the other hand, did not give a damn. Her love was tactile, passionate, spontaneous. Absurd, she thought, to be acting like some randy teenager; but absurd or not, she found it difficult to keep her hands off him.

  There would never be a better time to tell him, she decided. It was July, and the baby was due in December. Surprisingly, he had not noticed anything. But then that was Uther, bless him. He would need careful handling. She began by referring to her symptoms, hoping he would swiftly diagnose her condition, but he was far too self-absorbed to respond to hints, unsubtle though they were. He had, moreover, drunk a great deal of champagne and claret; his brain was not functioning as well as it normally did. At the precise moment she dared to murmur the ‘p’ word, he had in his imagination planted his foot and a flag on the summit, and was presiding over a cabinet meeting in Number Ten. Receiving no reaction, she decided to postpone the revelation to another day.

  Dozing on the way home in the taxi, he suddenly opened his eyes. ‘Pregnant!’

  ‘Yes,’ she murmured. ‘You!’

  ‘Yes.’ Her heart pounded in her chest.

  ‘Dear God!’ He closed his eyes again and didn’t speak another word until they were back in her apartment. ‘You do realise this is a total, unmitigated, bloody disaster, don’t you?’ he said, throwing himself into an armchair.

  Igraine was stunned, unable to respond. How selfish could a man be? That the timing was inconvenient for both of them she was the first to admit. But an unmitigated disaster? ‘We’ll keep it quiet, darling, if that’s what you want.’ It was all she could think of to say.

  ‘You said you were on the pill,’ he observed petulantly.

  So it was to be the blame game,’ she thought. ‘I was. I am.’ ‘Then how the hell . . . ?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You’ll have to get rid of it,’ he said abruptly.

  Igraine felt sick; this was the man she loved more than life, the man for whom she had left her husband. The hurt and disappointment showed clearly on her face. She turned her back on him, partly to hide her feelings, partly because she could not bring herself to look at him.

  ‘Darling,’ said Uther, assuming a sudden disarming smile, ‘I’m being a pig, aren’t I? A selfish piggy-wiggy. I’ve been on my own far too long. Forgive me.’ With that he took her in his arms and kissed her, and in an instant she was happy again.

  Not a word more was said about the baby. Uther stayed over; something he rarely did, for fear some “sleazebag gutter press journalist” might be lying in wait for him when he left. Disappointingly for her, there was no love-making. As she put her arms round him he rolled away; seconds later he was snoring. His parting words the next morning – ‘Whatever happens, we mustn’t let it come between us’ – echoed in her head all day. Come between us? That sounded ominously like a threat, a warning that this embryo developing inside her could destroy their relationship.

  That evening Uther returned to Igraine’s apartment later than usual, though much to her relief he was in a good mood. He had lunched with the chairman of the local Conservative Association who had promised that a suitable constituency would be found
for him in time for the next General Election, sooner if possible. The weather was set fair, and the summit, albeit distant, in sight.

  ‘I’m proud of you, darling,’ she said, genuinely happy for him.

  ‘He particularly emphasised my spotless reputation. The truth is, the party badly needs an injection of decency and integrity. We have been damaged by sleaze.’

  ‘That’s one thing they’ll never have to worry about with you,’ she said loyally.

  Uther poured himself a scotch and sat on the sofa next to her, his arm draped across her shoulders. ‘Well now, my dearest, that’s rather what I wanted to talk about.’

  Igraine tensed. She had always told herself that she would do anything for Uther, anything at all.

  ‘This pregnancy – I know what it means to you,’ he continued ominously, ‘but the point is, if the press got wind of it, I’d be finished. Kaput. It wouldn’t take them long to discover that you and Godfrey separated a year before he died. It would be pretty damned obvious who the father was. We would both be labelled adulterers.’

  ‘If we tell the truth,’ said Igraine, ‘I’m sure they’ll leave us alone.’

  A sour smile. ‘I fear you are being a touch naïve, duchess. The press doesn’t give a damn about truth; what they care about is a good story, and if it involves adultery and sexual shenanigans, so much the better. That’s what sells newspapers. They’ll use smear and innuendo. They’ll make Godfrey’s death look as if . . . ’

  Uther’s arm slipped from her shoulders as Igraine sat up. ‘As if what?’

  ‘As if it wasn’t an accident,’ – Uther avoided her eyes – ‘or a suicide.’

  Her eyes widened. ‘What on earth do you mean?’

  ‘Godfrey refused to give you a divorce,’ said Uther, stressing every word.

  ‘So?’

  He was studying the carpet now. ‘They’ll say I had an excellent motive for . . . well, for getting rid of him.’

  ‘But that’s absurd!’ Igraine protested. ‘If they even hinted such a thing, we’d sue them.’

  ‘A fat lot of good that would do. Mud sticks, Igraine. Think of the scandal. The story would run till the next millennium. You are happily married, you meet me, and five minutes later we have an affair and your husband leaves you and goes and lives in a crummy bedsit in Victoria. A year later he kills himself. Five months after his death, you have my baby. Fantastic! Guess who gets the sympathy vote, duchess. Not me, that’s for sure. One way or another, they’d say I was responsible for Godfrey’s death. They’d crucify me. You too probably,’ added Uther for good measure.