The Camelot Code

by Sam Christer

  He smiles, ‘That’s probably just misunderstood history, as most Arthurian legend is. Back in the Dark Ages, heavy broadswords were made by pouring molten metal into stone casts. If the cast was good, then when it cooled a child could easily pull the sword free and it was said to be fit for a king.’

  ‘And the legend of the lady in the lake – her giving Excalibur to Arthur?’

  ‘More historic misinterpretation. When kings died in those days their bodies were put on pyres and their swords offered to a water goddess to protect them in the afterlife. Ambrosius, incidentally, is said to have been buried at Stonehenge, a structure that according to some legends was created by the prophet Merlin.’

  Mitzi tries to steer away from what she suspects is a bottomless pit of superstition and myth. ‘You said there were three views of who Arthur was?’

  ‘Yes. The second is that he was a Romano-British warlord called Riothamus. I believe Riothamus is a Latinization of the Brythonic personal name Rigotamos, meaning “king-most”, “supreme king” or “highest king”. As well as fighting valiantly against the Goths, Riothamus is thought to have crossed the channel and fought his final battle in a field in Burgundy – one that has great resonance to the Arthurian legend. That place was Avallon, with two l’s – one more than Avalon, the place legend has it that Arthur was laid to rest.’

  Mitzi’s fast-reaching bored. ‘All fascinating, but what has the ambassador and his family got to do with this?’

  Mallory is determined not to be rushed. ‘To answer you, we must go back to AD 500 and the story of the Welsh warrior Owain Ddantgwyn. He was a great leader and back then such fighters associated themselves with beasts. For example, you’ve heard of Richard the Lionheart?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Well, Owain Ddantgwyn was known as the Bear. The Welsh word for bear is Arth, while the Latin name is Ursis. It’s easy to see how he came to be called Arth-Ursis and that got shortened to Arthur.’

  He gives her a second then continues, ‘Historic record has Owain Ddantgwyn – which as I’m sure you agree is not a long way away from Owain Gwyn – referred to as “the once and future king”. This is a phrase you will constantly hear associated with Arthur. Well, Owain had a son and his genealogy can be traced into the medieval period, where a more familiar and noble name emerges as direct descendants.’ He pauses for maximum effect. ‘You know the Spencers?’

  ‘As in Diana, Princess of Wales, daughter of Earl Spencer.’

  ‘Indeed. And the twisted roots of royal genealogy don’t stop there. Look into the family history and you’ll see that William was given the middle name Arthur, just as his father Prince Charles was.’ He examines the American with curiosity. ‘Are you aware that the title “Prince of Wales” is always given to the heir to the British throne?’

  ‘I guess you know that I’m not.’

  ‘Well, it is. And it dates back to post-Roman and pre-Norman times when the most powerful Welsh ruler was also taken to be the true King of the Britons. In the twelfth century, a man named Owain Gwynedd stopped using the title King of Wales and called himself Prince of Wales. As a detective, I presume you are drawing some conclusions here.’

  Mitzi tries not to be angered by his condescension. ‘You’re saying that our modern-day Sir Owain Gwyn is a direct descendant of King Arthur.’

  He looks exasperated with her. ‘At least that.’

  Mitzi frowns, ‘What do you mean at least?’

  For the first time since they met, he grows uncomfortable. ‘For God’s sake, look at the damned evidence. The bear is on his heraldic arms, as is the round table and the triple crown of Arthur.’

  ‘Professor, I have a cousin in Texas who is a Scottish lord. He bought the title online because he liked the idea.’

  ‘It’s a stupid comparison. Owain Gwyn bought no title. This man was and is —’ He stops mid-sentence and looks pained to hold back the remaining words.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I can’t say. Even in a conversation that never took place.’ He nods irritably to the slate clock on the wall. ‘It’s getting late. You must go and I must get on.’ He sighs as he raises himself from his chair and ushers her towards the back door. ‘History knows more about Owain Gwyn than the modern world does. Be careful in your dealings with him.’

  She stops in her tracks. ‘What do you mean by that? You think he’s a danger to people.’

  He tries to explain. ‘Imagine Jesus Christ was on earth, but he didn’t want to be discovered. Imagine history had been written to hide his existence. Would you see it as your duty to expose him? And if you did, would you think such disclosure might put your life at risk, Lieutenant?’

  108

  WALES

  The evening sky is lit by a falling scarlet sun as Mitzi books into the Norton. The guesthouse is an imposing sandstone manor and her bedroom has a panoramic view across the valleys and a never-ending soundtrack of fast-flowing streams beneath her window.

  While she runs a bath to soak off the aches of the long day, she calls Bronty and finds he’s just got off the ferry in Lundy.

  ‘I’m exhausted,’ he says over crashes of breaking sea and squawking gulls. ‘You can get to heaven quicker than reach this place.’

  Mitzi laughs as she tests the bathwater and adds more hot. ‘I promise you, Wales was as difficult to reach.’

  He looks around the jetty. ‘I think I just saw seals in the water. Grey seals – eight, maybe ten feet long.’

  ‘Stop sounding like you’re having fun. I’ve had a day from hell and couldn’t even find Caergwyn Castle.’

  ‘How can you miss a fortress?’

  ‘Believe me, out here it’s easy. When you call me on a secure line I’ll tell you what Mallory had to say about the ambassador.’

  ‘Will do. The light’s virtually gone here, so I’ll take a look around the island in the morning and then get back to you.’

  ‘That’s fine. Sleep well.’

  ‘You too.’

  Mitzi ends the call and checks the bathwater. It’s now hot enough to boil a lobster. She runs the cold full blast, then kicks off her clothes and calls her daughters.

  No one picks up.

  She gets the answerphone for a second time.

  Ruthy has no doubt taken them all out for the day. She’ll call again after dinner.

  She eases herself into the water. It feels too good to remain silent. ‘Aa-a-h, that’s soo-o good.’

  The guesthouse has provided her with little bottles of bath foam, body scrub, shampoo and hair conditioner. Mitzi uses the lot. It feels great just to be lying in a big pool of soapy spa bubbles and smells.

  Her phone rings.

  She looks across the other side of the bathroom, and sees it on the shelf over the sink. Too far away to reach.

  The water is working its therapeutic magic and for a moment she thinks about ignoring the call.

  ‘Damn it!’

  She climbs out and takes a gallon of water with her.

  ‘Fallon.’ She grabs a white towelling robe from behind the door.

  ‘Lieutenant, it’s Owain Gwyn.’

  ‘Hang on.’ She puts the phone down and quickly pushes her arms into the robe and ties it up. ‘Sorry, I was just getting out of a bath.’

  ‘My apologies for disturbing you. Outside your hotel, there is a black Range Rover and one of my men. When you are ready, please get in and you’ll be brought straight to my home.’

  ‘I thought I’d come by in the morning.’

  There’s no answer.

  ‘Sir Owain?’ She looks at the phone to see if she’s accidentally cut him off.

  She hasn’t.

  He’s hung up.

  109

  WALES

  An ice-blue quarter moon hangs above the Range Rover as it speeds down unlit country lanes.

  Mitzi snatches a grab-handle as they hit a bump and she clears the back seat. ‘What’s wrong with this country? I thought the Romans laid roads for you?’

>   The driver doesn’t answer. He hasn’t spoken since he checked her name at the guesthouse and held the vehicle’s door open for her.

  ‘Any chance of slowing down? You know, maybe just below warp speed so we get there alive?’

  Again, there’s no reply from the broad-shouldered man in the front.

  She settles back as best she can and listens to her stomach grumble. Now she wishes she’d accepted Mrs Mallory’s rabbit stew.

  Lights appear in the distance. The 4 × 4 crunches to a halt. Through a gap between the front seats, she sees shadows inside a gatehouse. A man comes out and walks to the driver’s side.

  The silent lunatic behind the wheel slides down the window and shows his ID. A flashlight shines in her eyes. ‘Hey!’ She puts up her hands to block the glare. Darkness returns. There’s a tap on the roof and the vehicle crunches gravel. Metal gates clank shut behind them. The tyres rumble more smoothly now. They’re on asphalt but the road is unlit. Mitzi peers out into the darkness. Sheep appear in the headlights like a crop of woolly rocks.

  The luminous fingers on her watch tell her it’s half past ten and they’ve now been driving seven minutes along the driveway. That’s as long as it used to take her to drive from her old house in LA to the mall.

  The soft yellow lights of Caergwyn Castle appear in the velvet night. The building is uplit by powerful ground beams. She sees syrup-coloured sandstone walls, soaring towers and crenulations that run like a gap-toothed border in the sky.

  The Range Rover stops and the mute driver gets out and opens her door.

  She stands for a moment in the cool evening air, picks up the smell of lavender and pine. It’s easy to imagine kings and queens living here, being waited on hand and foot, dining in fine halls and celebrating glorious battles and conquests.

  Metal clunks against metal. Heavy bolts slide behind the huge, arched oak entrance doors facing her. A round-faced servant dressed in a smart black suit strides out. Behind him hurries a younger man in cream-coloured trousers and a red jacket.

  ‘Good evening. I am Alwyn, Sir Owain’s butler. Please follow me.’

  He leads the way inside.

  She’s struck by an array of new scents. Brass polish. Silver polish. Marble polish. Thick, waxy wood polish.

  ‘Sir Owain said to show you to the library.’ Alwyn opens a door and stands to one side.

  Mitzi steps in and double-takes the endless walls of books. ‘Look at the size of this! Man, has he never heard of the Kindle?’

  110

  CAERGWYN CASTLE, WALES

  The butler leaves Mitzi staring in amazement at what appears to be a cathedral filled with books.

  The oak-beamed library is two storeys high and its top level is an octagonal gallery reached by spirals of wooden staircases almost fifty yards apart. There are twenty stone archways on either side of the room, all creating deep alcoves filled with twenty rows of shelving. Sliding ladders are propped against each of the racks so books at the top can be more easily reached.

  Along the centre of the stone floor stand various large display cases, all showcasing ancient folios. Only now, as Mitzi wanders the cool, musty room does she note the surveillance cameras, flashing red lights and sensors of a very sophisticated alarm system.

  On the far wall is an impressively large oil of a medieval battles. The canvas covers more than three hundred square feet and in the foreground, the body of a fallen king is being carried away by soldiers. Under a shimmer of almost heavenly light, a fully robed bishop is picking up his crown.

  There’s another painting, a fraction of the size, above the door she just came through. It’s a portrait of a man with long hair and a moustache, dressed in a black cloak with a white ruffle collar and a large black, floppy bow tie. He has brooding, dark eyes that strongly remind her of Sir Owain.

  As though cued by her thought, the door beneath the portrait clicks open and the ambassador walks through. He’s dressed in black trousers and a crisp white open-necked shirt worn beneath a black cashmere jumper. ‘Lieutenant Fallon, how are you?’ He steps forward and offers his hand.

  She shakes it then points to the painting. ‘I’m fine, Mr Ambassador. I was just looking at the portrait. An ancestor, I presume?’

  ‘That’s Saint Richard Gwyn; the library is named after him. Please walk with me, there are things I wish to show you.’

  She tags alongside. ‘Saint as in a real saint, or as in a surname, like David St John?’

  ‘As in real saint. He was martyred – executed in the sixteenth century for an act of high treason, otherwise known as refusing to say Jesus Christ wasn’t the Son of God. He was hung, drawn and quartered – you know what that is?’

  ‘I guess after the lynching they drain the body then cut it up?’

  ‘Not quite; the drawing is pre-mortem, not post. It involves tying the condemned man to a horse then dragging him from his prison through the streets until he is in agony. Then he’s carried up the scaffold and hanged until almost dead. He is cut down and emasculated – his testicles cut off. Then they disembowel him, sever his limbs and sometimes his head. The entrails and genitalia are burned in a public fire, the skull spiked and displayed. The four limbs – the ‘quarters’ – would either be nailed in prominent places in the city, or dispatched to different corners of the country.’

  ‘Jeez, and I thought Californian executions were gruesome.’

  ‘Britain has a past more brutal than most.’ He stops walking and turns to her. ‘But it’s the present and the future you should be afraid of. Unfortunately, you’re caught in the middle of something you shouldn’t be.’

  She fixes him with a challenging stare. ‘Please don’t patronize me. Getting into the middle of things, as you put it, is the nature of my job.’

  ‘Perhaps, but I suspect we’re talking at cross purposes.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘You think I’m referring to your homicide investigation.’

  ‘And you’re not?’

  ‘Not directly.’

  ‘Then enlighten me.’

  ‘I will.’ He paces along the library and gestures at the upper floor. ‘Every book in this room is a first edition and almost all are priceless. Some are the only ones in existence. Others are so rare, experts in their field don’t even know they exist.’

  ‘And I suppose that includes the Camelot Codex?’

  He ignores the question and taps the glass of a display case. ‘This book here is the oldest illustrated bible in the world. It’s older than the Garima Gospels, recovered from Ethiopia and older and much finer than the Book of Kells created by Celtic monks.’

  Mitzi looks down at a large volume lying open on an ornate brass stand. It is the size of a giant, thick atlas and the pages are covered in lavish illustrations and copperplate handwriting.

  Owain swipes an electronic card across a sensor on the side of the cabinet and lifts off the glass cover. The air fills with a tobacco-like fragrance caused by the mass of musty pages and ancient wood they’ve been bound in. ‘This is the Arthurian Bible. It is written on the best of velum, a form of stretched and dried sheepskin.’

  She inspects the pages as he continues. ‘The animal’s hair was removed by soaking the stripped skin in lime and excrement and then scraping it with a semi-circular knife called a Luna. The skin was then tensioned on special frames and cut to size by velum-makers. It is a real art.’ He touches the sides of the book. ‘More than two hundred blessed lambs were slaughtered to make this book.’

  The main illustration staring up at her is that of a man who looks like a Roman emperor. He is shown in battle on horseback, only he’s not holding a legion’s standard but a large, gold crucifix identical to the drawing Irish had sent her. Around the horse lie corpses, skewered with pikes and swords.

  ‘It represents God’s never-ending battle for souls,’ says Owain. ‘The text was written by an order of holy men who guarded Christ for the forty days he walked the earth after his resurrection.’

 
; She looks at him sceptically. ‘I suspect you might have a tough time proving that.’

  ‘I don’t have to. I do not intend to sell the artefact; therefore, the provenance only matters to my family and me.’

  She circles the book, inspecting the shape and texture from multiple angles. In places, she can even see hair follicles on the velum. ‘I imagine the person who had this before you also once said that he had no intention of selling it, but he did.’

  ‘Actually, you’re mistaken. It’s never been sold or stolen. Nor robbed from a grave, if that’s what you are thinking. It was delivered into the hands of my family by Josephus of Arimathea when he came to Britain after Christ’s death.’

  Mitzi doesn’t know whether to believe him or not. ‘Joseph of Arimathea – as in the rich guy who persuaded Pilate to allow Christ’s body to be laid in his own private tomb?’

  ‘No, not Joseph. His son, Josephus. History frequently mixes them up. As it does whether the Holy Grail was a chalice, a sacrament salver or, as a few believe, a sacred and secret text written in the blood of Christ.’

  ‘And are you one of those believers?’

  ‘I am.’ He turns a page and reveals a painting of knights riding across open green countryside.

  It shows King Arthur and a priest carrying a bible and cross. Mitzi realizes it’s identical to the one found on the Ghent panel in Bradley Deagan’s apartment.

  ‘To make this folio,’ he adds, ‘a metalworker applied pure gold leaf and silver to the capital letters that start each paragraph. A portrait painter of highest regard drew the figures, and the most accomplished landscape artist of the time completed the background illustrations.’

  He turns over a leaf and it crinkles so dangerously Mitzi fears it may crack. On display now is a double-page spread of blood-brown script covered in a matt varnish cracked with time.

  The ambassador reads her mind. ‘In a distrusting moment I had a scraping of the letter analysed. It is human blood and the carbon dating puts it in the first century. Every letter written here was done while the manuscript was wrapped in the sanctity of a tabernacle cloth blessed by St Peter. The quills the scribes used came from the tail feathers of birds that Christ himself had blessed before his death. And the wooden binding that holds the folio together was crafted by the carpenter Joseph, Jesus’s mortal guardian.’