by Unknown
‘I hear she helps you outside the office as well.’
‘That’s a dirty lie!’ It was astonishing to him that Igraine had even heard of May, let alone suspected anything. He would have to be more careful in future. ‘My God, what people will do to discredit a successful man.’ He took her in his arms. ‘You do know you can trust me, don’t you, duchess?’
‘Of course,’ she said, backing off, preferring to avoid a confrontation that would be humiliating for both of them.
‘It’s high time Margot got married,’ he went on, as if nothing had happened. ‘It would be the best thing for her, and a great relief for everyone else.’
‘People don’t arrange their daughters’ marriages anymore.
This is the twenty-first century.’
‘So they tell me,’ he said dryly. ‘I’m simply suggesting we introduce her to a decent man before she finds herself an illiterate yobbo soccer player, or a drug-crazed pop star, or some filthy fortune-hunting jet-setting creep.’
She had to admit he had a point; she could not keep her beloved girls at home much longer, though she could not imagine what life at Brackett Hall would be like without them. For all Igraine’s feminist convictions, it was still, she had to admit, a man’s world. Uther had his career but what did she have? Not even a lover, though she had often thought of taking one. It was not the sex, and certainly not the shabby intrigue that attracted her; it was simply that she needed to feel someone really cared for her. Far from helping, being surrounded by friends and admirers only heightened her acute sense of loneliness. There was no one she felt able to confide in, being far too proud to admit to her friends that she knew about Uther’s “indiscretions”.
Uther considered his wife. His duchess was a remarkable lady, and still, at forty-three, a dish. There were lines around her eyes and mouth, of course, though somehow those tiny flaws added to her appeal. Her eyes still glowed as they did when she was young, except that now they had that resigned, slightly melancholy look he had noticed in other women of her age. Was it because she knew she was past her best? Or did it have something to do with her naughty husband? The last thing he wanted was to hurt her, but life was to be lived, and you only had one shot at it. Maybe he wasn’t quite the man he used to be either, but if you had May Middleton you didn’t need viagra.
‘I hate to say it, duchess, but Margot is becoming notorious. The gossip columnists love her, the paparazzi won’t leave her alone. It’s only a matter of time before some scandal or other breaks.’
Igraine sighed. ‘If only she would find a good man, someone to love, someone who would love her and take care of her.’
She had given Uther an idea. ‘Leave it to me,’ he said, ‘I know just the man.’
Lennox Lotte had succeeded his late father as chairman of one of London’s most successful trading and investment houses: presentable, well educated and with excellent social connections, he was nevertheless timid and rather inexperienced where women were concerned, or so Uther had heard. Probably just as well, he reflected. Ideal, in fact. An experienced man might think twice before marrying Margot. Arranging to meet Lennox at a friend’s dinner party, Uther and Igraine were impressed. The question was, would Margot be? And even if she were, would she not simply eat Lennox up and spit out the pieces, as she invariably did with men? What would certainly have astonished her parents had they known, was that Margot had decided, young though she was, that it was time to settle down. What advantages were there, she asked herself, in being single, that a married woman could not equally enjoy? None. What sacrifices would she be making in exchange for lifelong independence and security? None. None that she could think of, and anyway here at home she was suffocating. Mumsy was a darling, though much too possessive; Father was a pain. It was time to fly the nest. There were only three conditions: to qualify as her husband a man would have to be rich, good- looking and a competent lover.
In this receptive frame of mind then, she found herself at the Pendragons’ next dinner party sitting next to a highly eligible young man. Since her parents had never once mentioned him, she immediately concluded that he had been put there for a good reason.
‘M-my name is L-Lennox L-Lotte.’
He was certainly good-looking. The stammer was . . . well, different . . . rather endearing, actually. One down. Two to go.
‘And what do you do?’
‘I am chairman of a p-private t-trading and inv-vestment c-company.’
‘How interesting. Private, you said?’ She toyed with her seabass. ‘Does that mean you own it?’
‘It d-does.’
G-good looking and l-l-lots of l-l-lovely l-l-lolly. Two down.
One to go.
Lennox Lotte had heard somewhere that the Pendragon girls had a reputation for being “unusual”, but nothing in his sheltered upbringing could possibly have prepared him for Margot. Lavishing on him all her charm, she ensnared him with her feminine wiles. He was first intrigued, then enraptured, and finally enslaved. From the top of the table, Uther discreetly kept watch, astonished and impressed, not for the first time, by Margot’s power over men; he almost pitied the poor fellow. Lotte was totally intoxicated, though he had scarcely touched a drop of alcohol.
As coffee was served, Lennox found himself being whisked off by Margot. As the two young people left the room, Uther drew on his cigar with quiet satisfaction, and directed a solemn wink at Igraine.
‘What do you think?’
‘I thought you said he was shy.’ Uther grinned. ‘He is.’
A tour of the great house ended in the grand Hall of the Zodiac. Together they walked down the long white marble floor, the echoes of their footsteps rebounding from the mirrored walls and vaulted ceilings. In the centre of the hall Margot stopped and looked down. His gaze followed hers. There in a circle, exquisitely inlaid in rose pink marble, were the twelve signs of the Zodiac.
‘Do you know your sun sign?’ ‘I’m a Virgo.’
‘Of course you are. Stand there, then. On your sign.’
He stood, a little apprehensively, in the segment containing the zodiac sign of Virgo. Margot stood two segments away from him in the sign of Scorpio.
‘Scorpio.’ She smiled a smile of such demure and innocent charm that Lennox’s heart seemed to somersault in his breast. ‘Some say it’s a dangerous sign, not to be trusted.’
‘I w-would t-trust you with my l-life,’ he stuttered.
She extended her arm. Reaching out and taking her hand he held it in both of his as carefully and tenderly as if it were a damaged bird.
‘I have n-never m-met anyone l-like you,’ Lennox Lotte confessed.
Her eyes widened. ‘Am I so terrible, then?’ ‘You are l-laughing at m-me.’
Holding hands, and with Libra between them, they were still a couple of feet apart.
‘Libra is the sign of lovers.’ Her demurely lowered lashes veiled her eyes. ‘We are separated by love, you and I.’
Lennox took a step forward, and pulled her gently towards him. Now they were both standing in the Libra segment. ‘N-not any m-more,’ he said, and boldly kissed her.
As he opened his eyes again, he could not help noticing that their embrace was reflected in a dozen mirrors lining the great hall. A dozen times it brought home to him the enormity of what he was doing – taking advantage of a young and innocent girl. He experienced a pang of shame.
Her eyes gleamed coquettishly up at him. ‘Lennox?’ ‘Yes?’
‘Would you like to have sex with me?’
Shocked as much by the crudeness as by the unexpectedness of the invitation, he was quite unable to respond.
‘We shall do it here in Libra,’ she said, nodding her head like a battery-operated doll. ‘What could be more appropriate?’
He stood looking at her, senses roused. Scarcely taking her eyes off his, she unzipped his trousers and helped him remove them. Hoisting up her skirt, she tore off her knickers and pulled him down on top of her. The coupling was brisk and on Margot�
�s part noisy, her amplified cries of pleasure resounding round the marble hall.
‘I’m s-so t-terribly s-sorry,’ he said, when it was over. ‘I should n-never have . . . what m-must you think of m-me?’
‘Actually, I think you’re rather good.’ Three down, Margot was thinking. None to go. ‘We had better go back or they’ll be wondering what we are up to.’
As she clicked down the hall nodding away to herself, she asked him, casually, ‘Are you going to propose now?’
‘Pr-propose?’
‘You see, I never gave myself to anyone before. Of course, if you don’t love me . . . ’ She thrust out her lips in a pout.
‘Why yes,’ he said hastily, ‘of c-course I d-do. I think you’re w-wonderful.’
‘Then hadn’t you better pop the question?’
It took a few moments for Lennox to get his tongue round the words. ‘W-will you m-m-marry me?’ he stammered.
‘Yes,’ she said promptly.
Looking her intended up and down, she noticed that in his confusion he had left his flies gaping. Kissing him, she zipped him up. The gesture had about it a brusque, almost brutal finality. Leading him briskly into the drawing room, she made the announcement without preamble. ‘Lennox and I are engaged.’
Conversation ended abruptly. The room was silent. ‘I am going to be Mrs. Lotte,’ she added, in case there was any doubt about the matter. Taking hold of his arm, she led her intended to her astonished parents, her smile clearly saying, “There, aren’t you pleased with me? Have I not given you exactly what you wanted?”
Uther was astounded but cautiously pleased. Cautiously, because the self-satisfied smile on Margot’s face seemed to suggest that she knew something he did not.
‘Poor Lennox,’ he said to Igraine, a week before the wedding. ‘He looks shell-shocked.’
His wife thought that was unfair. ‘He looks like a man in love to me.’
‘No doubt. Still, one can’t help feeling sorry for him. Wait till he finds out what she’s really like.’
Igraine’s chin lifted defiantly. ‘I don’t know what you mean, he’s lucky to get her. She’s beautiful and talented, and she’ll make a wonderful wife and mother.’
‘Beautiful, yes. Talented, undoubtedly. A mother? Never. Margot is far too selfish for that.’ But Uther was mistaken. A few months after the marriage, Margot fell pregnant. Inevitably though, she blamed Lennox. ‘How could you do this to me?’ she wailed.
Lennox was distraught. ‘B-but I thought we w-wanted a b-baby?’
‘We!’ shrieked Margot. ‘You mean you wanted one!’
‘You know I only w-want w-what you w-want,’ he said, and meant it; but it was no use. Margot sobbed and sulked and was inconsolable. Motherhood was the last thing she wanted. She was terrified, her life was over, she was condemned to be a milking cow. Poor Lennox suffered her sulks and tantrums for days that dragged on into weeks, and was at last desperate enough to ask his father-in-law’s advice.
Uther smiled his world-weary smile. ‘Try jewellery.’ ‘Margot isn’t the s-sort of w-woman you can b-bribe with
b-baubles,’ protested Lennox.
‘She most certainly is not,’ agreed Uther. ‘Baubles would be a grave error. We are talking serious jewellery here.’
Lennox went out in his lunch hour and bought a Van Cleef and Arpels emerald necklace with matching bracelet that cost a small fortune. To his relief, Uther had given him sound advice. As the tips of Margot’s fingers caressed the jewels, she was miraculously transformed. Sulks? What sulks? Tantrums? Where were these tantrums? ‘Van Cleef and Arpels! You shouldn’t have, darling.’ Clawing his shirt and trousers, she purred with feline contentment. It was a mutually satisfactory solution to what had threatened to become a major problem. Lennox was happy, and Margot had established an important precedent.
The baby was a boy. They called him Gawain. He had white lashes and a fuzz of red hair. Margot was at first dismayed, then found it rather chic. None of her friends had redheads, and she adored being different. Lennox was delighted and proud to be a father. Margot made it clear she would not change the baby’s nappies; that was what nannies were for; nor would she breast feed it. The very idea was repellent. And one child, by the way, was quite enough.
Sitting on Margot’s bed in the clinic, Lennox was ecstatic. ‘I l-love you, M-Margot,’ he crooned.
She patted his hand. ‘I know.’ ‘And you l-love m-me, don’t you?’ She said nothing.
‘You d-do, d-don’t you, d-darling?’
She played with his fingers. ‘I’m mad about your hands. You have such long fingers. You know what they say about men with long fingers.’
Lennox persisted. ‘Do you l-love m-me, M-Margot?’ Margot thrust his hand aside. ‘No, Lennox,’ she said, ‘I do not. I thought I made that clear before we walked up the aisle.’ Taking her hand, as he had done when they first met, he clasped it with great care, as if it were a wounded bird, when in fact it was he who was wounded. ‘I expect I d-didn’t b-believe
you,’ he muttered.
‘You should have,’ said Margot coolly. ‘You will l-love me, M-Margot. One d-day.’
She was merciless. ‘No, I will not. I’m fond of you, but I shall never love you. It’s not about you, Lennox, it’s about me. I don’t do love, I’m not capable of loving anyone. I don’t have those sort of feelings. I don’t even know what you mean by love.’
‘Then,’ said Lennox, ‘I shall j-just have to l-love you enough for b-both of us.’
To everyone’s amazement Margot doted on her baby, just as her husband doted on her, and Lennox consoled himself with the thought that despite her protestations, Margot was learning to love.
Sixteen
2008
Merlin was taking an evening walk in the woods that lay to the west of Glastonbury. It was that magical hour
when the world is hushed, poised between day and night. A black Labrador slipped from the shadows and stood facing him. Merlin stopped. The dog lifted its head and barked twice, and as Merlin walked towards it, trotted along the path ahead, always maintaining the same distance between them. When Merlin stopped again, the dog stopped, turning its head to look at him. ‘Robbie,’ whispered Merlin, knowing he was being summoned.
Two days later he landed on the island and made straight for the old man’s cottage. The old man sat by the fire with Robbie at his feet. ‘You have come to claim Camelot,’ said the old man. It was a statement, not a question.
‘Yes,’ said Merlin.
‘Will it be as you promised?’
‘It will be as I promised.’ Merlin stooped to pat the Labrador. ‘Robbie shall be my friend and companion, I shall love him and care for him until the day he dies.’
The old man nodded his approval. ‘And when he dies?’
‘His ashes will be buried here on Camelot as a sign and a symbol of its ideals.’
‘And they shall be?’ The old man intoned the question as if it were part of a litany.
Merlin repeated solemnly, ‘Truth. Justice. Love.’ ‘Do you swear it?’
The magus raised his right hand. ‘I swear it on Arthur’s life.’
The old man smiled contentedly and lay back in his chair. ‘Then Camelot is yours.’ Merlin held the old man’s hand until, barely an hour later, he heaved a sigh and died.
Throughout the day, Merlin gathered moss, clumps of peat and driftwood. Where the long grass met the beach he built a great mound measuring ten feet square and two feet high, and when the sun set and the sky was streaked with red, he laid the old man on the funeral pyre. As the flames embraced the corpse, Merlin knelt in prayer. By his side Robbie, the black Labrador, kept vigil, never once stirring, brown eyes staring sadly into the flames. The fire burned that night and most of the following day. At first, the flames leapt high, then gradually fell back. As the sun went down the following evening, a wind gusted from the west, inspiring a last flurry of life in the dying embers, whirling the sparks upwards to the first stars.
By the next morning it was all over. When the heart of the fire was cold, Merlin collected the old man’s ashes. As the magus walked away, Robbie stood and stretched, then a little unsteadily, for his limbs were stiff and he was weak from fasting, followed at the heels of his new master.
Before he left the island Merlin visited the cottage and took one last look round. The old man had accumulated scarcely any possessions in his long life, and nothing of monetary value
– a few sticks of furniture, a kettle, some pots and pans, two large wooden spoons, a knife and fork, herbs grown at the back of the cottage, a few well-thumbed books, the pages yellowing with age and foxed with damp. Merlin sat by the empty grate and let his mind drift back to the past and forward to the future. He had both the means and the skill to do what had to be done, though he would need help. First, however, there was a firework display to organise, the greatest the world had ever seen – a very special illusion that would fool everyone, he flattered himself.
A few weeks later a number of military and civil stations around the world picked up faint signals, indicating seismic activity in the Atlantic Ocean. By no means an infrequent occurrence, it was immediately established beyond doubt that the disturbance was a natural one and that no country had broken the global ban on the testing of nuclear weapons.
Several commercial aircraft crossing the Atlantic, and also a container vessel and an oil tanker, reported seeing a big explosion about a hundred and fifty miles west of Land’s End. This was followed by a series of lesser explosions accompanied by dazzling, multi-coloured lights, rising several hundred feet into the air, the phenomenon resembling a giant pyrotechnic display. The obvious conclusion was that there had been a significant shift in the underwater terrain created by, or resulting in, a volcanic eruption. Confirmation of this came when streams of volcanic ash and traces of plant life were observed floating on the surface of the sea in the vicinity of the reported disturbance.
Scientists did not know precisely what had happened, but one thing was clear; the explosion or eruption had been sufficiently powerful to cause the total disintegration of a small island. Such natural phenomena were by no means unheard of. More than one small island in the Indian Ocean had suffered a similar fate. The original location of the island was of course known, yet a search by satellites, ships and aircraft, revealed nothing. It had disappeared without trace.
