The Call of Destiny (The Return of Arthur Book 1) (12 page)

 On most weekends Merlin took Arthur on
long rambling walks in the country. Sometimes they discussed where

they would go, sometimes
Merlin had no destination in mind. It might then have been fortuitous that they
found themselves at the foot of Glastonbury Tor late one Saturday evening,
although, as Arthur well knew, Merlin rarely left anything to chance.

As they reached the top of the
Tor the red ball of the sun slipped below the horizon and the western sky
glowed red. As the shadows deepened on the ruined church that crowned the
summit, the dark mass of its tower dominated the landscape, uniting earth and
sky. The west wind that had gusted all day was suddenly stilled. Not a sound,
not even a breath of air, disturbed the silence. In this hushed moment the
earth and all the planets that only an instant before wheeled round the sun
seemed to hang motionless in space.

‘Shall we go?’ suggested Merlin, ‘it’s getting
late.’

As they made their way down
Merlin began to speak of a great king who ruled Britain many centuries ago.

‘What king was that?’ asked
Arthur. ‘You want a clue?’ Merlin loved riddles. Arthur grinned. ‘Definitely.’

‘His name . . . ’ – a teasing
pause – ‘was the same as yours.’ ‘Oh, King Arthur! The Knights of the Round
Table and all that old stuff,’ said Arthur scornfully. ‘They rode round
knocking each other off horses and rescuing damsels in distress.’

Merlin smiled. ‘True, but there was more to it
than that. This country was besieged by its enemies, brutal and merciless men
who pillaged and murdered and terrorised anyone who stood in their way. And the
troubles were not just here; the whole world was sliding into chaos, the tribes
that ruled Europe were disintegrating, society was fragmenting, families were
breaking up, and few people believed in God or morality any more. The real
power was passing into the hands of the wicked, and there was no one courageous
enough to stand up to them – no one, that is, but King Arthur.’

‘I wonder what he was really
like,’ mused Arthur, his eyes dreaming.

Merlin slid a mischievous
glance at his protégé. ‘You can imagine what it’s like to be a dog or a lion or
a snail. Why not try to imagine what it was like to be King Arthur?’

Arthur sped down the hill,
hopping from one foot to the other, leaping rocks and grassy mounds, nimble as
a mountain goat. ‘Did he really try to save the world?’

Merlin was having difficulty
keeping up. ‘It’s a – foof! – a long story. And you know something? Foof! We
haven’t seen the end of it.’

Arthur stopped, waiting for
his mentor to catch up with him. ‘How do you mean?’

A grateful hand rested on the
boy’s shoulder. ‘There are those who say he will return.’

Arthur was off down the hill
again. ‘But it’s just a story, isn’t it?’ he sang out.

‘Who knows?’ said Merlin mysteriously.

Arthur jumped, caught his foot
on a rock, tripped, fell, rolled and was up again in an instant. ‘You think
there really was such a man?’

‘Yes, I do.’ Merlin was
planting his feet with caution now. It was getting dark. The stars were
beginning to reveal themselves. ‘What exactly he did, and precisely who he was,
no one knows for sure. But yes, I believe there was such a man.’

As they moved on down towards the foot of the
Tor, Arthur said wistfully, ‘it might be fun to save the world.’

‘You have the right name for
it. Why not have a go?’ Merlin could not make out the expression on Arthur’s
face, but he sensed that the young boy had not dismissed the challenge.
Arthur’s eyes shone, catching the starlight. Cupping his hands to his mouth, he
shouted at the top of his voice: ‘Arthur! Arthur! Arthur!’ The echoes swirled
around him, rolled down the hillside and faded away in the dark woods below.

The next day they explored the
ruins of Glastonbury Abbey, where, it is said, in 1191, the bones of King
Arthur and Queen Guinevere, were found. ‘The Tor was once a hill on an island,’
explained Merlin. ‘According to legend, the island was called Avalon. It was
the place where the mortally wounded King Arthur was taken to be healed of his
wounds. These ruins are on the site of an even older church, built, they say,
by early disciples of Jesus. They even say Joseph of Arimathea came to Britain
some thirty years after the crucifixion, and that here, at the foot of
Glastonbury Tor, he threw his staff on the ground. It took root and budded, and
that was the birth of the famous Glastonbury Thorn that flowers every year at
Christmas. Here they built the old church, and here Joseph buried the Holy
Grail.’

Man and boy rested on a log,
and for a few moments wandered with their thoughts.

‘Merlin?’

‘Hum?’

‘The Holy Grail. No one ever found it, did
they?’

Merlin shook his head. ‘No.
Some say Galahad deserted Arthur to look for it, some believe Lancelot himself
made the pilgrimage and saw the Holy Grail. But just as Moses was not allowed
to enter the promised land, so Lancelot was not permitted to enter the room where
the grail stood.’

‘Why not?’

A slight hesitation. ‘Because he had committed
the sin of adultery. He had slept with Guinevere.’

‘Don’t say that, Merlin,’ said
Arthur, suddenly angry. ‘Lancelot would never betray his king.’

Merlin looked at Arthur in astonishment.
In the rebuke there was such authority, that it was hard to believe it came
from a thirteen year old boy.

‘In any case,’ continued
Merlin, ‘King Arthur thought the search for the Holy Grail was a waste of
time.’

Arthur hugged his knees. ‘And was it?’

Merlin peered far into the
distance, beyond the cornfield and the hedges bordering it, beyond the distant
woods, beyond the horizon, beyond anything on earth that Arthur could see. ‘The
search for the Holy Grail is the search for perfection. Man may never find it,
but he will never stop looking for it.’

‘Who was the better man –
Galahad or Arthur?’ asked Arthur suddenly.

‘Depends what you mean by
better,’ said Merlin. ‘They were very different. Galahad never stopped
believing in man’s essential goodness. Arthur, on the other hand, was convinced
that man was part good, part evil, and that the way to save the world was not
to look for the Holy Grail but to destroy the wicked. He had the will, and he
was given the means to do it.’

‘Excalibur?’

Merlin nodded. ‘The ultimate
weapon. Only Arthur possessed it. Only he could use it.’

‘Why was that?’

‘He did what no one else was
able to do. He drew the Sword from the Stone. That meant only he was physically
and spiritually strong enough to wield Excalibur.’

That little mole of thought
burrowed in Arthur’s brows. ‘But Camelot was defeated in the end.’

‘Yes.’ The blue eyes were troubled. ‘So King
Arthur failed.’ ‘Did he? Who can say?’ said Merlin, standing and stretching,
signalling it was time to move on. ‘Maybe the struggle is more important than
the outcome.’

That did not satisfy Arthur.
‘But did King Arthur really change anything?’

Merlin held out his hand and
pulled Arthur up. ‘Can man change his own nature? King Arthur was a man, and
like all men imperfect.’

‘Even you, Merlin?’ ‘Even me.’

A quizzical look. ‘What about me?’

Gently Merlin reached out and
touched the scar on Arthur’s left cheek. ‘Even you,’ he smiled.

Skirting the cornfield they
made for the woods and back to school, Merlin’s white robes trailing behind him
in the breeze. ‘King Arthur carried in himself the seed of his own destruction.
That seed was his son, Mordred. But just as Arthur was not wholly good, so
Mordred was not wholly evil. In a way the conflict between them symbolises the
endless struggle in man’s soul between good and evil.’

Suddenly Arthur felt weary, as
if he were carrying the burden of the world on his young shoulders. ‘So much to
learn.’

‘All you really need to know
is that everything has a purpose, and every man a destiny.’

‘Including me?’

‘Especially you,’ said Merlin.

Arthur was far away now, his
eyes wistful, as if his thoughts were concentrated on some future sadness.
Merlin had never seen that look before and it troubled him, for he cared deeply
about his young friend. For a moment he found himself wishing that Arthur’s
destiny had been different, and that he could have been like other boys. But
then Arthur was back from wherever it was he had been, and once again he was
smiling, those magical blue eyes of his sparkling like a mountain stream in
sunlight.

 As the years passed, Uther had grown more
and more frustrated with his step-daughters. They were all problematic,
although of the three, Margot was his most immediate problem. Once the
seductive nymphet, now a mature and lusciously beautiful young woman of
nineteen, she was feared and resented by virtually every woman she met, often
with good reason. Most of Uther’s male friends, both married and unmarried,
lusted after her, a good many having, he strongly suspected, found their way
into her knickers. The thought was deeply disturbing to him, not because he
gave a damn about morality in general, or Margot’s well-being in particular,
but

for fear he might be accused of being a bad
father.

A man for whom an immaculate
public image was crucial could not tolerate such a potentially explosive state
of affairs, that much was clear; what was less clear was what he could do about
it. He and Igraine had never seen eye to eye on the subject of the girls. She
was convinced all her daughters were perfect, especially Margot; was it her
fault men tried to take advantage of her innocence?

Margot is as innocent as Lady
Macbeth,’ said Uther caustically.

Igraine was outraged. ‘How can you say such a
wicked thing?

She’s just a baby.’

‘Margot was never a baby. She
was born a hundred years old.’

‘Don’t be absurd.’

Uther frequently asked himself whether he would
have married Igraine if he had understood exactly what baggage she was bringing
with her. Well, it was too late now. ‘I warn you, duchess, if we don’t do
something soon, she’ll end up in deep trouble. And so shall we. That girl’s
power over men is frightening.’

‘Why is it,’ asked Igraine
indignantly, ‘that women are always cast as sirens, and men as helpless
victims? Margot can’t help being beautiful, anymore than men can help being
chronically unfaithful.’

Uther winced. ‘Is that by any chance a hint?’

Hands on hips Igraine
demanded, ‘Who is May Middleton?’

‘Why do you ask?’

‘Who is she?’ Igraine insisted.

A bland stare. ‘My personal
assistant.’ ‘How personal?’

‘For god’s sake, Igraine,’
said Uther, assuming the reproachful expression of the maligned, ‘May helps me
in the office.’

‘I hear she helps you outside the office as
well.’

‘That’s a dirty lie!’ It was
astonishing to him that Igraine had even heard of May, let alone suspected
anything. He would have to be more careful in future. ‘My God, what people will
do to discredit a successful man.’ He took her in his arms. ‘You do know you can
trust me, don’t you, duchess?’

‘Of course,’ she said, backing
off, preferring to avoid a confrontation that would be humiliating for both of
them.

‘It’s high time Margot got
married,’ he went on, as if nothing had happened. ‘It would be the best thing
for her, and a great relief for everyone else.’

‘People don’t arrange their daughters’
marriages anymore.

This is the twenty-first century.’

‘So they tell me,’ he said
dryly. ‘I’m simply suggesting we introduce her to a decent man before she finds
herself an illiterate yobbo soccer player, or a drug-crazed pop star, or some
filthy fortune-hunting jet-setting creep.’

She had to admit he had a point; she could not
keep her beloved girls at home much longer, though she could not imagine what
life at Brackett Hall would be like without them. For all Igraine’s feminist
convictions, it was still, she had to admit, a man’s world. Uther had his
career but what did she have? Not even a lover, though she had often thought of
taking one. It was not the sex, and certainly not the shabby intrigue that
attracted her; it was simply that she needed to feel someone really cared for
her. Far from helping, being surrounded by friends and admirers only heightened
her acute sense of loneliness. There was no one she felt able to confide in,
being far too proud to admit to her friends that she knew about Uther’s
“indiscretions”.

Uther considered his wife. His
duchess was a remarkable lady, and still, at forty-three, a dish. There were
lines around her eyes and mouth, of course, though somehow those tiny flaws
added to her appeal. Her eyes still glowed as they did when she was young,
except that now they had that resigned, slightly melancholy look he had noticed
in other women of her age. Was it because she knew she was past her best? Or
did it have something to do with her naughty husband? The last thing he wanted
was to hurt her, but life was to be lived, and you only had one shot at it.
Maybe he wasn’t quite the man he used to be either, but if you had May
Middleton you didn’t need viagra.

‘I hate to say it, duchess,
but Margot is becoming notorious. The gossip columnists love her, the paparazzi
won’t leave her alone. It’s only a matter of time before some scandal or other
breaks.’

Igraine sighed. ‘If only she
would find a good man, someone to love, someone who would love her and take
care of her.’

She had given Uther an idea.
‘Leave it to me,’ he said, ‘I know just the man.’

Lennox Lotte had succeeded his
late father as chairman of one of London’s most successful trading and
investment houses: presentable, well educated and with excellent social
connections, he was nevertheless timid and rather inexperienced where women
were concerned, or so Uther had heard. Probably just as well, he reflected.
Ideal, in fact. An experienced man might think twice before marrying Margot.
Arranging to meet Lennox at a friend’s dinner party, Uther and Igraine were
impressed. The question was, would Margot be? And even if she were, would she
not simply eat Lennox up and spit out the pieces, as she invariably did with
men? What would certainly have astonished her parents had they known, was that
Margot had decided, young though she was, that it was time to settle down. What
advantages were there, she asked herself, in being single, that a married woman
could not equally enjoy? None. What sacrifices would she be making in exchange
for lifelong independence and security? None. None that she could think of, and
anyway here at home she was suffocating. Mumsy was a darling, though much too
possessive; Father was a pain. It was time to fly the nest. There were only
three conditions: to qualify as her husband a man would have to be rich, good-
looking and a competent lover.

In this receptive frame of
mind then, she found herself at the Pendragons’ next dinner party sitting next
to a highly eligible young man. Since her parents had never once mentioned him,
she immediately concluded that he had been put there for a good reason.

‘M-my name is L-Lennox L-Lotte.’

He was certainly good-looking.
The stammer was . . . well, different . . . rather endearing, actually. One
down. Two to go.

‘And what do you do?’

‘I am chairman of a p-private
t-trading and inv-vestment c-company.’

‘How interesting. Private, you
said?’ She toyed with her seabass. ‘Does that mean you own it?’

‘It d-does.’

G-good looking and l-l-lots of l-l-lovely
l-l-lolly. Two down.

One to go.

Lennox Lotte had heard somewhere that the
Pendragon girls had a reputation for being “unusual”, but nothing in his
sheltered upbringing could possibly have prepared him for Margot. Lavishing on
him all her charm, she ensnared him with her feminine wiles. He was first
intrigued, then enraptured, and finally enslaved. From the top of the table,
Uther discreetly kept watch, astonished and impressed, not for the first time,
by Margot’s power over men; he almost pitied the poor fellow. Lotte was totally
intoxicated, though he had scarcely touched a drop of alcohol.

As coffee was served, Lennox
found himself being whisked off by Margot. As the two young people left the
room, Uther drew on his cigar with quiet satisfaction, and directed a solemn
wink at Igraine.

‘What do you think?’

‘I thought you said he was
shy.’ Uther grinned. ‘He is.’

A tour of the great house ended in the grand
Hall of the Zodiac. Together they walked down the long white marble floor, the
echoes of their footsteps rebounding from the mirrored walls and vaulted
ceilings. In the centre of the hall Margot stopped and looked down. His gaze
followed hers. There in a circle, exquisitely inlaid in rose pink marble, were
the twelve signs of the Zodiac.

‘Do you know your sun sign?’
‘I’m a Virgo.’

‘Of course you are. Stand there, then. On your
sign.’

He stood, a little
apprehensively, in the segment containing the zodiac sign of Virgo. Margot
stood two segments away from him in the sign of Scorpio.

‘Scorpio.’ She smiled a smile
of such demure and innocent charm that Lennox’s heart seemed to somersault in
his breast. ‘Some say it’s a dangerous sign, not to be trusted.’

‘I w-would t-trust you with my l-life,’ he
stuttered.

She extended her arm. Reaching out and taking
her hand he held it in both of his as carefully and tenderly as if it were a
damaged bird.

‘I have n-never m-met anyone
l-like you,’ Lennox Lotte confessed.

Her eyes widened. ‘Am I so
terrible, then?’ ‘You are l-laughing at m-me.’

Holding hands, and with Libra
between them, they were still a couple of feet apart.

‘Libra is the sign of lovers.’
Her demurely lowered lashes veiled her eyes. ‘We are separated by love, you and
I.’

Lennox took a step forward,
and pulled her gently towards him. Now they were both standing in the Libra
segment. ‘N-not any m-more,’ he said, and boldly kissed her.

As he opened his eyes again,
he could not help noticing that their embrace was reflected in a dozen mirrors
lining the great hall. A dozen times it brought home to him the enormity of
what he was doing – taking advantage of a young and innocent girl. He
experienced a pang of shame.

Her eyes gleamed coquettishly
up at him. ‘Lennox?’ ‘Yes?’

‘Would you like to have sex with me?’

Shocked as much by the
crudeness as by the unexpectedness of the invitation, he was quite unable to
respond.

‘We shall do it here in
Libra,’ she said, nodding her head like a battery-operated doll. ‘What could be
more appropriate?’

He stood looking at her,
senses roused. Scarcely taking her eyes off his, she unzipped his trousers and
helped him remove them. Hoisting up her skirt, she tore off her knickers and
pulled him down on top of her. The coupling was brisk and on Margot’s part
noisy, her amplified cries of pleasure resounding round the marble hall.

‘I’m s-so t-terribly s-sorry,’
he said, when it was over. ‘I should n-never have . . . what m-must you think
of m-me?’

‘Actually, I think you’re
rather good.’ Three down, Margot was thinking. None to go. ‘We had better go
back or they’ll be wondering what we are up to.’

As she clicked down the hall
nodding away to herself, she asked him, casually, ‘Are you going to propose
now?’

‘Pr-propose?’

‘You see, I never gave myself
to anyone before. Of course, if you don’t love me . . . ’ She thrust out her
lips in a pout.

‘Why yes,’ he said hastily,
‘of c-course I d-do. I think you’re w-wonderful.’

‘Then hadn’t you better pop the question?’

It took a few moments for
Lennox to get his tongue round the words. ‘W-will you m-m-marry me?’ he
stammered.

‘Yes,’ she said promptly.

Looking her intended up and
down, she noticed that in his confusion he had left his flies gaping. Kissing
him, she zipped him up. The gesture had about it a brusque, almost brutal
finality. Leading him briskly into the drawing room, she made the announcement
without preamble. ‘Lennox and I are engaged.’

Conversation ended abruptly.
The room was silent. ‘I am going to be Mrs. Lotte,’ she added, in case there
was any doubt about the matter. Taking hold of his arm, she led her intended to
her astonished parents, her smile clearly saying, “There, aren’t you pleased
with me? Have I not given you exactly what you wanted?”

Uther was astounded but
cautiously pleased. Cautiously, because the self-satisfied smile on Margot’s
face seemed to suggest that she knew something he did not.

‘Poor Lennox,’ he said to
Igraine, a week before the wedding. ‘He looks shell-shocked.’

His wife thought that was
unfair. ‘He looks like a man in love to me.’

‘No doubt. Still, one can’t
help feeling sorry for him. Wait till he finds out what she’s really like.’

Igraine’s chin lifted
defiantly. ‘I don’t know what you mean, he’s lucky to get her. She’s beautiful
and talented, and she’ll make a wonderful wife and mother.’

‘Beautiful, yes. Talented,
undoubtedly. A mother? Never. Margot is far too selfish for that.’ But Uther
was mistaken. A few months after the marriage, Margot fell pregnant. Inevitably
though, she blamed Lennox. ‘How could you do this to me?’ she wailed.

Lennox was distraught. ‘B-but
I thought we w-wanted a b-baby?’

‘
We
!’ shrieked
Margot. ‘You mean
you
wanted one!’

‘You know I only w-want w-what
you w-want,’ he said, and meant it; but it was no use. Margot sobbed and sulked
and was inconsolable. Motherhood was the last thing she wanted. She was
terrified, her life was over, she was condemned to be a milking cow. Poor
Lennox suffered her sulks and tantrums for days that dragged on into weeks, and
was at last desperate enough to ask his father-in-law’s advice.

Uther smiled his world-weary
smile. ‘Try jewellery.’ ‘Margot isn’t the s-sort of w-woman you can b-bribe
with

b-baubles,’ protested Lennox.

‘She most certainly is not,’
agreed Uther. ‘Baubles would be a grave error. We are talking serious jewellery
here.’

Lennox went out in his lunch
hour and bought a Van Cleef and Arpels emerald necklace with matching bracelet
that cost a small fortune. To his relief, Uther had given him sound advice. As
the tips of Margot’s fingers caressed the jewels, she was miraculously
transformed. Sulks? What sulks? Tantrums? Where were these tantrums? ‘Van Cleef
and Arpels! You shouldn’t have, darling.’ Clawing his shirt and trousers, she
purred with feline contentment. It was a mutually satisfactory solution to what
had threatened to become a major problem. Lennox was happy, and Margot had
established an important precedent.