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

by Unknown

  Uther looked Arthur directly in the eye. ‘I am your father.’

  Arthur stared back at Uther blankly, unable to take in what he had said.

  ‘I am your father, Arthur,’ repeated Uther.

  The conversation in the dining room was hushed; at a nearby table someone delivered the punch line of a joke, and there was a sudden burst of raucous laughter.

  ‘That’s not possible.’

  ‘I realise this may come as a surprise to you, but the fact is you are my son.’

  ‘Surprise?’ Arthur snatched at the word, as though it were a lifebelt in a stormy sea. For a few moments he sat in a daze. ‘My father is dead,’ he said at last.

  ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘Merlin. At least I think he did. But anyway, my mother – your wife – she confirmed it.’

  A quizzical look. ‘Did she? Perhaps you only heard what she wanted you to hear.’

  ‘I assumed – that is,’ stammered Arthur, ‘I always thought . . . ’

  A brisk nod. ‘That Godfrey, Marquess of Truro, was your father.’

  ‘I was born six months after he died.’ Arthur was trying to remember his mother’s precise words. ‘Didn’t Mother tell me that you and she . . . that you . . . ?’ He broke off, too embarrassed to continue.

  ‘That we only became lovers after Godfrey’s death?’ ‘That’s what she said.’

  A rueful grimace. ‘I’m afraid she lied.’ ‘But why?’

  ‘Scared you might think badly of her, I imagine. Don’t be too hard on her, Arthur. None of us is perfect. We all tell porky pies from time to time. Meeting you after all these years was a trauma for her. She intended to tell you the truth, she wanted to tell you the truth. When it came to it, she funked it, that’s all.’

  Arthur looked intently at the tablecloth, not trusting himself to look at Uther who continued. ‘We were young and in love, if that’s any excuse.’ Arthur’s thoughts whirred uselessly in his head like the broken mechanism of a clockwork doll. ‘Suddenly she was pregnant. My fault, of course,’ admitted Uther magnanimously, ‘I should have taken precautions.’ Arthur flinched and Uther knew instantly he had said the wrong thing. ‘Not quite the point, eh? I should never have touched her in the first place. That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it? You are right, of course.’ Uther smote his breast dramatically. ‘Peccavi. I have sinned. I have committed fornication. Beat me. Knock me down. Stamp on me.’

  Arthur looked up, his eyes full of resentment. ‘You make it sound like a joke.’

  ‘Do I? Well, perhaps that is my way. I do assure you, though, it wasn’t the least bit funny when your mother told me she was pregnant.’

  ‘It’s all clear to me now,’ said Arthur. ‘Godfrey found out about you and mother. That’s why he killed himself.’

  ‘There is not one shred of evidence to support that theory,’ said Uther icily. ‘Let’s face it, Godfrey was a weak man. He couldn’t cope.’

  Arthur said nothing, Uther sensing his disapproval. ‘Why are you so concerned about Godfrey anyway? He wasn’t your father. I am. I do hate clichés, Arthur, but let’s face it, blood is thicker than water.’

  ‘You didn’t let that worry you when you had me adopted.’ ‘I have already apologised for that.’

  ‘That wipes the slate clean, does it?’

  ‘Judge me if you must,’ said Uther. ‘But like it or not, these things happen even in the best regulated families. They are beyond our control, or they seem so at the time. Was it so terrible what we did? Or was it the most natural thing in the world?’

  ‘The most natural thing in the world?’ echoed Arthur scathingly. ‘I was your son. Yet your first thought was to get rid of me. I couldn’t understand why you and mother gave me away, but I do now. I was an embarrassment to you, wasn’t I? The timing of my birth was inconvenient. Your adultery would be in all the papers and it would be the end of your political career. You were determined to avoid a scandal, even if it meant killing your own son. And when your wife wouldn’t agree to do that, you gave me up for adoption. Was that the most natural thing in the world? Or the most unnatural?’

  Uther looked sheepish. ‘Can’t say I blame you for feeling aggrieved.’ Aggrieved. A bland word to describe the way he felt, thought Arthur. ‘Let me be candid with you, Arthur,’ said Uther, lying smoothly, ‘I did think about my career, I won’t deny it. But that was secondary. It was your mother I was most concerned about. The press would have blamed her for Godfrey’s death and destroyed her reputation. Socially she would have been finished. Can you understand that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But you can’t forgive.’

  Arthur tried to answer honestly. ‘The man I am now has to forgive. But that child you rejected – I’m not sure he can.’

  ‘Let me tell you something about that child,’ said Uther. ‘I know who he is now, but I didn’t then. I never thought of you as a child, much less my son. You had no form, no shape, no name. You were a foetus, that’s all, nothing I could relate to. What can I say? I was wrong. It seemed like the right decision at the time.’ Uther paused, scrolling back the years in his head. ‘Ten days after you were born, you were wrapped in a blanket and shawl and handed to me. I never looked at you. Not once. If I had . . . who knows, I might have weakened. Seeing you now . . . ’ It was as close to a plea for forgiveness as Uther would ever get, and Arthur knew it. ‘Will you take my hand?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Father and son shook hands awkwardly.

  ‘Would you care to reconsider my business proposal?’ enquired

  Uther, seizing what he perceived to be his best and probably last opportunity. ‘Half my property business in exchange for your commitment to the Company?’

  ‘It’s a most generous offer,’ said Arthur, hesitating, ‘but as I say I’m not sure I’m ready to . . . ’

  ‘Accept favours from your father? Is that what you are thinking?’ Uther could tell from Arthur’s expression that it was. ‘Well you’ve got it wrong, my boy. This is not some kind of hand out, I assure you. I should expect a hundred percent commitment and performance from you.’

  ‘As I said, I know nothing about business.’

  ‘So what!’ said Uther dismissively. ‘I shall teach you everything you need to know – and a hell of a lot more,’ he added with a sly wink. ‘After all,’ he said, his voice softening, ‘we are father and son. That changes everything, does it not?’

  It did, but it was clear to Arthur that his father was laying a trap for him, a honeyed trap but a trap nonetheless. If ever he was to find his true destiny, he would have to preserve his independence. Nothing was more important than that. ‘Give me some time to think about it,’ he said.

  Which meant, Uther knew, that his son was determined to do his own thing, whatever that might be. ‘Take all the time you want,’ he said grandly. ‘Meanwhile you shall come and live with us.’

  ‘I have a bedsit across the river.’

  ‘Give it up. You can have your own apartment in Brackett Hall. Come and go as you please. You shall have a mother and father again. Igraine will have her baby back and I shall have a son and heir. Think, Arthur, think of the doors I can open for you – business, politics, law, whatever damned profession you choose. Hell, go ahead and join the army, if that’s what you want. I’ll support you whatever you do.’

  Arthur shook his head. ‘Thank you, sir, for being so understanding. But I really would prefer to stand on my own feet.’

  ‘At least come and see us – stay the weekend. Your step-sisters are dying to meet you.’

  ‘I look forward to meeting them too.’

  ‘Come any time. Come as often as you like. Feel free to treat Brackett Hall as if it were your own home. Damn it, man, it is your own home!’ Uther was elated. Life had given him a second chance, it had brought back the son he once so casually rejected, and, what was more, without any embarrassing repercussions. It was all very satisfactory, and more, far more, than he deserved.

  B
ut then a dark thought shadowed his joyful mood; Arthur was back in the fold, so what if he decided to take the name Pendragon? If he did, the media would be onto it in a flash and with their usual frenzied efficiency the tabloid press would sift through the dirt. Searching questions would be asked about his affair with Igraine and his reasons for giving his son away for adoption, not to mention the whole sordid business of Godfrey’s death. Godfrey would be seen as the victim, and Uther as the man responsible for his death. He would be made to look a complete shit. He could imagine the headlines. “Minister re-united with son he rejected twenty years ago . . . Uther Pendragon confronted with his past . . . Wife’s adultery drove husband to suicide . . . Tory Grandee puts politics before parenting . . . ”

  Signing the bill, he said casually, ‘I imagine you’ll be keeping your present surname.’

  Arthur was taken aback. ‘I only just discovered I’m a Pendragon. I shall need time to think about it. Does it matter?’ ‘Changing your name would inevitably invite speculation by the yobbo press. This is our business, not theirs,’ said Uther.

  ‘No one need know I’m your father.’

  Arthur’s jaw jutted, his eyes flashed angrily. Uther could have kicked himself. He had blundered.

  ‘Are you ashamed of me?’

  ‘My dear boy, how can you ask me such a question? Ashamed of you? What nonsense! I couldn’t be more proud of you.’ ‘Then show it.’

  ‘Listen to me, Arthur . . . ’

  ‘No, father,’ said Arthur, ‘you listen to me. I never knew who my real father was, now suddenly I do. It’s like coming out of a dark tunnel into the light. You are my father and that makes me a Pendragon.’

  ‘Of course it does,’ said Uther uneasily. ‘All I’m saying is let’s keep it in the family.’

  ‘No, let’s not do that. You are my father and you are going to tell the world that I’m your son. You rejected me once. I won’t let you do it a second time.’

  Uther could not remember the last time anyone had told him what to do, let alone so emphatically. He had made the mistake of underestimating his son. In future he would have to be more careful. This was a young man to be reckoned with. He would make a staunch friend; and a formidable enemy.

  ‘I am justly rebuked,’ he said humbly.

  ‘That was not my intention,’ Arthur assured his father. ‘Nevertheless you are absolutely right.’ He would just have to make the best of a bad job. Rather than let the press uncover the story, he decided to give the story to the press.

  “Believing as I do that politicians have an obligation to uphold the very highest standards of honesty and integrity, I would like to share with my constituents, and with the public at large, my joy at being re-united with my long lost son, Arthur Pendragon. To my shame he was given up by me for adoption when he was a baby. The circumstances were the following.

  When I was a young man I fell deeply in love with my beloved wife, Igraine. At the time, she was unhappily married to Lord Truro. Though she and he had long been estranged, and were husband and wife in name only, he refused to give her a divorce. We began an affair and she became pregnant. Her husband was experiencing financial problems, and was also suffering from

  the chronic depression that ultimately led to his suicide. She felt it her duty to stand by him, refusing to desert him in his time of trouble. I freely admit that she was also concerned not to expose me to the condemnation of the public and of my peers. I, for my part, was equally anxious to protect the reputation of the woman I loved.

  I therefore persuaded her, much against her will, to keep the baby’s birth secret, and to have it adopted by a caring and loving couple. It was the most painful decision we have ever had to make – one, I may say, neither of us has ever ceased to regret. Having our son back in the family after so many years has been some consolation to us, and has made us the happiest and proudest couple in the world.

  Times have changed. The world we live in is far more aware and far less judgmental than it was when I was a young man. Not for one single moment would I consider doing now what I felt obliged to do then. That is not an excuse, merely a simple statement of fact. I take full responsibility for my actions, submitting myself to the judgment of the electorate. If it is their decision, or the decision of my Party, that I should resign as a Member of Parliament, then I shall not hesitate to do my duty.”

  Neither the public nor the Party decided anything of the kind, nor did the Press. Their guns had been well and truly spiked; every newspaper in the land was behind Uther, their stories focusing rather on his courage in revealing the truth than on the facts of the revelation. His assessment of the mood of the times had been flawless. Columnists praised him for having learned the lesson most politicians never learn; he had come clean. What’s more, he had done it without waiting for the truth to be dragged out of him. Not that it was the real truth, it was Uther’s truth, a counterfeit so good it was almost indistinguishable from the real thing.

  Twenty Six

  2017

  Shortly after meeting his father, Arthur joined the army. His short leaves he spent in Ponterlally with Elizabeth and Hector, both of whom, to his delight, were as warm and loving towards him as they ever had been. His change of surname at first troubled Elizabeth but she soon got used to it. ‘You are still my Arthur,’ she said, hugging him until he was red in the face, ‘and you always will be.’ Hector, being a realist, saw it as the most natural thing in the world that Arthur should become a Pendragon; it signified that his and Elizabeth’s task was done, and well done too, for it was largely thanks to them that Arthur had regained the inheritance to which he was entitled.

  Having a weekend pass, Arthur accepted Igraine’s invitation to stay at Brackett Hall. It was a visit he anticipated with mixed feelings; with Hector and Elizabeth he was at ease, with Uther and Igraine he was not, for there were too many unresolved issues. Nevertheless he looked forward to seeing his birth parents again, and of course to meeting his three step-sisters for the first time.

  Arthur kissed his mother affectionately. Igraine was overjoyed. ‘I can’t believe I shall have you to myself for two whole days.’

  ‘And how is Elizabeth?’ Igraine had asked to meet Elizabeth but her approaches had been politely rejected. She had not pressed the point.

  ‘She’s fine.’ He would have preferred to pass on Elizabeth’s love or best wishes or even regards but she had not sent them, and what was the point of lying?

  ‘I should like to have met her.’ Igraine smiled, a forlorn smile it seemed to him. Why was she sad? Was it only because of him? He knew so little about her. He tried to look at her objectively, to see her not as his mother but as a woman. She was beautiful; she must have been over fifty, though she certainly did not look it, her face still the face of a young woman, her hair – even if with some artificial aid – still glossy and raven black, her body slim and shapely. In those dark eyes there was that same touch of melancholy he had noticed in her smile, a wry acceptance of the passing years, a hint of secret yearnings and of dreams unfulfilled. As if to give the lie to his sombre reflections, she suddenly came to vibrant life, crying out happily, ‘And what a splendid uniform! How smart you look!’ Hands clasped she gazed at him adoringly. ‘How the girls must chase you. You really are the handsomest young man I ever saw.’

  Arthur grinned. ‘You exaggerate.’ ‘Not a jot,’ she insisted.

  ‘You, on the other hand, without any exaggeration, are certainly the most beautiful woman in the country.’

  ‘What nonsense,’ cried Igraine blushing.

  The “monsters”, as Igraine affectionately dubbed her grandchildren, were duly assembled to meet their long lost uncle. Gawain, the eldest, was much the liveliest and most endearing, a stocky, freckled-faced lad, with flaming red hair, and a challenging gaze. Agravaine, the second born, was pale, plump and wining, clinging to his grandmother’s skirts. Gaheris, the third brother, was a big, swaggering fellow with a loud voice. Mordred, the youngest, retreated under a
table, from where he observed Arthur with darkly suspicious eyes.

  And the girls? Where are they?’

  ‘Dying to meet you.’ At that very moment Elaine appeared, struck a theatrical pose with arms spread as if to say, “Da- dum! Here I am and here you are!”, and gave Arthur a hug.

  ‘You must have been listening at the door,’ said Igraine, smiling affectionately at her eldest.

  ‘An actress,’ said Elaine, ‘always makes her entrance on cue.’ She stood back, took a long look at Arthur and cooed admiringly, ‘My but you really are a dish!’

  Arthur did not know what to say. Murmuring something that he hoped sounded like appreciation, he considered how best to return the compliment. If nature had not blessed Elaine with beauty, it had lavished on her both vivacity and charm. ‘I know very little about the theatre, Elaine,’ he admitted, ‘but enough to know that you have star quality.’

  Elaine melted. Arthur could not have said anything to please her more. ‘Friends for life, darling,’ she gushed.

  Morgan’s entrance was more subdued but equally impressive in its way. She strode in and gave Arthur a bear hug that made him wince and left red marks on his face. When she released him, he studied her with interest. His heart went out to her; Morgan was the most engagingly ugly woman he had ever seen. Her eyes bulged, her mouth was huge, and was that a hint of a moustache on her upper lip? Studying her outfit, he now understood why her embrace had been so painful. Her large frame was encased in a skin-tight black leather suit hung with several pounds of steel – buttons, badges, brooches, tassels, studs and chains. Her hands writhed with steel serpents, from her ears steel witches dangled, and both her nose and lips were pierced with steel rings.

  Morgan stared right back at Arthur, her steel-encrusted lips parting in a gleaming smile. ‘I’ll bet you never saw anything like me before.

  Arthur laughed. You are definitely an original.’ ‘Take care, Arthur,’ said Elaine. ‘Morgan’s a witch.’

  Igraine hated it when anyone made fun of Morgan. ‘Nonsense dear.’