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

by Unknown

  Arran wanted to punch Drummond in the face but managed to restrain himself. ‘If you refuse to apologise, I shall place the matter in the committee’s hands and let them decide what to do.’

  ‘Going to have me thrown out, are you?’ jeered Drummond. ‘Afraid to stand up for yourself? That makes you a coward, Gore.’

  Arran Gore sighed. ‘How do we settle this, then?’ A wicked grin. ‘We fight a duel.’

  ‘You can’t be serious.’

  ‘I am perfectly serious,’ said George Drummond. ‘Matter of fact I’ve read the Club rules on the subject. There’s been an insult, so there has to be an apology. If there’s no apology, then according to the rules there’s a challenge, followed by a duel.’

  The Out and About club had its origins in the seventeenth century when quarrels between members were commonly settled by duels. Over the years the Club Rules had been added to and amended but never rewritten. It was likely that for historical and traditional reasons no one had wanted to do anything quite so drastic. Arran was appalled: ‘But that’s absurd. Duelling has been illegal for centuries.’

  ‘You can’t have your cake and eat it, Gore. If the club rules apply to my friend, they apply to you as well.’

  Arran was on the defensive now. ‘I shall be happy to accept an apology.’

  Drummond shook his head. ‘You won’t get one. So you have a choice: challenge me or resign from the club.’

  ‘For God’s sake, man,’ protested Arran, ‘this is the twenty- first century, not the seventeenth!’

  ‘So what? I say a duel is the only way to settle this argument.’ George Drummond folded his arms, signalling that, as far as he was concerned, that was the end of the discussion.

  Arran was cornered. He glanced about him at his friends who looked as baffled as he felt. ‘What kind of duel?’

  ‘Something harmless.’

  Sensing a light-hearted resolution of an unpleasant situation, Arran’s friends nodded approvingly.

  ‘Very well,’ said Arran reluctantly. ‘You have to challenge me.’

  ‘Alright, I challenge you,’ said Arran.

  A triumphant smile. ‘I accept your challenge.’ ‘What happens now?’

  ‘We choose weapons. You are the challenger, so it’s my choice.’ Clearly Bulldog had done his homework.

  ‘What do you choose?’

  Drummond smirked. ‘Bows and arrows.’

  It was a relief to Arran, as to all the other members of the Out and About, to hear that the bows and arrows Drummond had in mind were obtainable at a toy store in Regent Street. Once this was established, Gore was ready to enter into the spirit of things. ‘Very well. My, um, my seconds will attend you. That the form?’

  ‘That’s it.’

  Seconds were despatched to make the necessary purchases, and the time and location of the duel agreed.

  That evening Morgan phoned Arthur as she did from time- to-time. She trusted her half-brother, and he and Arran were good friends. Never one for small talk, she came straight to the point. ‘He’s going to fight a duel.’

  ‘Who is?’

  ‘Arran.’

  Arthur knew Morgan was eccentric and claimed to have special powers. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘It came to me in a dream,’ she explained.

  ‘I see,’ said Arthur, though he did not. It sounded as though Morgan had lost the plot. ‘When is this duel taking place?’

  ‘Tomorrow,’ said Morgan. ‘Something terrible is going to happen. I know it is.’

  The poor woman sounded terrified. For her sake he decided it would be best to go along with her story. If he did not she would be mortally offended. ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘You must stop it.’ ‘Right.’

  ‘Swear?’

  A slight hesitation. ‘I swear.’

  ‘Bless you, Arthur. You can fly.’ With that Morgan rang off.

  It was just another one of Morgan’s fantasies, of course, but even so he could not get that phone call out of his mind. He was as fond of his half-sister as she was of him, and admired her for being different and gutsy. People said she was mad, and perhaps she was, but she had a bigger heart than almost anyone he knew. He found himself tapping Arran’s number.

  ‘Arran, it’s Arthur.’ ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Forgive me for asking,’ said Arthur self-consciously, ‘but . .

  . this is probably going to sound ridiculous . . . ’

  ‘Go on.’ Arran guessed that this had something to do with Morgan.

  Arthur ploughed on. ‘You are not fighting a duel tomorrow, are you?’

  A long silence. ‘How on earth did you know?’ ‘Morgan phoned me.’

  ‘Strange. I never told her.’ Arran was embarrassed, not liking to admit that his wife had special powers.

  ‘Morgan knows things,’ said Arthur.

  Arran chuckled. ‘She claims she’s a witch, bless her. Absolute nonsense, of course.’

  Maybe, maybe not, thought Arthur. The fact was, she was right. ‘So you are going to fight a duel?’

  Arran explained.

  ‘Isn’t there a better way? Duelling went out aeons ago.’ ‘Bit of nonsense, that’s all,’ said Arran lightly.

  ‘You’re not duelling with weapons, then.’

  ‘Good Lord, no,’ said Arran. ‘What do you take me for? We’re using toys, bows and arrows actually. You’re welcome to come along. It should be fun.’

  An hour before dawn the following morning Arran Gore and George Drummond accompanied by their seconds met on Highgate Hill. It was still dark, but in the east the sky was faintly luminous. The two men and their seconds took up their positions a hundred yards from each other.

  Arthur watched the preparations from a distance. He had promised Morgan he would stop the duel but he saw little point in getting heavy-handed with Arran; the whole thing was a charade, a child’s game played by adults to ensure that honour was satisfied. The offence was real enough but the duel was not. Indeed he had the strange sense that these shadowy figures moving silently on the crest of the hill were not real people at all; or if they were, that they were actors performing some ancient rite. This was theatre, an imaginative solution to what might well have been a very nasty problem. Obviously there was nothing to be concerned about. It made no sense, then, to feel as troubled as he did. Doubtless his uneasiness was caused by the early hour and the morning chill.

  With the most solemn and scrupulous care the toy kits were unpacked, the bows and arrows tested and handed to each protagonist. Both kits came complete with a target which was left in the box.

  ‘What’s the range of these things?’ Arran enquired of one of his seconds who knew something about archery.

  ‘They are small, but metal-tipped and well flighted, so they can travel quite a distance. With a level shot, I reckon the arrow can fly about fifty yards. If you shoot it up in the air, it might go a little further.’

  ‘So we are well out of range.’

  ‘We made sure of that.’ The second winked. ‘Mind you, if anyone deserves an arrow in the rump, it’s Bulldog.’

  The two duellists and their seconds clapped their hands and stamped their feet to keep their circulation moving, their breath steaming in the cold air. Every now and then one of the seconds would look at the eastern sky and glance at his watch.

  Arran Gore and George Drummond squared off. In the darkness they could barely make each other out but as the sky slowly lightened, the outline of each man became more distinct, especially that of Arran who faced the rising sun. As the rim of the sun nudged the horizon, Drummond’s second spoke: ‘Two shots each, remember. First shot to you, Bulldog. When you have fired, face your opponent full on and remain still’

  Bulldog took the bow and arrow in his hand. ‘Piece of junk. Give me the real thing and I’d make the bastard jump.’ From the way he inserted the arrow, and weighed the bow in his hand, it was evident he was no stranger to archery.

  Arran’s second gave him the same ins
tructions. As his opponent took aim, Arran stood unflinching. The arrow sped through the air with a distinctive hissing sound, falling to earth thirty yards or so from where he was standing. As his second had forecast, it lacked the momentum to carry the full hundred yards, though it had travelled further than its supposed range of fifty.

  With some difficulty, Arran inserted the arrow, drew back the bowstring, aimed in the general direction of his opponent and fired. The arrow flew high into the air, hung poised for a second or two, and fell to earth barely ten yards from where Arran was standing. ‘Oh,’ he said.

  A hundred yards away Bulldog wheezed with mirth. ‘Try again!’ he shouted mockingly.

  ‘It’s your turn,’ Arran shouted back. ‘Have one on me!’

  ‘Right. I will.’ Arran’s lips compressed in a determined line. Taking the utmost care, he inserted a second arrow in the bow, pulled the bowstring back with all his strength until it seemed it must surely snap, took aim and released the arrow. This time it sped directly towards its target, and with such force that it landed only a few yards from Bulldog’s feet. So accurate was the shot, that given another few yards momentum, it might well have struck him. ‘Bastard!’ yelled Bulldog. Narrowing his eyes, he flicked the arrow expertly into the bow, pulled back the bowstring with the full power of his massive arm, aimed high and released the arrow.

  The ball of the sun sat on the horizon, setting ablaze the river Thames and the windows and rooftops of the City of London. In the distance Arran could just make out the shining dome of St. Paul’s. It was the last thing he ever saw. As he shielded his eyes from the glare of the sun, the arrow tore through his hand and into his brain. His life was over before he hit the ground.

  It was several moments before anyone could take in what had happened. Arthur was the first to move, rushing over to kneel by Arran. The steel tip of the toy arrow had penetrated his skull so far that only the flight and a few inches of shaft were visible. Arthur felt Arran’s wrist and neck where his pulse should have been. There was nothing.

  Bulldog stumbled across the grass and fell on his knees by the body. ‘I don’t believe it, I don’t believe it,’ he kept saying. He began to cry. ‘It was a game, a silly game. This isn’t happening. An ambulance! For God’s sake get an ambulance someone!’

  ‘I just phoned for one,’ said Arthur quietly. ‘He can’t be. Tell me he isn’t.’

  ‘I’m afraid he’s dead,’ said Arthur.

  ‘Oh God, what have I done? What have I done?’ Bulldog sobbed violently, his whole body heaving.

  One of his seconds touched him on the shoulder. ‘Get a hold of yourself, Bulldog. The police will be here any moment.’

  ‘The police! Why the police? You saw what happened, Pendragon. It was an accident. I fired to miss. I had no idea it would fly so far. It never should have done. I’ll sue the makers, that’s what I’ll do. It’s their fault, not mine. No one can say it was my fault.’

  Arran’s blind eyes stared up at the sky. Gently Arthur closed them. For a moment or two he stood looking down at his friend, then he took off his coat and covered him. George Drummond sat on the ground and held up his arms in appeal: ‘Why doesn’t somebody say something? You saw what happened. You can’t say it was my fault. Don’t try and pin this on me. You were all in on it, every one of you.’

  Arthur broke the news to Morgan. Haltingly, he did his best to explain what had happened. It was the most difficult and painful thing he had ever had to do.

  ‘It was an accident,’ he said, ‘a terrible accident.’

  ‘Arran’s tough,’ said Morgan, ‘he’ll pull through, I know he will.’ She put on her coat. ‘Would you drive me to the hospital, please?’

  Tears stung Arthur’s eyes. ‘Arran’s dead, Morgan. I’m so very sorry.’

  Morgan took off her coat, sat on the sofa and began to shiver. ‘You said you would stop it.’

  Head bowed, Arthur answered softly, ‘I know.’ ‘You swore you would.’

  ‘I’m so sorry.’

  Morgan was observing Arthur with an odd look in her eye. ‘Arran isn’t in hospital?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘He’s dead?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He’s not coming home?’

  ‘No’. He tried to take her hand but she snatched it away. ‘He’s never coming home?’

  Arthur shook his head. ‘He’s gone, Morgan.’

  She leaped up, her face contorted with rage. Hurling herself at Arthur, she clawed at his face. ‘I’ll kill you!’ she shouted again and again, ‘I’ll kill you! I swear I will!’

  A week later Morgan phoned and asked if she could stop by to see Arthur at his flat that evening. Arthur was preparing drinks in the kitchen when he heard a soft ‘Hooh-Hooh’ in the sitting-room. Merlin was standing by the bookshelf with Virgil on his shoulder. As Arthur came in Virgil flew across the room, perched on his shoulder, nibbled his ear and went to sleep.

  ‘He always did have a soft spot for you,’ said Merlin, ‘ever since you were a boy.’ He embraced Arthur, taking care not to disturb the owl. ‘Just like me.’

  ‘I’m happy to see you, Merlin. I suppose you wouldn’t care to tell me how you got in?’

  ‘You wouldn’t understand if I did,’ said Merlin unkindly, helping himself from the plate of raw vegetables Arthur was carrying. ‘Let’s talk about Morgan,’ said the magus, crunching a carrot, ‘before she gets here.’

  Arthur knew better than to ask how Merlin knew. ‘Do you know why she’s coming?’ Merlin asked.

  ‘To talk about poor Arran, I imagine. It’s been a month already.’

  Merlin shook his head. ‘What does she want then?’ ‘To kill you,’ said Merlin.

  Arthur’s eyes widened. ‘Why on earth would she want to kill me?’

  ‘Because she holds you responsible for Arran’s death.

  Unreasonable of course.’

  As unreasonable, thought Arthur, as the prickings of his own troubled conscience.

  ‘Best be on your guard,’ said Merlin, fading from view together with his voice. Seconds later he had disappeared, and so, with a nibble of Arthur’s ear and a soft hooh-hooh, had Virgil.

  Minutes later the doorbell rang. Morgan was dressed in black, accentuating the pallor of her face and her red-rimmed eyes. Under her arm was a large black handbag. She refused Arthur’s offer of a drink. ‘I’ll try a few veggies,’ she said, scooping up a handful and cramming them into her mouth. Within seconds she had emptied the plate. ‘Good for the digestion,’ she explained and belched loudly. The corners of Arthur’s mouth twitched.

  ‘How are you, Morgan?’ ‘Never better.’

  Obviously that was not true. ‘Is there anything I can do for you?’

  Morgan opened her handbag and slipped her hand inside. For a long time she sat staring thoughtfully at Arthur, one hand in the bag, the other in her lap. One leg of her black tights was laddered, Arthur noticed, the other had a large hole through which the white flesh of her calf bulged. ‘There is, actually,’ she said. ‘You can stand still.’ From the bag she produced a long serrated bread knife and advanced on Arthur who watched her carefully, uncertain whether she only intended to scare him or whether she had something else in mind. When she spoke again it was as if she were explaining consequences to a small child. ‘You killed my Bore,’ she said, ‘and so I’m going to kill you.’

  ‘I never killed Arran,’ said Arthur. ‘He died because of an accident.’

  A sudden convulsion of rage gouged Morgan’s face. Clutching the knife in both hands she stabbed at Arthur’s chest. Just in time he seized her wrist, prizing open her hand, and as the knife dropped to the floor kicked it under a chair. Morgan pounded his chest with her fists until she had no more strength in her arms. As suddenly as it erupted her rage subsided; Arthur watched her every move as she dipped into the bag again. A few seconds rummaging and she produced nothing more sinister than a clutch of grubby tissues.

  ‘A Gore fought with Wellington at Waterloo,’ s
he said, blowing her nose loudly and stuffing the sodden tissues back in her handbag. ‘Did you know that?’ ‘I don’t believe I did,’ said Arthur.

  Without warning she threw her arms round his neck and kissed him on the lips. ‘I love you,’ she whispered fiercely, biting his lower lip so hard she drew blood. Arthur winced, gently disengaging himself. ‘But I still want to kill you,’ she added in the same fierce whisper.

  None of it made sense, yet Arthur knew it was true. He had the feeling that Morgan could no longer distinguish love from hate, that in her heart the two emotions were interdependent, love feeding on hate like a parasite on its host. Merlin was right; he would have to be on his guard.

  Five

  2019

  As a child, Lancelot was introspective and sensitive. When people looked at the handsome boy a second time, as they invariably did, he would tuck his chin in his chest, or turn away in embarrassment. He and his father, Bertie Bancroft, a retired soldier, were touchingly protective of each other. Most men widowed after barely three years of marriage would have remarried but Bertie’s wife was ever present in her husband’s heart, an icon of womanhood that no woman of flesh and blood could hope to match. So all his love was lavished on his only child.

  Lancelot was said to resemble Jane, his mother, a woman with darkly beautiful looks, who had drowned herself in a lake shortly after her son was born. As he grew older Lancelot learned to hide his vulnerability but was no less introspective. At university some found him proud and vain, some attributed his aloofness to shyness. He was much admired – by men for his sporting prowess, by women for his good looks and smouldering intensity. He was not one of the herd, partly because he was by nature a loner, partly because his fellow students found it hard to empathise with someone who seemed to take himself so seriously. His only close friend, Ian Duncan, was a sociable and fun-loving Scotsman, who on the face of it had little in common with Lancelot, aside from a mutual love of sport. Yet even this shared interest highlighted the differences in their characters. By the end of his first year Lancelot had already won a rowing and rugby blue, and but for the fact that there were only twenty-four hours in a day, would no doubt have won a blue for cricket, tennis and golf as well. Ian had enjoyed no comparable success, a fact that bothered him a great deal less than it bothered Lancelot who frequently criticised Ian for his laziness. ‘You should have won a blue by now.’