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

by Unknown

  It was not long before he picked a fight with Arthur and gave him a black eye. When Hector asked him how he got it Arthur said he had walked into a door. Hector knew differently and wanted to confront Keir, but Elizabeth persuaded him not to interfere. ‘It will only make things worse.’

  ‘Then how do we stop him bullying Arthur?’ he asked, and was surprised at his wife’s response e.

  ‘It’s not up to us. It’s up to Arthur to stop him.’ Hector looked doubtful. ‘He’ll never do that.’ ‘When he’s ready he will.’

  Secretly Elizabeth doubted the wisdom of sending both boys to the same school. As a mother, she understood Keir’s chronic jealousy of his younger brother, and it troubled her to see his pain. It troubled her conscience too, for if Keir was the child of her womb, Arthur was the child of her heart.

  Ten

  2004

  The cottage was half a mile from the shore. The only other indication that there was, or ever had been, human life on this barren island, were two ramshackle barns open to the sky, the ruins of an ancient castle, and an abandoned lighthouse at the end of a rocky promontory reaching out into the sea. Ravaged by wind and ocean, the island was flat and featureless, with here and there – the only touch of colour – a ragged clump of purple heather. Tall wild grass grew everywhere, cowering from the westerly gales that blew the year round. The sandy beaches, ribbed by wind and tide, were stalked by long-legged birds in search of food. As Merlin tramped across the fields, seagulls floated above him, greeting him with doleful cries. It was a desolate place this, he thought, but with its own sombre beauty.

  The old man showed no surprise when Merlin entered, greeting him courteously.

  ‘I am glad to see you,’ said Merlin.

  On either side of the open fire were the only seats in the room, two Windsor chairs, one empty, the other occupied by the old man. At his feet a black Labrador slumbered. Merlin sat in the vacant chair. ‘I imagine you have few visitors,’ he said, to get the conversation going.

  ‘None. None but you.’

  The Labrador uttered something between a sigh and a groan. Without moving his head, he opened his eyes and contemplated Merlin, then, apparently satisfied with what he saw, closed them again.

  Merlin tried once more. ‘This island. Is it marked on the maps?’

  ‘It is on some,’ replied the old man laconically. ‘It’s not easy to find.’

  A shrug. ‘Who would want to?’

  Merlin gave a little smile. ‘Who indeed?’ He was certain the old man knew why he was here.

  ‘You live alone?’

  ‘There are no other people here, if that’s what you mean. But I am not alone. I have Robbie.’ He indicated the Labrador.

  ‘Are you never lonely?’ ‘Loneliness is a state of mind.’

  ‘Even so, isn’t it strange never to hear the voice of another human being? It’s so quiet here.’

  The old man smiled. ‘You wouldn’t say that if you were here in an autumn gale, or in the winter, when the rollers crash at the foot of the cliffs. As for voices, there are many on the island – the wind, the sea, the birds and animals, and of course Robbie here. And then there are other voices . . . ’ The old man drifted away on the tide of his memories.

  ‘Other voices?’ repeated Merlin curiously.

  ‘Voices from the past. But I don’t deny it, there are times when I long to hear a human voice – once or twice a year, perhaps – and then I’m off to the mainland.’

  ‘This is your island?’

  ‘It has been in my family for centuries. Once it was the subject of much gossip and speculation but that was long ago. Now no one remembers us; they have forgotten we exist. No one tells the old stories any more.’

  ‘What kind of stories?’

  The old man lifted the kettle from the hob and poured Merlin a mug of a dark coloured brew that might have been tea, though by its smell it was clearly something else. He sipped it cautiously. It tasted of the sea.

  ‘A thousand years ago, or so they say, this island was ruled by a great king, the greatest that ever lived. Here he built a castle surrounded by a wide moat, with walls a hundred feet high and fifty feet thick, and turrets and towers so tall that their tops touched the clouds. At full moon the king can still be seen riding a white horse at the head of his knights – a hundred and fifty of them. The noise of their hooves on the drawbridge is like thunder, and the sound of their voices unearthly, like spirits from another world.’

  Merlin leaned forward, intrigued. ‘Have you ever seen them?’

  ‘I have seen the shadow of the cliffs on the water at full moon, and the white foam horses galloping across the ocean. On stormy days I have seen the waves reach up their turrets to the sky. On calm days, when the sea gulls float and dive, I have listened to them talking of other places and other times. “I could tell a tale!” they cry. “Such a tale! Such a tale!”’ The old man chuckled. ‘Have I seen the spirits? Indeed I have.’

  Merlin was confused. ‘Yet you seem to be saying that all these stories have a perfectly rational explanation.’

  For a long time the old man did not reply. ‘Perhaps,’ was all he offered to disturb the silence.

  Merlin persisted. ‘This king you spoke of . . . did you ever see him?’

  Another lengthy silence. When he broke it, the old man did not answer directly. ‘You saw the castle?’

  Merlin warmed his hands on his mug of tea, or whatever liquid it was. Watched closely by the old man he took another tentative sip and tried hard to look as though he were enjoying it. ‘I passed some ruins on the way. From what I saw of the one tower that still stands, and the remains of the walls, it was certainly a big one.’

  The old man bent to the Labrador, his face softening as he stroked it. ‘There was a castle here once, of that there is no doubt, some say as long ago as the sixth century. There was a great king here too.’

  Merlin tensed. ‘How do you know?’

  The old man hesitated, as if he were debating with himself. ‘I have seen a knight walking the ramparts at full moon. Let me be clear: I did not imagine it, I have seen him, not once but many times. It is obvious he is someone of importance, for he is clad in golden armour, and everyone about him treats him with great deference. Sometimes he walks alone, sometimes with two or three of his knights. I have also seen him with a lady, and from time to time, in the company of a man with long hair and a flowing white robe.’ A sly look in Merlin’s direction. ‘Much like you.’

  ‘The knight in golden armour.’ The green orbs shone brightly. ‘Was it the king?’

  A long silence. And then: ‘It was the king.’ ‘How can you be sure?’

  Again his host seemed reluctant to respond. ‘Once, when the north wind blew, I thought I heard the lady address him by name. Who knows? It could have been an owl hooting.’

  ‘What name?’ asked Merlin. ‘Or a seal barking on the rocks.’

  ‘What name?’ asked Merlin again, barely concealing his impatience.

  The old man was silent for long moments. ‘She called him Arthur,’ he said at last.

  Merlin let out a sigh. ‘So it was him. I knew it.’ ‘And you are Merlin?’

  A slight bow of the head in acknowledgment. ‘I am.’ ‘What is it you want of me?’

  Merlin lifted his hands. ‘I think you know.’

  The old man fondled the Labrador’s ears. ‘Men say he will come again.’

  ‘So I have heard.’

  ‘They say that if he does, this island will be his kingdom, as it was in ancient times.’

  Merlin said nothing.

  ‘You are not here for the sea air, I imagine.’

  ‘I am not,’ Merlin acknowledged with a smile. ‘So what will you give me for this desolate isle?’ Merlin spread his arms wide. ‘The world.’

  ‘If I wanted the world, I would not be here.’ ‘I will pay any price you ask.’

  ‘You are speaking of money?’ ‘If that is what you want.’

  ‘What woul
d I do with it? I have an appointment with death, one I have no option but to keep.’

  ‘Life, then?’

  The old man’s eyes sparkled. ‘You could do that, magus?’ A nod. ‘For a time. Quite a long time, perhaps.’

  ‘That is certainly tempting . . . very tempting. Life is beautiful, and so very short.’ The old man pondered some more, leaning back in his chair, closing his eyes.

  The fire crackled and flared as it ate into the driftwood. A wonderful thing is a fire, thought Merlin. In their caves his ancestors had sat round just such a fire, warming their bodies, and no doubt dreaming, as he was dreaming now. For a time he was with them, watching the play of flame and shadow on their strong, enduring faces.

  The old man stirred. ‘No, I think not. I have almost lived the years allotted to me. Soon I have a journey to make, and God willing I shall hear the gulls’ tale. I am ready, or as ready as ever I shall be. And whether the end comes today or tomorrow, what difference will it make when it comes?’

  The Labrador groaned and laid his head on his master’s feet.

  ‘Then tell me your price?’

  ‘Why concern yourself? Wait until I die. It will not be long, I promise you, and then you can have my island for nothing.’

  Merlin shook his head. ‘Honour demands that I pay the price.’

  The old man nodded approvingly. ‘Then,’ he said, ‘know that my kingdom will not be sold for any wordly thing.’

  It was as Merlin expected. ‘For what, then? What will you sell it for?’

  ‘For love.’

  Even the magus was puzzled. ‘What riddle is this?’ ‘You are good at riddles. Solve it.’

  Merlin eyes clouded as he withdrew into his head. For love? Whose love? And for whom? What could it mean? Last of his line, the old man had no kin, nor any friends, it seemed, so it was not their love he was talking about. Puzzled, Merlin watched him stoop again to fondle his beloved dog. Of course! What a fool he was! The answer to the riddle lay at the old man’s feet.

  ‘When you cross over to the next world,’ said Merlin, ‘Robbie shall be my companion, and I shall love him till the day he dies.’

  The old man smiled. ‘Merlin the wise,’ he murmured. For a few moments he said nothing, though Merlin could see there was something on his mind. ‘You must come quickly when I summon you.’

  ‘You have my word,’ said Merlin.

  And with that the old man seemed content.

  Eleven

  2004

  Morgan was only seven when she first claimed to be able to fly. Locking her bedroom door, she climbed out of the

  third floor window and stood on the narrow parapet waving her arms as if they were wings, and shouting, ‘I can fly! I can fly!’

  Since Uther was at the office and Igraine shopping in the village, it was left to Elaine and Margot, William the butler, the cook, and a few panic-stricken housemaids, to handle the crisis. Standing on the lawn, they pleaded with Morgan not to jump but she ignored them all. Eventually it was cook who managed to coax her back into her room with a promise of sticky toffee pudding and vanilla ice cream. When Uther came home and heard what had happened, he stopped Morgan’s pocket money for six months and after that there was no more climbing out of windows. Morgan, however, was stubborn, and never ceased to believe she had special powers.

  ‘I can do anything I want,’ she told Margot defiantly.

  ‘You couldn’t make a man fall in love with you,’ said Margot.

  ‘If I wanted to I could.’

  ‘No, you couldn’t,’ said Elaine. ‘Your bum’s too big, and you’ve got a moustache.’

  This mockery only made Morgan more determined to demonstrate her supernatural powers. In the middle of the night she would creep into their bedrooms and leave a variety of animals on her sisters’ pillows, together with a brief explanatory note. A snake, perhaps: snakebite for the gift of tongues. Or a tortoise: a tortoise kiss to make you immortal. Or a snail: a snail’s slimy caress to make you as beautiful as Helen of Troy. What more could they want? And why were her sisters so horribly ungrateful when all she was doing was trying to help? Didn’t they want to live forever? Didn’t Margie want to speak Greek and Latin, French and German, Russian and Chinese? Didn’t Elaine want her face to launch a thousand ships? Didn’t they want to fly?

  As the years passed, Elaine and Margot became increasingly wary of their younger sister, even though they both knew she would never dream of lifting a finger against them. Although the youngest, she was by far the tallest and strongest of the three, with broad shoulders, a gruff voice and a square jaw. In manner and appearance she was in fact less like a girl than a boy, and a pretty tough one at that. Normally placid, she had a violent temper when crossed, and her tantrums were alarming; she would scream in a harsh, tormented fashion, her eyes wild and unfocused, as though she were possessed. She was only two when the family doctor murmured something about fits, though all the usual tests were negative.

  Then there were her pets. From a very early age, Morgan gathered about her an odd collection of guinea pigs, hamsters, snakes, several species of poisonous spiders and insects, a tortoise, white mice, a talking mynah bird and a number of gerbils. If owning such creatures was not in itself all that unusual, her relationship with them most definitely was; her pets were her ‘familiars’, her assistants in secret rituals performed in her bedroom in the dead of night: black masses, incantations, conjuring the dead, casting of spells and various unspecified altar ceremonies. No one, not even her sisters, was allowed to witness them. Nevertheless, in such an unusual household no one found her particular form of eccentricity especially disturbing – or not until the affair of the gerbils.

  It happened when she was thirteen years old. In the early hours of a grey January morning Morgan marched into Elaine’s bedroom and deposited a gerbil on her pillow. ‘Mary’s dead,’ she announced.

  Still half asleep, Elaine shrank from the corpse. ‘Go away!

  And take that disgusting thing with you.’

  Morgan’s lips trembled. ‘I loved her.’ Picking up the corpse, she kissed it tenderly, two large tears rolling down her face. ‘She was such a darling gerbil.’

  Elaine was unsympathetic ‘Get out!’

  As Morgan was about to close the door behind her, she hissed over her shoulder, ‘It was murder.’

  In the darkness, Elaine stiffened. ‘Murder?’ ‘Tom did it.’

  Elaine switched on the bedside lamp and sat up. ‘What are you talking about, Moggy? Who is Tom?’

  Morgan shut the door, stomped back into the room and sat on the bed. She looked as though her whole world had come to an end and Elaine did not have the heart to turn her away. The corpse was produced from a dressing gown pocket and lovingly stroked. ‘Tom is Mary’s husband. This is Mary. Was Mary.’ Morgan began to sob.

  ‘Gerbils have friends, Moggy. Lots of friends. They don’t get married.’

  ‘Tom and Mary did. At the high altar in my bedroom. I married them myself. It was a lovely service. “Do you take this gerbil . . . till death us do part . . . ” All that stuff. Afterwards they had a reception and speeches and a cake and everything

  . . . and then they had three beautiful babies. Now he’s gone and murdered her.’ She held the little lifeless creature in her lap, stroking it and sniffing loudly.

  Elaine considered the departed with distaste. ‘How did it happen?’

  Morgan blew a trumpet blast on her nose. ‘He broke her neck.’

  ‘Moggy, you are silly! How could a gerbil do that?’

  ‘You don’t know Tom. He’s very strong, and he’s got a wicked temper.’

  ‘It might have been an accident,’ suggested Elaine. ‘I suppose animals have accidents, like human beings do.’

  ‘It was no accident. He murdered her,’ said Morgan emphatically.

  ‘Moggy darling,’ Elaine assured her, ‘animals don’t murder each other.’

  ‘Tom did. He has a lover, that’s why he did it. Her name is
Delilah. She’s a real bitch. She’s been after him for ages, always shoving her bum in his face. He fell madly in love with her. She’s why he killed Mary.’

  Elaine was not sure where all this was leading. ‘Supposing he did murder his wife,’ she said, humouring her young sister. ‘What’s to be done about it?’

  ‘He has to be punished.’

  Morgan insisted Tom must pay the penalty. The affair promised to be mildly entertaining, having all the essential elements of drama and romance that appealed to Elaine, and to a lesser extent to Margot. Investigations were completed, charges laid, legal representatives appointed and a trial date set. It was held at midnight in Morgan’s bedroom. Elaine, counsel for the defence, and Margot, counsel for the prosecution, appeared in Chanel jackets borrowed from Igraine’s dressing room, their lips black, their eyelids purple. Morgan, the judge, was wrapped in a red table-cloth, with a roll of cotton wool at her neck and a Restoration wig her step-father wore at fancy- dress parties. Beside her on the table lay the black bowler hat Uther had sported to cut a dash in the city when he was a young man. On the accused’s chair in a small cage was Tom, the gerbil, scratching nervously, responding to some primeval instinct warning him that he was in trouble.

  It was swiftly established by Margot that Tom had a wandering eye and had taken that tart, Delilah, as his mistress. Potentially the most damning piece of evidence was a taped message from Mary, the murdered wife, allegedly recorded just before she died. She confirmed that on several occasions she had refused her husband’s request for a divorce and that each time he had beaten her up, until finally, in a fit of rage, he had broken her neck.

  Elaine, the defending counsel, lodged an objection to the tape on several grounds. Firstly, that gerbils could not speak English; secondly, that Mary could not have known her husband had broken her neck because she would have been dead at the time, and thirdly, and most potently, that the taped voice sounded suspiciously like the judge’s. Her objection being summarily over-ruled by the judge, the outcome of the case was no longer in serious doubt.