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

by Unknown

  From there it was only a small leap of faith to convincing herself that this pregnancy was no accident; it was His will, a heaven-sent opportunity for her to shape her grandchild’s mind and instil in it humility and a proper love of God. Francesca was a born-again believer. When first married she had been, like Harold, an atheist, or at least an agnostic. Later she had seen the light, and had chosen to follow the path that led to redemption and everlasting life. So during the weeks that followed she tried, though not too hard, to persuade Helena to break the news to Lancelot. That much she saw as her Christian duty; she wanted nothing on her conscience. Much to her relief, Helena stubbornly refused. She never doubted for a moment that Lance would marry her if she were to tell him she was pregnant; but she had her pride; she would have him on her terms or not at all. Better to stay single than lure a man into marriage.

  When the army posted Lancelot overseas, it came as a shock to Helena. Still she said nothing.

  Harold was puzzled. Why had his daughter given up modelling? Why did she spend most of her time moping around the house? It was not like her at all. She was an active and lively young woman, normally never at home. What was going on? Francesca offered no explanation. Not the most observant of men, he could not help noticing, around the fifth month of her pregnancy, that Helena was putting on weight.

  ‘Does she have some woman’s – um – condition?’ he enquired tentatively of his wife.

  ‘So you’ve noticed,’ said Francesca in her condescending way.

  ‘What exactly is wrong with her?’ ‘Nothing. She’s pregnant.’

  Poor Harold took it badly. The unthinkable, the thing that only happened in other families, had happened in his. For a long time he raged against the man responsible for his daughter’s predicament. When he had calmed down, he insisted on knowing who the father was.

  Francesca’s lips were sealed. ‘You had better ask Helena.’ ‘Where is he?’ he demanded. ‘Why isn’t the bastard here?

  He’ll do the right thing, or I’ll know the reason why.’ Francesca pursed her lips in disapproval. ‘The right thing,

  Harold? And what might that be?’

  Francesca had a way of ignoring the obvious when it suited her. ‘He’s going to marry her, the piece of shit.’

  ‘You want your daughter to marry a piece of shit?’

  ‘For God’s sake, woman, you know what I mean. Anything’s better than being a single mother, isn’t it?’ Harold was an old- fashioned man with old-fashioned views.

  Francesca lifted her head and looked down her nose at her husband. ‘That, Harold, is a typical male macho comment. I find it grossly offensive.’

  ‘I only want what’s best for my daughter. I intend to see she gets it.’ He flattered himself that he still had some influence with Helena.

  ‘Who is he, darling?’ he asked Helena.

  ‘Dad, it doesn’t matter who he is. He just happens to be the father of my child. I’m not going to marry him.’

  ‘It all seems very irresponsible to me,’ said Harold unhappily.

  Helena slipped her arms round her father’s neck. ‘Have I let you down?’

  ‘Of course you haven’t.’ He kissed her. ‘I couldn’t have wished for a better daughter.’

  ‘Then please don’t worry about me, dad.’

  ‘Is it anyone I know?’ He could not resist asking.

  Helena shook her head. She didn’t want to lie but she didn’t want to tell him the truth either.

  Harold was close to tears. This was not what he had planned for his only child. A girl like Helena could have married anyone, anyone at all. Why did she have to get involved with some useless layabout? She was obviously ashamed of him, or she would have told him who he was. Silly child. How could she think so little of herself? ‘You may think I’m an interfering old fool,’ he said, ‘and I dare say you are right. But why you dropped Lancelot I shall never know. He’s an exceptional young man. One thing I do know, if he was the father of your child, he would never walk away.’

  Helena was silent.

  ‘I always hoped that you two . . . ’ Harold bit his lip hard, determined not to break down in front of his daughter. Everything was topsy-turvy these days. Men behaved like girls and girls behaved like men. The trouble was, when girls got themselves pregnant they were the ones left holding the baby. He bared his soul to his friend, Ban.

  ‘Instead of finding God, my wife would have done better to find her daughter a husband. You don’t suppose,’ he asked hesitantly, ‘that Helena and Lancelot might still . . . you know?’

  ‘No idea,’ said Ban. The last thing he would ever speak to his son about was women. ‘Keen on the army. In his father’s footsteps. More’s the pity. Brighter than me. Much. Ready to take the plunge? Wouldn’t know. Know nothing about his love- life.’ Ban directed a shrewd look at his old friend. ‘Whip off an e-mail? Helena preggers. That sort of thing?’

  Harold shuddered. ‘Don’t do that. She would never forgive me. Besides, it really isn’t Lance’s business, is it? Why should he pick up the tab for another man’s dinner?’

  ‘Whatever you say.’

  ‘You know, Ban, old chap, I used to dream of walking my daughter up the aisle. Always wanted to send her off in style. Nothing too fancy, just something to remember. They say her wedding day is the happiest day in a girl’s life. Isn’t that what they say? It’ll never happen now.’ A lone tear rolled down Harold Pemberton’s face. Ban was distressed for his friend. He wished he could think of something to say to comfort him.

  It was a boy. When Lancelot returned home with his regiment, the baby was six months old. ‘Why didn’t you tell me? We’ll get married right away.’

  After all these months of self-doubt and torment, Helena’s moment of truth had arrived. How many times had she enacted this scene in her mind, imagining every word, every expression, every nuance of meaning, hidden and concealed. Everything would depend on Lancelot’s reaction. She had always known he would offer to marry her. The question she asked herself: was he doing it out of a sense of duty, or because he loved her? So direct and searching was her look that his eyes faltered; that was already significant she told herself. Words were unnecessary when you loved someone as much as she loved Lancelot. Avidly she searched for some indication in his expression, his voice, his manner – anything that might give the tiniest clue to what he was thinking.

  She tested him. ‘What if I were to tell you it isn’t yours?’ He could not hide his shock and dismay.

  ‘Would you marry me if you were not the father?’ All too aware she was pushing him into a corner, she could think of no alternative. For her it was the all-important question, and she had to ask it.

  Lancelot hesitated. ‘Well, that would be different, of course.

  I would have to think about it . . . even so . . . ’ She said flatly, ‘It isn’t your problem. It’s mine.’ ‘Who is the man?’

  And with that question it was all over. ‘Do I know him?’

  ‘Perhaps you do, perhaps you don’t.’ A bright smile. ‘Who knows anyone?’

  ‘When are you getting married?’

  She looked away. ‘We are not getting married.’

  ‘How can that be? It’s his child. It’s his duty to marry you.’ ‘His duty? You make it sound like a penance.’

  He shifted uneasily. ‘What I mean is, I’m sure he wants to marry you. I’m sure he loves you.’

  ‘I told you, Lance, it’s not your problem.’ She could see he was badly hurt; he had tried to hide it but it was obvious from his manner. He thought ill of her for going to bed with another man. She was bitterly disappointed in him. It was unreasonable of her but she could not help herself. How could he believe her capable of sleeping with another man? How could he think that of her? Didn’t he know he was everything to her? Didn’t he know there never had been, never could be, anyone but him? All she said was, ‘Don’t be angry with me.’

  ‘I was fond of you,’ he said. ‘I thought you knew that.’ Tears fil
led her eyes and she turned away to hide her face.

  The reproach was more than she could bear.

  There was, he thought, nothing more to be said. What right did he have to say anything? It was not as if they had sworn to be faithful to each other, though somehow he had assumed they would be; he had expected better of her. She was not the girl he took her for. What was worse, she seemed to treat it all so lightly, as if it were something of a joke. He wondered about the man. He hated him, and his hatred was like a physical pain. If ever he met him, he might not be able to control himself. If he saw him now, he would kill him.

  ‘Can I see the little one?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course.’ She left the room and came back holding the baby.

  Gently he touched a plump cheek. ‘What do you call him?’ ‘Galahad.’

  He held out his forefinger, and the baby squeezed it in its tiny hand. Lancelot smiled.

  Helena smiled back. Her heart was being wrenched in two. ‘You like children, Lance?’

  ‘I should like to have a son.’ Not that he had given it much thought until now. ‘Some day I hope I shall.’

  ‘Some day?’ Not today, not tomorrow, not the day after, not ever.

  ‘It’s perhaps a little soon for me,’ he said, uncomfortable with the subject. ‘I still have things to do.’

  ‘What sort of things?’ ‘Oh, you know.’ ‘Saving the world?’ ‘Something like that.’

  When they said good-bye, her courage almost failed her. She wanted to cry out, ‘It’s yours! Galahad is your son!’ But she did not. What would have been the point when his plans so obviously did not include her? Still, the temptation was there, and no doubt always would be. After all, he had a right to know he was a father, she told herself. Was that not sufficient reason to be honest with him? It might have been if she were not so angry and disillusioned. She hardened her heart. He deserved to be punished for doubting her, he deserved to be punished for not loving her enough.

  It was a long time before she saw Lancelot again and she missed him desperately. She began to neglect herself, not bothering to dress, often not bothering to eat. This Helena was a very different woman from that bright-eyed, self-possessed young model who once went briskly about her business, happy with whom she was. Strong enough for both of them, Francesca took care of Galahad, and scolded her daughter back to health. ‘A mother doesn’t have the luxury of being weak. Your son needs you. Without a husband, you will have to be more of a mother, not less.’ She was right, of course, though that did not make it any easier for Helena. She resented her mother for always being right.

  ‘I’m going to tell Lance,’ she said defiantly.

  It was the last thing Francesca wanted. Yet knowing how stubborn her daughter could be, she did not argue with her. ‘It’s your decision, not mine, darling,’ she said dutifully. ‘I’m only here to help.’

  ‘I can’t tell him,’ said Helena, backing down immediately. ‘You know I can’t. I just wish I wasn’t so alone.’ She knelt down, laid her head in her mother’s lap and sobbed.

  ‘You are not alone, darling.’ Francesca stroked Helena’s hair. ‘You have me. As long as God lets me live, I shall be here for you and Galahad.’

  ‘It’s Lancelot I want.’

  ‘I know, I know,’ said Francesca soothingly. ‘I’m afraid you will just have to get used to doing without him. Believe me, child, he isn’t worthy of you.’

  Helena shook her head. She knew differently. It was she who was not worthy of him.

  Every day, morning and evening, Francesca fell on her knees and gave thanks for this gift from heaven. The boy would be as much her son as Helena’s, more so in fact. For she, not Helena, would be the one who would see to it that Galahad dedicated his life to God. And Galahad would be the perfect man, a man whose power came not from this world, but from his Father in heaven.

  Thirteen

  2023

  Arthur strapped himself in. Somewhere in the dim light of the cabin was Merlin, words leaping from his mouth, eyes shining like two moons. As the craft took off Arthur was thrust back in his seat. A loud roaring assaulted his ears and a light as brilliant as ten thousand suns stabbed his eyes. His lips splayed on his teeth, monstrous hands gouged his cheeks, and a cruel vice clamped his limbs as he sped like a bullet through the dark tunnel that links this life with the next. Suddenly there was light. The roaring stopped, and his body was floating free, tumbling in slow motion in a void of silence. Voices showered down on him like space dust. ‘Open your eyes, we’re here. Open your eyes, we’re here. Open your eyes, your eyes, your eyes.’ As his head cleared, the scatter of voices merged into three, then two, then one voice. And that voice said, ‘Open your eyes, Arthur.’

  The next world was even more breathtaking than the one he had just left. But then he realised, with something like a pang of disappointment, that he was still alive, and that the voice was Merlin’s voice telling him to look down.

  ‘Where are we?’

  The magus did not answer directly. ‘What do you think of it?’

  Arthur looked down and marvelled at what he saw. ‘Incredible.’

  ‘I thought you might like it,’ said Merlin smugly.

  Far below, in the middle of the blue Atlantic ocean, shimmering in the sunlight like a pearl, was an island, and on the island was a great city, a vision of some future age, the embodiment of a dream. What astonished Arthur, apart from its amazing beauty, was the perfect symmetry of its layout. Obviously it had been planned with the greatest care, and for some specific purpose.

  As they approached the ground, he saw that all the buildings were white and geometrical in shape, pyramids and squares, rectangles and spheres. The sole exception was what appeared to be the ruins of an ancient castle; a corner tower, crumbling walls, and the remains of an entrance gateway. At regular intervals around the perimeter of the island stood clusters of white columns, tall and slender, each crowned with a halo of antennae moving silently and purposefully, like the feelers of a giant insect probing the sky. As he watched, a silver sphere flashed in the sunlight, hovered in the still air, and accelerated away. In an instant it was gone.

  ‘What was that?’ asked Arthur. ‘A Nimble. Like ours.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘A fighter aircraft,’ explained Merlin. ‘The acrobat of the sky, as the name implies, and fast, very fast.’

  ‘How fast is fast?’

  ‘About Mach seven,’ said Merlin sneaking a sideways glance to observe Arthur’s reaction.

  Arthur knew something about force ‘G’ and the pull of gravity. Surely that sort of speed would tear a man apart. ‘How can a pilot survive at Mach seven?’

  An airy wave of the hand. ‘All in good time.’

  The moment they touched down, the belly of the Nimble gaped. Arthur followed Merlin down the short ladder. Merlin beamed. ‘Welcome to Camelot.’

  Arthur felt a surge of excitement unlike anything he had known before. So this was Camelot! The tall white buildings seemed to hover over him like benevolent spirits, the grass was greener and the flowers more beautiful than any he had ever seen, an avenue of trees inclined gently in the breeze as though bowing to him, and in the distance the sea whispered his name. They climbed into the only visible means of transport, the Hovercart, a compact buggy with huge wheels moving on land, or, depending on the terrain, a few feet above it. As they passed the buildings, Merlin murmured from time to time what Arthur assumed was a reference to their functions: ‘Command Control . . . Robot Centre . . . Naval HQ . . . Airforce HQ . . . Computer Network . . . Satellite Control . . . Bunkers’ . . . and finally, a name that sounded like NIWIS.

  They were outside a building shaped like a perfect pyramid. Arthur was hoping Merlin would stop, but he drove on. ‘Aren’t you going to show me round?’

  ‘That’s what I’m doing,’ said Merlin evasively.

  They passed a spherical building. ‘I would have liked to see what goes on in there,’ said Arthur.’

  ‘All
in good time,’ said Merlin, intoning the phrase like a mantra.

  So frustrated was Arthur that he was tempted to jump from the vehicle and take a look for himself. The problem was choosing the right moment to jump. Merlin was an erratic driver, and Arthur could never be sure when the Hovercart would lift off and when it would touch down. He decided it was too risky, so he had to be content with asking, ‘When will the time be good?’ to which Merlin replied enigmatically, ‘You will be the one to decide that.’

  ‘That rectangular building over there.’ Arthur pointed. ‘It says NIWIS over the entrance. What does NIWIS mean?’

  ‘Nothing Is What It Seems,’ said Merlin, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

  Arthur was intrigued. ‘What happens in there?’

  Merlin muttered something rude under his breath and put down the Hovercart with a thump. ‘I find it difficult to drive this thing and talk at the same time. I’m not saying it’s your fault,’ he added hastily. ‘The fact is, even when I’m not talking,

  I’m a poor driver. Always thinking of something else.’ He stared accusingly at Arthur. ‘You were asking me something. Ah yes. NIWIS. Well, the technology is new, but the idea is as old as warfare itself. The aim is to make the enemy believe whatever we want him to believe, to see what we want him to see, to hear what we want him to hear, and of course not to see or hear what we don’t want him to. Deception is a deadly weapon and NIWIS has developed it to a fine art.’

  Arthur’s attention was distracted by a group of short squat people several hundred yards away. ‘Who are they?’

  ‘Robots,’ said Merlin casually.

  Arthur peered at the magus suspiciously. Was he joking? ‘Did you say robots?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘What exactly do they do?’

  ‘Pretty much everything,’ said Merlin. ‘They have many different functions. For example there are maintenance robots, surveillance robots, land robots, sea robots, pilot robots, tracking robots, destroyer robots, pilot robots . . . ’ His forehead ridged in thought. ‘Who else now . . . ?’