by Jon Mackley
She heard Will speaking to her, telling her the importance of the manuscript, and then her mind finally clicked upon that part of the code to which the poet had directed her. ‘Old codes,’ the poet had said; and perhaps, she realised, that was a code in itself. He was talking about the oldest of codes, the one which even he did not fully understand:
And quy þe pentangel apendez to þat prince nobel
I am in tent yow to telle, þof tary hyt me schulde:
Hit is a syngne at Salamon set sumquyle …
Now she saw the Gawain-poet working by candlelight, his murky reflection in the glass of his window nodding to her with a smile as he saw she had worked out the code. He was still writing as she watched him, writing in those lel lettres loken – loyal locked letters – and on a piece of parchment she could read his notes. He had marked the top corner of the folio with a pentangle, the Seal of Solomon.
She started to float away again, but realised there was somewhere else she had to go before she could rest. The darkness of time unfolded and she was back in the tunnels in Bath, watching Will, bearded, unkempt, cowering for survival as he tried to conceal himself from Marsh and his guards. But even though she knew his capture was inevitable, she still found herself clinging on to the hope Will would escape their clutches. It was like hoping for a film, which she had already seen, to end in a different way. Lost in the labyrinth, Will wandered without purpose, aware that at every corner he might face the foes from whom he was fleeing. She moved forward, drifting through dreams, gaining a momentary glimpse of Will’s capture. Then they were questioning him, trying to force out answers that Will did not know. She watched them breaking his already weakening grip on his will to live. In front of Will’s face, Marsh had torn up the memories that were Will’s reason for living. He had taken the photograph of Janet and destroyed it. Will whimpered like a lonely child caught in a nightmare. When Marsh tore the photograph, Lara felt her own heart tearing with it. Will could have committed no crimes to justify that level of sadism; to have his one fond memory quite literally torn up in front of him.
Marsh, however, had not yet finished his torment. Will slumped to the floor, a broken man, then Marsh cradled Will’s head, as though he were his own wounded son.
‘You loved her,’ Marsh said. It was not a question. Will nodded, almost imperceptibly. Tears were running down his cheeks and into the beard of a man who has lost all motivation to carry on. ‘What would you do to get her back?’ Marsh wondered. She did not hear Will’s first answer and Marsh asked him to repeat it.
‘Anything,’ Will sobbed.
‘I do not expect you to understand fully what I am about to tell you.’
She listened as Marsh outlined the details of an experiment that had already taken place; they just needed to monitor the subject. He explained about the possibility of enhancing communication in the neural pathways, how it could potentially allow the subject to project themselves mentally back in time and interact with, or even influence, characters who had lived centuries before.
‘It would mean she could go back to a time before your wife got into the car,’ Marsh explained. ‘Or even before your son was hurt.’
All Will had to do was to observe the subject, find a way of getting her to stay with him and, when the time was right, bring her in for tests. After that, he would be free to witness the experiment and return to his wife.
Will did not appear to be listening to most of what Marsh said to him. His mind had accepted only one statement: that there was a possibility of getting his family back. Anything else was irrelevant. He did not consider the concept of temporal paradoxes and how there was no force in the universe that could achieve what Marsh had promised. However, now she could understand what Will meant when he said it was important to believe in something. And he believed in hope. He hoped that, one day, his family would be returned to him. And so he had set out, believing in Marsh’s false promises and ensnaring Lara with half-truths and a conundrum to keep her interest.
She slipped away from the scene, heart filled with sorrow. She understood something about what Will had endured, hoping his fantasy might one day overcome the stark truth of reality. She guessed that at some point during her incarceration, Will had realised all his hopes were in vain and that reality must rule over optimism.
When Lara woke again, her room was almost light. The sun was trying to force itself through the dense, wintry clouds. She didn’t feel as though she had slept, but when she rolled over and felt the hard cover of the Gawain manuscript and remembered her dream, then she knew she couldn’t stay in bed any longer; and, as she made herself her morning cup of coffee, she reflected on the dreams of the night before. Surely that was all they were: her own thoughts of optimism conquering reality.
Lara scribbled in a notebook as she tried to undo the code, writing first both sets of the alphabets, to act as her code wheel. At first she thought the poet was drawing her attention to the fifth stanza and ‘deciphered’ the alliterative letters RAǷǷAQW. She hissed in frustration. There was no language in the world that had a word like that.
There was a gentle knock on the door, soft so that it wouldn’t have woken her had she still been sleeping. She called for Olivia to come in and greeted her with a smile.
‘I wasn’t sure if you’d be up yet,’ Olivia said. ‘If you’re anything like me, you probably hate the mornings.’ For someone who hated mornings, Lara thought, Olivia seemed far too cheerful. ‘Good, I’m glad you’ve made yourself coffee,’ she said, pointing to the cup. Lara realised she’d ignored it since making it and concentrated only on the manuscript. ‘The shower’s down the hall if you want it, and shall we say breakfast in twenty minutes, in the kitchen?’
‘Thank you,’ Lara managed to say. ‘That’ll be lovely.’ Olivia left and Lara suppressed a shudder remembering the last time she had showered. She wasn’t sure if she could manage a shower for a long time. Instead, she padded down the hallway and washed herself with Olivia’s fragrant L’Occitane soap and would ask to have a bath later.
She resisted the urge to look around the house as she found her way back to the kitchen. She guessed Olivia valued her privacy and would only want someone to view the house once she, Olivia, had decided they were worthy of the tour.
She had expected something quick and easy for breakfast, and was surprised when Olivia produced a full, three-course breakfast. It tasted wonderful: Lara hadn’t eaten properly in a long time.
After breakfast, Olivia did as she had promised and started to show Lara around the land. The trees, stark and skeletal, did not extend to the back of the house. From her conservatory, Olivia had a clear view across a wide meadow; frost had crushed the grasses. Lara imagined it would be beautiful on a warm day, with bees buzzing and a gentle breeze swaying the tall grasses. She heard crows cackling and pigeons cooing, something else she had missed during her time in captivity. They circumnavigated a steep incline with a wooded grove across the top. Lara thought she saw some kind of structure at the bottom of the dip. Olivia walked away from the grove without mentioning the building. It was as though it contained an unhappy memory, something that scared her.
Olivia spoke about trivialities as they walked and Lara was happy to listen. Walking through the fields as though she didn’t have a care in the world had the same therapeutic effect as her time on the barge with Tantris and Jeanette.
Leaving the area of the grove, Olivia led her towards an orchard, shaded from the morning sun. She pointed to the first shoots of plants. ‘The narcissi aren’t out yet,’ she said as if apologising. ‘They do look so lovely under the apple trees.’
Lara nodded in a non-committal fashion, but suddenly tensed. ‘What did you say?’
‘Narcissi,’ Olivia explained. ‘Daffodils.’
Yes, Lara thought. She knew Narcissi were a variety of daffodil. She wracked her brain: lodged in a forgotten corner was the memory of the vain boy who had fallen in love with his own reflection. But she did not see a pastoral,
idyllic setting; instead, she saw the poet sitting at his table as he scribed the manuscript, and wondered if writing represented the ultimate form of self-adoration. “Old codes,” the poet had said, and now she realised the importance of what she had seen. She had been looking at his reflection. Wherever it was the code started, she had to read the letters in reverse. Even knowing how to change the letters, there was still a further step needed to break the code.
‘I have to get back,’ Lara said suddenly. ‘I know what to do.’
She turned back towards the house. Olivia hurried after her. Then they both stopped. Lara felt a presence nearby and turned.
Will was walking across the field towards them.
15
Olivia squealed in delight. She ran towards him, hugged him tight, then slapped him on the cheek. ‘Where have you been?’
Will rubbed his face. ‘Good to see you too, Slix,’ he said, wincing. He glanced at Lara. She hadn’t moved. She took a long, deep, steadying breath, trying to control her whirlpool of emotions. She understood his pain, understood his betrayal …
And understood he wanted Janet back. Not her.
Olivia put her hands on her hips. She raised an eyebrow. ‘You had us worried.’
Will said nothing. He was still looking at Lara. Finally he turned to Olivia. ‘Any chance of a coffee? I’m freezing.’ He wiped his eyes; they were heavy and rheumy. ‘And I’ve been awake since … I don’t know when.’
Will’s eyes narrowed. Olivia nodded. They seemed to be communicating without words. Then Olivia turned and led them back across the meadow, back into the warmth of the kitchen. When she switched on the kettle, Will sat down at the table opposite Lara. ‘What did you find at the Église Saint-Pierre?’
Lara held up a hand to stop him. ‘Not so fast. I want answers from you first.’
Olivia spoke from over by the work surface. ‘Do you two want to be left alone? This sounds like it could get heavy.’
‘We’ll let you know if it’s inconvenient,’ Will said.
‘Will!’ Lara gasped. ‘You can’t order Olivia around in her own house.’
Will lowered his head slightly and looked at Lara across the table. ‘Our house. We both own it. Slix … Olivia … lives here. I don’t.’
Lara was surprised, but that was a discussion for another time. ‘You left the Église Saint-Pierre and let me be captured by Marsh and his men. Why then? Why couldn’t you wait until I had told you the final clue?’
‘Because I didn’t want to know. I figured you’d work it out. And Marsh has a way of finding answers. I couldn’t tell him if I didn’t know. And I hoped that if you were distracted by Marsh, it might make you think about the clues from a different perspective.’
‘But you couldn’t do this without me being captured?’
‘The advantage of being their man on the inside was that I knew some of what they were planning. But I could only hold them off for a while. They were going to take you in anyway.’
‘And you weren’t worried about what they’d do to me? Especially having been through it yourself?’
‘I hoped I’d get you out.’
‘Hoped? That isn’t very reassuring.’
‘Look, it worked out okay, didn’t it?’
‘Aside from the risk of having my brain fried? And how do you know he didn’t just let us go so he could follow us?’
‘I discussed that with him when I went back,’ Will said.
‘Discussed?’
‘Okay, it wasn’t quite a cosy chat.’ Despite his flippant tone, Will’s jaw had tensed. His eyes held a hidden depth of pain. He gave a sigh. ‘Marsh said he doubted you’d tell him anything he didn’t already know. His threats were only to loosen your tongue a bit.’ He smiled sheepishly. ‘I think he was counting on your having seen too many spy films, where they disregard human life to achieve their ends. After that, he said my reaction was justified, and there was no point in keeping me now you were gone. And he didn’t have the manuscript to wave in front of me like a carrot.’
‘And that was it? He didn’t threaten you?’
‘What was the point? It was you he wanted.’
‘That’s what I mean. He wouldn’t let his experiment wander off without knowing the results of his tests.’
‘Wait a second,’ Olivia interrupted, making a ‘T’ with her hands. ‘Time out. Marsh who? What tests? What’s going on?’
Will sighed patiently. ‘Things got a bit … exciting after I last saw you.’ He explained about the tunnels and what was stored there. He told her about being captured and interrogated. He explained he’d been coerced into finding Lara, then travelling with her to Chester, Holywell and Avignon.’
‘But you were working for them all along,’ Olivia said, indignant. ‘You snake!’
‘It wasn’t like that.’
‘You betrayed her,’ Olivia said flatly. Lara wondered whether this was sibling banter or whether she was genuinely outraged.
‘That was an act. I wanted Marsh to believe I was totally loyal to him.’
‘What was an act?’ Olivia demanded. ‘The fact you were working for Marsh, or your love for Lara?’
‘Working for Marsh, and you know it.’ He flushed. ‘I’m not proud of it. I wish there’d been another way of sorting this out, getting to the poet without having Marsh following us all the way, but there wasn’t. Besides, I wouldn’t have found the manuscript in the first place if I hadn’t wandered into Marsh’s little metropolis, but now I have, I know there’s something waiting for us at the end.’ His voice dropped. He looked at Lara. ‘But you’re the one who’s had the worst of this. You’re the one who should see this through.’ She heard his words breaking. ‘I don’t know if you want to go on from here. I’ll understand it if you don’t, and I’ll understand if you don’t want me to follow you to the end of the trail, but please, understand what this means to me.’
Lara did understand, but it wasn’t easy. Will couldn’t be trusted: Marsh had let him go once. Then, he had sold out a stranger. Now he could have negotiated his freedom again – Marsh could have bought his loyalty with the promise of access to any of the secret manuscripts. She shook her head in bewilderment.
Will shrugged. ‘I guess you’ll have to do it on your own, Pearl. But we could have been so good together.’
Olivia glowered at him. ‘It’s over, Will. You’ve got to let Lara go in whatever direction she chooses. You can’t force her to go any further.’
Will nodded sadly. ‘I wouldn’t have forced her,’ he said in a forlorn voice. ‘But then that’s it. I have a different path from here.’ To Olivia, he said, ‘May I see the manuscript?’
‘It’s in Lara’s room,’ she said. ‘Do you mind if I get it?’
‘Not at all,’ Lara said. She avoided eye contact with Will. She could not bear to see the despair in his eyes, knowing he could spend another decade looking for the answers she already knew.
Suddenly, she realised she’d asked him to come with her, to come with her to the end of the trail, but she was not speaking, she was singing:
Come with me; stay with me, two lost in merry company,
Could take a moment to be found, if we stopped to look around
Come with me; stay with me, two lost in merry company,
Have something better waiting there, if we act in harmony.
She had been humming the tune all day, but she had not expected to break into song at that inopportune moment. She could barely believe she had sung to Will.
‘Are you sure?’ Will’s uncertain expression waited for her rejection.
Lara said nothing. She tensed her jaw, fighting between heart and head. Instead, she closed her eyes and nodded almost imperceptibly. ‘There are a few things first.’ Her eyes became hard and serious: ‘First, no more chances,’ she was surprised by the venom in her voice.
Will bowed his head solemnly. ‘I understand.’
So, Lara explained: the means of deciphering the code had been in the Église Sai
nt-Pierre, and then she had seen the poet working in the reflection so the letters read in reverse. ‘I thought it would be the fifth stanza,’ Lara said. ‘But a Q on its own didn’t make sense.’
Will shook his head. ‘If you were thinking about the significance of the pentangle, the Seal of Solomon, he describes it in relation to five things, and each of those have five elements.’ He turned to the twenty-fifth stanza. ‘Let’s see what he says here …’ Will squinted at the manuscript, jotting down the letters, then referring to Lara’s chart for substituting the letter. Again, it was a selection of random letters. ‘Are you sure about this?’ Will asked.
Lara scowled at him. ‘I know what I saw.’ She closed her eyes, trying to remember. ‘I saw the poet, looking at his reflection, showing me the code ran backwards.’ She snapped her fingers. ‘It’s not just the letters, it’s the numbers as well. It’s not stanza 25, it’s stanza 52 – that’s halfway through the total of stanzas in the poem.’
Will sighed patiently. ‘You can’t divide 101 by two.’ But, he turned through the folios. The stanza began at the bottom of the right-hand page. Will jotted down the alliterative letters: netᵹyrd. His eyes widened.
‘Doesn’t make sense,’ Lara said.
‘Will raised an eyebrow. ‘Yes it does: it’s mirror writing! Dryᵹten – it means “Lord”. Then: eþfoepelseþ.’ When he wrote the letters, he now did it in reverse order: ‘þe slepe of þe Dryᵹtyn,’ he said. ‘“The sleep of the Lord.”’
Lara stared at the page. She realised she was holding her breath. Will continued scribbling. After a few minutes he spoke again. ‘I think I’m at the start of it.’ Lara glanced at his notebook. Þe lynes of þe laye of Perle make þe age of þe aghlich chappel of Kryst, welke to quere þe knyᵹt lays ine þe slepe of þe Dryᵹtyn.
‘And in English?’ she said, but she could work most of it out without Will’s help: the lines of the lay of Pearl make the age of the … something … chapel of Kryst. Walk to where the knight lays in the sleep of the Lord. ‘What’s this word, aghlich?’
