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

by Unknown

  So that was it. Uther was ignoring the Landlords’ threat because he hoped they would do his dirty work for him. ‘I cannot believe I am hearing this from the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom.’

  ‘Believe it, Arthur,’ said Uther. ‘Just don’t quote me.’

  ‘Have you forgotten that you were elected by all the people of this country?’ said Arthur. ‘That means all the people, wherever they are, including the deprived and the underprivileged.’

  A tired smile. ‘Spare me the clichés.’

  Arthur stood up to go. ‘You are even more dangerous than Lord Mark, father. Power has gone to your head.’

  ‘Power?’ Uther chuckled. ‘What power is that, pray? You think politicians have power, do you? Dear me, no. Not any more. Not in the twenty-first century. The multi-nationals have power, the drug barons have power. The arms dealers, the crime syndicates, the media moguls – they have power. What power do politicians have?’

  ‘The power to change things,’ said Arthur.

  Uther opened the door to show his son out. ‘How very naïve of you. Let me tell you something, Arthur. We politicians can do a lot, but the one thing we can never do is change things. Take my advice, forget all this idealistic claptrap of yours. You are living in Never-Never Land. Get real, or you won’t last long in this business.’

  Eleven

  2023

  The confrontation with his father gave Arthur a sleepless night. The next morning he called Leo Grant.

  ‘I’m on board,’ he said without elaboration. Leo understood. ‘You’ll stand?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Leo laid aside his mobile, sat back in his chair and let out a long contented sigh. This was a memorable day.

  The Party grandees all agreed that the matter of the succession needed to be handled with discretion. Arthur was much admired but still only twenty-nine. Few in the country, or indeed in United Labour, thought of him as a candidate for leadership of the Party, or at least not yet. It would take a while to smooth the way, a few weeks, perhaps, a few months at most, so in the meantime it was vital that the mass media knew nothing. There were backbenchers to be sounded out, party faithfuls to be prepared. Assuming all went according to plan, one or two well-disposed journalists would plant a suggestion here and drop a hint there that Leo Grant might stand down as leader of United Labour, and that one of the candidates for the succession could be Arthur Pendragon.

  Uther had his spies everywhere, recognising as he did that having the right information at the right time was crucial to success in politics. It was not long before a mole in the ranks of United Labour passed on to him some interesting and extremely disturbing gossip. If it were based on fact, and Uther thought it must be, then Arthur was being groomed as the future leader of United Labour. It was a sobering thought, for his son was already a thorn in his side, and seemed destined to become much more powerful and influential. He had both the charisma and the intelligence to galvanise the opposition. Yes, he could be a problem.

  It is written that he will overthrow you. He could not

  get those ridiculous words of Merlin out of his head. Not that his son would ever succeed in bringing him down. New Millennium was still the people’s choice, even if their majority had been rather drastically cut in the last election. And He? Uther Pendragon? Was he not a popular Prime Minister? Of course he was! Everyone said so. Arthur didn’t stand a chance. Nevertheless something had to be done. What was the use of having information if you didn’t make use of it? Uther called a journalist friend and gave him an exclusive. The following day the story appeared in one of the biggest-selling London tabloids. It began:

  A secret plot has been hatched by United Labour frontbenchers to topple leader Leo Grant who, they believe, is no longer up to the job. My inside source tells me that the young and inexperienced backbencher, Arthur Pendragon, has the support of the plotters whose intention is to crown him heir apparent.

  The next day Leo Grant attacked the Prime Minister in the House for spreading malicious rumours, but it was too late, the damage was done. United Labour backbenchers, most of whom had not yet been consulted about the succession, were incensed. As for the electorate, polls indicated that if an election were called, New Millennium would be back with an increased majority. Leo Grant was bitterly disappointed but there was nothing he could do. The rumours had well and truly spread and continuing to deny them would only give them the oxygen of publicity. He would just have to bide his time. Meanwhile he would stay on as Party Leader. Told that his father had leaked the story to the Press, Arthur shrugged the whole thing off. He was content to remain a backbencher as long as he could express his views in the House, and no one, not even his father, could stop him doing that.

  The truth was that ever since Guinevere’s party about a year ago, Arthur had become increasingly preoccupied with other, more personal matters. His concentration was not what it used to be. He remembered how he used to day-dream when he was a boy. At twenty-nine, though, was he not a little old for that sort of thing? Adults were meant to dream at night while they slept, not during the day when they were wide awake and had more important things to do. It was disconcerting, not to say downright worrying. One moment he would be absorbed in answering a letter to a constituent, the next he was staring out of the window, thinking thoughts that had nothing at all to do with politics.

  Yesterday, for example, he looked out of his office window and saw a couple walking down the street. Now and then they touched hands, nothing more than that. They were not even looking at each other. Yet it was obvious. Love was a strange and disturbing thing. It came at you from nowhere, and for no apparent reason. Not that reason had anything to do with it. For was not love a kind of temporary madness, a chemical imbalance in the brain? It changed everything, or so they said. Certainly it made it hard to concentrate.

  Arthur had been inundated with invitations – invitations to smart dinners in private homes and restaurants, invitations to theatre and the opera, to country weekends and gallery openings, fashion shows and charity evenings. Never had his social life been so active. As a result there had been attachments but none of the girls, attractive and charming though they were, had come close to disturbing the chemical balance of his brain. It was obvious, moreover, that the invitations were planned and co-ordinated by the mothers of all these eligible young ladies in a systematic campaign of frightening efficiency. Astonishingly, he had, over a period of a few weeks, been out with every unattached girl at the dance. Or not quite every girl.

  One of them he had not seen again. He had thought of phoning her. In truth he thought of little else. But what would be the point? Obviously she was not interested in him.

  Why should she be? For one thing she was far too young for him. Twenty-nine and eighteen did not walk the street together, let alone touch hands. He would be wasting his time. Though she was, he had to admit, exceedingly mature for her age. On an impulse he phoned Leo Grant to invite him out to dinner. As fate would have it, it was Guinevere who answered the phone. They began to go out, and the more time she spent with Arthur, the more Guinevere liked him. She was reassured by his strength, touched by his gentleness, and impressed by his insight. No man but her father had ever understood her as well.

  As the days and weeks passed, something was happening to Guinevere. Lanky detected, and found remarkable, a certain softening of her friend’s manner, and a tender look in her eyes that she remembered seeing for the first time that night of the party. Fleeting then, the look now seemed more settled, as if it were content to be where it was and was contemplating taking up residence. Despite the most vehement protestations to the contrary, Lanky was convinced that her friend was falling in love.

  Arthur was relaxing in the sitting room of his flat when Merlin’s illuminated holographic head gradually materialised in the bookcase in a gap between a book on astronomy and the complete works of William Shakespeare.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind my mentioning it,’ said Arthur carefully
, not wishing to offend his friend and mentor, ‘but I find magic and technology a confusing mix.’

  Merlin sighed. ‘What am I doing wrong this time?’ ‘I would like to see the whole of you.’

  ‘I don’t think you appreciate just how tiring all this materialising and de-materialising is.’

  ‘Then please don’t trouble yourself,’ said Arthur quickly.

  ‘Your head will do fine.’

  ‘Too late,’ said Merlin, manifesting all of himself in an armchair. Virgil, perched on his shoulder, ruffled his feathers and hoo-hooed a greeting.

  ‘She’s not the one for you,’ said Merlin in a sing-song voice. Is this what the magus had come for – to interfere with his private life? He had never done that before. ‘How can you say that? She is perfection.’

  ‘Perfection is not the word I would use to describe Guinevere.’

  Arthur was offended. ‘You obviously don’t like her.’

  ‘On the contrary, I like her very much. She is highly intelligent and quite remarkably beautiful. Still I fear she is not your cup of tea – or your glass of champagne for that matter. Find someone else, that girl will bring you pain. You will get over this infatuation.’

  Infatuation? No, that was not the word to describe how he felt about Guinevere. He had been infatuated with women before, seeing only what was on the outside; this was surely different. True, it was Guinevere’s beauty that had first entranced him. Was that not always the way of a man and a woman? Love had entered through his eyes, but it had quickly captured his heart and soul. His whole being was filled with Guinevere and nothing could ever change that. Life without her would be unthinkable. Merlin would never understand. How could he? What did he know about love? Still less, about being in love.

  ‘A great deal more than you suppose,’ said Merlin, responding to the unspoken question. ‘I was in love myself once. Still am, if you must know.’

  This was a new and startling thought for Arthur, revealing a very human side of Merlin that he would never have suspected. Who was the lady, he wondered.

  ‘Her name is Nimue,’ said Merlin, answering once again the question that had not been asked.

  ‘Tell me about her,’ said Arthur.

  From the legs up Merlin’s body began to fade. ‘One day, one day, one day,’ his voice echoed.

  Arthur wanted to know more but he would have to wait for a better time to question Merlin about his love life. Meanwhile the magus had got it wrong, he was certain of that; Guinevere was most assuredly the girl for him. An entrancing face filled his mind’s eye, a radiant smile lit up dark eyes, and then, in a sudden change of mood, a proud tilt of the head and a toss of black hair accompanied a scornful glance and a sharp rebuke. The blood jetted in his veins, his heart double-somersaulted in his chest. Find someone else? Who could possibly compare with Guinevere? No one. She was unique. There was no one like her in the whole wide, wondrous, love-smitten world.

  Nothing was left of Merlin now but a wistful smile and a glow of green orbs, and just above where his shoulder had been, there was Virgil’s heart-shaped face. A few moments later they had both disappeared, leaving only the voice of the magus. ‘Testosterone – is often prone – to mislead or suborn you. A bad rhyme but good advice. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

  Lanky waited impatiently. Guinevere had phoned with something important to tell her. The suspense was unbearable. The instant the bell rang, she rushed to the door and flung it open. Grabbing Guinevere by the hand, she pulled her into the sitting room. ‘Sit!’ Guinevere did as she was told. ‘Now tell!’ Guinevere fiddled with the ring finger of her left hand. ‘He asked you, didn’t he?’

  Guinevere nodded.

  Throwing her arms round her friend, Lanky shrieked with joy. ‘It’s too much! I can’t take it in. You and Arthur! It’s a dream come true. Now darling,’ – sitting on the sofa next to Guinevere she wriggled bum and shoulders ecstatically and settled down for a long, luscious listen – ‘I want all the details. Everything. Nothing left out, you understand. How he proposed. How you accepted. What he said. What you said.

  Word for word. The lot.’

  ‘He was very sweet.’ Guinevere hesitated. ‘It wouldn’t be fair to . . . ’

  ‘Come on, Ginny, don’t clam up on me. Give!’ begged Lanky.

  Guinevere looked uncomfortable. Lanky could see she would have a hard time getting it out of her. It was too aggravating for words. In Guinevere’s place she would have recited the proposal syllable for syllable, forwards, backwards and sideways, up and down and inside out, and what’s more, fleshed it out with an exhaustive description of voice inflexions and facial expressions. ‘What’s the point of coming here,’ she complained, ‘if you’re not going to tell me anything?’

  ‘But I am,’ said Guinevere.

  Lanky was on the edge of the sofa. ‘Well, go on.’ ‘He asked me to marry him.’

  ‘Ye-es?’

  ‘And I said no.’

  Lanky rolled her eyes in exasperation. ‘Be serious, Ginny.’ She looked at Guinevere again. ‘You are serious.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You turned him down?’ ‘Yes.’

  ‘You actually turned him down.’ ‘Yes.’

  ‘We are talking about the same man, are we?’ said Lanky incredulously. ‘Arthur . . . ? Arthur Pendragon?’

  ‘Yes.’ It was little more than a whisper.

  Lanky put her head in her hands. ‘Tell me it isn’t true.’ Her muffled voice was anguished.

  Silence.

  Lanky looked in horror at her friend and saw what she had overlooked before. Guinevere’s face was pale, her eyes circled with dark shadows.

  ‘Well Ginny, you finally lost it. I always knew you would sooner or later. Congratulations! You are now one hundred percent certifiable.’

  ‘I knew you’d say that.’

  ‘What else is there to say? You have just thrown back the catch of the season. Or any other season.’

  Guinevere lifted her chin and said nothing. ‘Do you mind telling me why?’

  Guinevere looked down at her hands. ‘I don’t know. I wish I did. I suppose I funked it. He’s so bloody distinguished and important. Ex-army. Rising star in the House. Dad says he’s sure to be Prime Minister one day. It’s more than I can handle. I don’t deserve him.’

  ‘If we all got what we deserved,’ observed Lanky darkly, ‘we would die spinsters. Try again.’

  The tears welled in Guinevere’s eyes, overflowed and rolled down her cheeks. ‘I didn’t sleep a wink for thinking about it. I only know I don’t feel the way I ought to feel. I don’t light up when he comes into the room. I don’t feel that special excitement they talk about. And anyway,’ – she wiped the tears from her face – ‘I’m not even sure I want to feel like that. The thought of losing control scares me. I think I must be too selfish to fall in love.’

  Lanky simply could not understand how a bright girl like Ginny could be so stupid. But her disappointment and frustration were as nothing compared to Leo’s. He had never made any secret of his admiration for Arthur. When Guinevere broke the news to him, he was shocked. He begged her to reconsider, but Guinevere would not be budged. Arthur was not for her, she said, and Leo had no choice but to accept the inevitable. He knew his daughter, and once she had made up her mind, no words of his could sway her.

  No words. But circumstances perhaps. Though Guinevere still lived with her father, she did not normally attend his dinner parties. She was curious, then, when he invited her to one.

  ‘Any special reason?’

  ‘I need some young blood. Too many old fogies, most of them the wrong side of sixty. Will you come?’

  ‘If you want me to. Will there be anyone I know?’ ‘Could be,’ he said non-commitally.

  Drinks were being served, and most of the other guests had arrived when in walked Arthur Pendragon. Guinevere did not know which way to look. What was he doing here? She could only imagine that her father was promoting Arthur’s political career b
y inviting a few influential politicians and businessmen to dinner to meet him. Her dad had told her he was thinking of standing down as leader, and she had heard talk of Arthur taking over. All very well, but why was she invited? This was not her scene at all. She had little interest in politics, as her father well knew. She tried to lose herself in earnest conversation with an elderly judge whom she had never met before. Then with a murmured apology she excused herself and rushed blindly into the arms of the very man she was trying so hard to avoid.

  ‘Guinevere! What a marvellous surprise. I didn’t expect to see you here. How are you?’

  ‘I am well, as you see,’ she said, her head in a spin. ‘Quite well. Fine, thank you. Very well, in fact. And you?’

  ‘Excellent.’ Arthur lowered his voice discreetly. ‘Who are all these old codgers? This isn’t Leo’s usual sort of dinner party. We seem to be the only ones under seventy. What’s he up to?’

  ‘I was just wondering the same thing myself.’

  For a moment or two they searched each other’s face for an answer, and then, as the light dawned, they both began to laugh.

  It was alright as long as they were laughing but when they were serious again she was too embarrassed to look at him. She could not think of anything to say, so she stood with head bowed, tracing patterns on the carpet with the tips of her shoes like an awkward teenager. How immature she must seem to him. What must he think of her? Across the room she directed at her father a look of such concentrated hostility, it would have bored a hole in an iceberg. Adding insult to injury, he smiled back at her and waved. She could have killed him. How dare he! How dare he interfere in her life like this! It was unforgivable. How could he be so insensitive, so sly? If he had any concern for her feelings, any concern at all, he would at least have had the decency to prepare her for what was bound to be the most excruciatingly uncomfortable experience of her whole life.