by Unknown
The police asked Eleanor whether she wanted to press charges. She said that on reflection she may have been mistaken. In her own mind she now doubted that Lancelot had actually tried to rape her. Asked to explain her sudden change of heart, she said she could only think she had been suffering from pre- menstrual tension.
No one asked Lancelot, nor did he attempt to explain, what happened in the hospital that day. It was, everyone agreed, a remarkable coincidence that the dying Daniel Shalott should so miraculously have recovered after Lancelot’s visit. From that day on Lancelot was something of a hero in the university.
Lancelot tried to dismiss the episode from his mind. It had been good fortune, nothing more. No other explanation was possible. He wished with all his heart that people would just forget the whole thing, and stop treating him as if he were some kind of freak.
Six
2020
Four months before the spring general election Robert Marriott stood down as leader of the New Millennium Party and Prime Minister. His resignation was a shock to the public but came as no surprise to his colleagues who had known for some time that he had cancer. Marriott had quit without leaving a footprint in the sands of international affairs, nor in truth had he done much for the country. His chief contribution was to his own Party where, with Uther’s help, he had restyled the old Conservative Party and made them electable after many years in opposition.
There were several would-be successors, though probably only one serious contender. Having been for years a fixer at the highest level, Uther Pendragon was in a position to call in many favours. If a Party grandee or a sympathetic businessman needed a favour – a stock exchange tip, a box at Ascot, a dirty weekend in the south of France – Uther was their man. It did not seem to matter that he enthused no one; he was considered competent and unflappable, qualities much in demand in a world in turmoil.
Despite the change in leadership the polls indicated that the New Millennium Party would be re-elected for a third term. The grim inevitability of yet another election defeat weighed heavily on the leader of United Labour, Leo Grant, who could do little but mull over with Thomas Winnington, Chairman of the Party, the prospect of another four years in the wilderness.
‘What are our chances?’ asked Leo.
Winnington gave a rueful smile. ‘The truth?’ ‘The truth, Thomas.’
‘My feeling is that New Millennium will get in again, but with a reduced majority – probably around fifty seats,’ said Winnington.
‘If Uther Pendragon succeeds Marriott, how will that affect us?’ asked Leo.
‘He has serious flaws, no doubt about it, both as a politician and as a man,’ said Winnington. ‘But he’s plausible, and there’s always a honeymoon period, so by the time people discover how incompetent he is, it’ll be too late. He’ll be Prime Minister.’
‘I’m not so sure,’ said Leo. ‘There are rumours in Westminster that Pendragon’s on the take in a big way. We could make things very hot for him.’
Winnington shook his head. ‘That might rebound on us.
Where’s the proof?’
Leo had no answer to that.
‘We should stick to a political agenda,’ Winnnington cautioned. ‘God knows we have enough ammunition. The government’s record is poor. Every year that passes the UK is more and more divided – rich and poor, north and south, town and country. Terrorist incidents are on the increase. Under Blair our Party made hundreds of promises and kept very few; now it’s the turn of New Millennium to do the same thing. They talk strong and act weak, they promise gold and deliver dross. That’s their Achilles’ heel, and that’s what we should concentrate on, not on Uther Pendragon.’
Leo Grant nodded thoughtfully. ‘I have another idea, Thomas. ‘I’m getting on.’ A grimace. ‘Sixty-one already. I can hardly believe it.’
Thomas Winnington frowned. ‘Who cares about age? You are the best man for the job. That’s all that matters.’
Leo acknowledged the compliment with a smile and a small inclination of the head. ‘Uther is how old? Fifty-nine?’
‘About. So?’
‘We should find a young man to take him on. New blood, Thomas, would galvanise the electorate. People have been disillusioned with politicians for years, we all know that. Fresh faces and a youthful approach, that’s what we need to win this election.’
‘I don’t agree,’ said Winnington. ‘What we need is experience and a safe pair of hands.’
Leo Grant looked unconvinced. ‘What’s on your mind, Leo?’ ‘Arthur Pendragon.’
‘You want to bring Arthur into the shadow cabinet?’ Thomas Winnington was an experienced campaigner. He neither accepted nor rejected anything until he had given it his careful consideration. ‘It’s a thought. A bit young for the cabinet, though, isn’t he?’
‘I want him to succeed me.’
If Winnington was surprised he didn’t show it. ‘Who knows?
He might well do that one day. He’s a talented young man.’ ‘Not one day, Thomas. Now. I want to stand down. I want Arthur Pendragon to succeed me.’
‘Let me get this straight,’ said Winnington slowly, ‘you are proposing that a man of – how old is he exactly . . . ?’
‘Twenty-six,’ said Leo calmly.
‘ . . . that a man of twenty-six should become leader of United Labour?’
‘That’s right.’
Thomas Winnington shook his head, tut-tutting his disapproval. ‘I’m sorry, Leo, but it simply doesn’t make sense. We have a perfectly good leader. Give me one good reason why we should change horses in mid-stream.’
‘I’m tired, Thomas, tired of being in opposition, tired of lies and broken promises, tired of what used to be this great country going downhill year by year, tired of living in fear, and tired as hell of not being able to do anything about it. You want more reasons?’
Winnington’s shoulders slumped. The burden of depression bore down on him. He had never known Leo talk so negatively. ‘Very well. Tell me why you think Arthur Pendragon can win the election for us.’
‘Because, Thomas, he’s a man of principle. Because he means what he says. Because he’s strong. Because he has vision. Because, young as he is, people have enormous respect for him. And because he’s not afraid of taking on his father.’ Leo could see he was making some impression on Winnington. ‘In only two years look how Arthur’s star has risen in the Party and in the House. I tell you, Thomas, the man’s a natural born leader.’
‘You could be right,’ said Winnington. ‘I just don’t think he’s ready for the job.’
They agreed to talk further. In the event, however, the decision was made for them. That night Leo invited Arthur home, told him what he had in mind and insisted he go away and think about it. The next evening Arthur gave him his answer. ‘I’m more than flattered by the offer,’ he said, ‘but the answer is no.’
Leo hung on doggedly. ‘You understand that I intend to stand down as leader soon whatever happens.’
‘Not before the election, surely?’
‘No. I shall see the election through, lead the Party for a year or so, and then . . . ’ – emphasising his commitment to the idea, Leo punched his right fist hard into the palm of his left hand – ‘then you will be a leading candidate for the succession.’
Arthur did not answer Leo directly. ‘You agree that my father will almost certainly be elected leader of New Millennium?’
‘Who knows? Your father has enemies. He’s ambitious, some would say ruthless. The road to the summit is littered with the bodies he has stepped over.’
‘The chances are, though, that he will take New Millennium into the election,’ insisted Arthur.
‘Let’s say he does,’ said Leo. ‘What then?’
‘In my opinion he has the qualities that could make an excellent Prime Minister.’
‘You really believe that?’ asked Leo, astonished.
‘I do. I know what people say about him but he has the experience. I don’t. In any
case . . . ’ – Arthur hesitated – ‘I’m not sure I want to be a leader. I was born to be a backbencher.’
Leo laughed. ‘That’s rich! You have told me more than once that you want to make a difference, that you want to change the world. Well let me tell you, Arthur, you can’t change the world from the back benches. One day you will have to throw your hat in the ring.’
‘Maybe so,’ said Arthur, ‘but at this moment in time I believe I’m too young for high office.’
‘Age has nothing to do with it. Please think again.’
Arthur shook his head. ‘I am greatly honoured by your confidence in me, sir, but no. I have made up my mind.’
‘And if we win the election?’
‘Then I will think about your offer again – if it still stands, that is.’
‘It will,’ Leo Grant assured him.
Uther was returned unopposed. He had achieved his ambition, just as Merlin said he would all those years ago. Leaving his celebrating supporters, he drove to Brackett Hall, brushing away tears of joy, and relishing the police escort that accompanied his new exalted status. This was the greatest day of his life and he wanted to share it with his wife.
It was Uther’s misfortune that this day also happened to be the day Igraine decided it was time to leave her husband. For weeks now she had been reflecting on her marriage, wondering where it had gone wrong. Had she expected too much of Uther? Perhaps. But he had changed; he was not that glamorous and exciting man she had danced with on that memorable New Year’s Eve when they first met. Then she had been the willing centre of his universe; now, like some dead planet, she orbited his sun. That very morning Igraine had finally confronted
the painful truth; it was no use denying any longer that her marriage had foundered. There was nothing to be salvaged but the truth. Even as Uther burst into the sitting room, she said it: ‘I want a divorce.’
Uther was so shocked that for a few moments he could neither move nor speak. ‘Come again?’ he muttered weakly.
‘I want a divorce,’ she repeated.
At first he thought she must be drunk or drugged. Looking at her more carefully he realised she was neither. This was no sudden declaration made in the grip of some noxious substance, nor even in the heat of anger. ‘How long has this been brewing?’
‘Twenty-five years.’
‘I see,’ he said, although he didn’t. He paced the room aimlessly, casting anxious looks at her. ‘You can’t be serious, Igraine. I may not have been a perfect husband but I haven’t been such an ogre, have I? I’ve tried to be a good father to your children. I have given you security and a beautiful home. What is so wrong with that? Damn it, I’ve given you just about everything a man can give a woman.’
Tears filled Igraine’s eyes. ‘Except love.’ ‘Not true.’
‘Why pretend?’
‘Really, Igraine,’ he protested, ‘this is all very distressing.
Tonight, of all nights.’
‘I am sorry,’ she said bitterly. ‘Is the timing inconvenient for you?’
He could hold back no longer. ‘I have great news.’ A dramatic pause. Then, arms flung wide – ‘You are looking at the new Prime Minister.’
‘Congratulations.’ She could not have sounded less interested.
‘Is that all you have to say?’ ‘What were you expecting?’
‘Something a bit more fulsome perhaps?’ he suggested.
‘I am not in a fulsome mood.’
He switched into reproachful mode. ‘You are being very unkind, duchess. And very unjust.’
She smiled sweetly. ‘And how is May Middleton? Well, I hope?’
He raised his arms in mock surrender. ‘So that’s it.’ ‘Not all of it, by any means, but part of it, yes.’
Oddly enough, though things were not exactly going well, he felt relieved. Jealousy was something he understood. ‘If I give you my word never to see her again?’
‘It’s a matter of total indifference to me whether you see her again or not,’ she responded coldly.
‘Then why do you want a divorce?’ ‘Because I don’t love you anymore.’
His mouth opened and shut but no sound came out, his face was drained of colour, his eyes wounded. But then, with one of those rapid mood changes of his, he assumed that sham expression of contrition that she knew so well, and that infantile voice that she found so demeaning to his dignity as a man, and so insulting to her intelligence as a woman.
‘Duchess,’ he crooned, ‘why must you be so cruel? Alright, I have sinned. Mea culpa. There, I confess.’ He shook his head in self-reproach. ‘I am a child compared with you, a naughty little boy, that’s what I am.’
‘You flatter yourself. You are a liar and a hypocrite.’
‘Don’t be like that, duchess. Give your old man a kiss and let’s make up.’ He bent his head towards her.
It was so grossly patronising and insensitive that suddenly she was enraged. ‘Damn you, you bastard! Damn you!’ She knew only that she wanted to wipe that inane smile off his face. Before he could stop her she had reached out and dragged her nails down his cheeks.
‘Bitch!’ He drew back his fist to strike her. She flinched, and his arm dropped to his side. In all the years there had never been any physical violence between them before. They were
both in shock. She was the first to speak. ‘I shouldn’t have done that.’
‘I deserved it.’ ‘Forgive me,’ she said.
‘I should ask forgiveness, not you. Give me another chance, Igraine. You were always the one, you know. You always will be. I love you.’
Could it be, she wondered, that he was being sincere? Certainly he looked it. He was still a fine looking man. In an unconscious gesture of affection, she touched his hair; it was greying now but she could still remember when it was jet black. Quickly she pulled her hand away. What was she doing? She had witnessed this same performance so many times, yet here she was again, almost believing he meant what he said.
‘Do you really?’ she found herself asking. ‘You know I do.’
Worn out with quarrelling, they leaned against each other, like two ancient columns in a ruined temple. How was it possible, she asked herself, to feel anything for him, after all he had done to her? But she did. Was it what people called love? Or was it something else, something that had bonded them together over the years almost without their knowing it?
As they separated, he said, softly, ‘twenty-five years, duchess.
Surely they count for something?’
That brought a response from deep within her. It seemed he felt much as she did. Perhaps they really did have something worth saving after all. But then he spoiled everything by adding, ‘I need you, duchess. If you leave me now, I’m done for. I’ll have to resign before I’ve even moved into Number 10. What a scandal it would be. What a disgrace. Don’t walk out on me, please.’
Oh God, he would never change. Never. ‘It’s always about you, isn’t it? Always what you need.’ Her eyes filled with tears.
He knelt by her. ‘Please, duchess. I’ll do anything you want.’
‘It’s too late.’
‘I’m begging you.’
‘For God’s sake, Uther.’
‘Give me another chance,’ he pleaded. ‘I’ll make it up to you, I swear I will. ‘
‘You really are impossible,’ she said crossly. What a fool she was, what a weak, gullible fool.
He beamed, sensing she had relented. ‘I adore you, duchess.’
In the bathroom he studied his reflection in the mirror, dabbing his face with tissues, examining each one for traces of blood, and murmuring sardonically, ‘She loves me . . . she loves me not . . . ’ It had been a close call, the closest yet.
In the spring election New Millennium was duly re-elected, their majority down to twenty-two seats. As the results were announced and it became clear that the Party was heading for a narrow victory, Uther gloated with the Party faithfuls in Central Office. Later he declared for the cameras outsid
e Number 10: ‘The country can now look forward to another five years of stability and prosperity.’ There were those, even is his own party, who did not share his confidence.
Seven
2021
The party Sir Leo Grant gave for his daughter, Guinevere, was ostensibly for her eighteenth birthday. In his mind it was also for what in former times would have been called her “Coming Out”. Although Leo was far from anxious to marry off his daughter, the guest list included some of the most eligible young men in town. In his opinion she was much too young to marry, and secretly he dreaded the thought of parting with her. Still, her happiness came first. The more men she met, he reasoned, the more discriminating she would become, and the better her chances of finding the right one.
Watching the young men compete for her attention, and how charmingly and graciously she handled them, he thanked God for blessing him with a sensible daughter. Not only was she sensible, she was beautiful as well; and that was not just a proud father’s opinion, everyone said so. Sooner or later she would fall in love and marry. Would it, he wondered, be that laughing young man dancing with her now? Or perhaps one of that group leaning against the bar eyeing her with such interest? He knew them all, and all of them perfectly decent specimens of manhood. But oh, they were so young! At that age it was difficult to know who you were, let alone what you wanted in a lifelong partner. Whomever she married, he reasoned, it really ought to be someone a few years older than her. The girl had a strong character and a mind of her own. She would need a loving hand, yes, but a firm hand too.
When Arthur arrived Leo greeted him affectionately. By now he had a very soft spot for this young man. ‘I have some news for you,’ he told Arthur. ‘Good news I hope.’
‘Depends on your point of view.’ Leo lowered his voice. ‘I’ve reached a decision. I’m going to resign as leader of United Labour. It’s the right thing to do.’
‘No it isn’t,’ said Arthur. ‘No one could possibly take your place.’
