The Call of Destiny (The Return of Arthur Book 1) (14 page)

The more she thought about
him, the more she admired him and the less she understood why he wanted to
marry her. ‘What’s your game, Bore?’

A puzzled frown. ‘Game?’

‘You should marry the girl
next door.’

‘You
are
the girl next door,’ he said.
He tried to take her hand but she pulled it away.

‘Oh pooh,’ said Morgan.

Perversely she had reverted to
her former maverick style of dressing. Tonight, for example, her large hips and
backside had somehow squeezed their bulk into a narrow strip of black leather
two sizes too small for them, and had spent the evening struggling to escape.
Every time she moved or spoke or took a mouthful of food, her black leather
suit protested, its creaks and groans warning of intolerable stress. Her spiked
hair was pink, her face a white mask, her lips purple, and her eyes, like those
of some nocturnal creature caught in a spotlight, peered anxiously at the world
through dark circles of black mascara.

The girl next door? Perhaps not. Arran had to
admit she had a point.

‘You just want me because you can’t have me.’

‘I shall go on wanting you
until I can. Then I shall want you even more.’

Clearly she ought to do the
decent thing and send him packing, but somehow she could not bring herself to
do anything quite so extreme. Dear old Bore would be most horribly upset. Might
he not do something dreadful if he thought he had lost her forever? And though
of course she couldn’t possibly marry him, she did rather enjoy his company in
an odd sort of way.

One evening over dinner, Arran
was talking about some legal case or other he was working on, and she was
looking at him, not hearing a word he said, almost as if she were watching a
silent movie. Observing him as he spoke, she noticed for the first time how the
corners of his mouth moved when he smiled, and that funny habit he had of
putting his head on one side when he was thinking. This is a good man, she
thought, a kind man, kind and gentle and sincere, the sort of man you can
trust; and he wanted her. She felt faint. An unaccustomed distillation of
tenderness blurred her vision, disturbing her equilibrium.

‘Yes,’ she said.

‘I beg your pardon?’ ‘Yes, I
will marry you.’

And that was that. No one
could possibly have been more surprised than Arran, unless of course it was
Morgan. As Elaine put it after the wedding, Morgan had finally demonstrated
that she really could fly. Or if she had not exactly taken flight, she had done
something just as amazing; she had taken a walk up the aisle.

 Merlin loved the wild and sea-tossed
coast of northern Cornwall. Recently he had talked about it so enthusiastically
that Hector suggested the family spend a couple of days there during the school
holidays. ‘There’s the old castle at Tintagel, and lots of walks and incredible
views and marvellous beaches. We’ll take the car and leave the caravan behind –
do it in style. Merlin recommended a bed and breakfast place. Full English
breakfast and comfortable beds.’ ‘I don’t remember him mentioning Cornwall
before,’ said Elizabeth curiously, knowing from experience that Merlin never
said anything without a reason. Why was he so keen for them to visit Cornwall?

‘You know how he is,’ said
Hector, who for once needed no explanation, ‘he gets these passions. Tintagel
is his latest passion, that’s all. How about it?’

‘Fine with me. Let’s try it.’

The following week, Elizabeth,
Hector and the two boys set off early in the morning. By nine a.m. they were
turning into the driveway of an old Cornish house, its stone façade flaking and
mellowed with age. Breakfast was everything Merlin had promised it would be.
‘Exercise is what we need now.’ Hector drained the last drop of coffee,
stretched and yawned. ‘How about a walk to the castle and back?’

The wooden stairway that
linked the mainland with the causeway was not for the faint-hearted. It
descended so steeply that looking down from the top it seemed like a
step-ladder. Although it was July and the sun was warm, the fitful Atlantic
breezes gusted sharply first from one direction then another. The two boys were
unconcerned but Elizabeth and Hector clutched the guide ropes as they made
their way cautiously down. At the bottom of the stairs, a narrow causeway led
to the promontory on which the castle stood. Another set of steep and narrow
steps as fearsome a challenge as the first, climbed to the sky, curving first
right, then left towards the entrance of the ruined castle.

Crossing the drawbridge,
Hector, Elizabeth and the two boys passed through a gateway once guarded by a
massive iron portcullis. To their right, and far below, was a shingle beach
overhung by precipitous cliffs on three sides. The two boys and their father
stood looking down the cliffs to the beach where the sea had carved out huge
caves. Elizabeth could hardly bear to look. ‘Do be careful,’ she said
nervously.

Hector pointed. ‘You see the
biggest cave. There, on the left, where those boulders are.’

‘I see it,’ said Keir. ‘That’s
Merlin’s cave.’

Arthur grinned. ‘Quite a coincidence.’

‘Ever ask your housemaster where he got his
name from?’

‘I did once,’ said Arthur. ‘He
said he got it from the same place Merlin did.’

Hector smiled. ‘That’s my Merlin.’

‘Was this King Arthur’s castle?’ asked Keir.

‘I’m afraid not. These ruins
only date back to Norman times. If Arthur lived at all, it was in the sixth
century, several hundred years earlier.’

‘What do you mean
if
he
lived?’ Arthur seemed surprised. ‘Is

there any doubt about it?’

‘No one seems quite sure. Some
scholars think he was a historical figure, some don’t.’

‘All the same, wherever you
look, there’s something that links this place to Arthurian legend,’ said
Elizabeth. ‘I believe he was here. I feel it.’

‘Anything is possible,’ said Hector, ‘but I
can’t help thinking a lot of these stories were invented for the tourists. The
lady at reception assured me that King Arthur’s round table is buried in
Bossiney Mound at Bossiney Castle. What’s more, she claims she has actually seen
it rising from the mound at full moon! It makes you wonder what else folk round
here see at full moon, especially with a few pints inside them.’

‘Merlin says King Arthur was a
real person,’ said Arthur. ‘Maybe he was, maybe he wasn’t. One thing for sure,
though, a lot of people want to believe he was.’

‘That sculpture, or whatever
it is – up there, on the highest point,’ said Keir, ‘is that very old?’

Hector chuckled. ‘The Sword in
the Stone? It’s not even as old as you are. I’m told the local Council
commissioned it for the millennium, and apparently there was a lot of
opposition. After all, there isn’t the slightest evidence connecting this site
with Arthur. Still, there it is, large as life. Who wants to take a look?’

Elizabeth shook her head. ‘I
think I’ll walk down to the beach and explore Merlin’s cave.’

‘The path looks pretty steep.
I’ll come with you,’ said Hector.

‘I want to see the Sword in the Stone,’ said
Keir.

Arthur said nothing but he
followed Keir. The higher the brothers climbed, the further they could see: to
the south-east, Tintagel, and beyond to the bleak hills of Bodmin Moor; to the
north-west, the great expanse of the Atlantic ocean; to the north, the steep
descent to the beach and Merlin’s cave. Up here the capricious breezes now
joined forces, and the wind was so strong that Keir and Arthur were almost
tumbled over several times. Progress was slow but at last they reached the flat
peak of the headland. The stone on the summit was about six feet square, and on
it was set an anvil. Projecting from the anvil was the hilt and a few inches of
sword. Three or four kids were playing round the sculpture, climbing onto it
and trying to pull out the sword. As one by one they failed the others laughed
and jeered. Tiring of their game, they moved off in the direction of the path
that led down to the beach, leaving the brothers alone.

‘It’s bigger than it looked
from down there,’ said Keir. ‘Quite impressive.’

‘It is,’ agreed Arthur.

Keir rapped the sculpture.
‘Made of bronze.’ He read the inscription aloud. WHOSO PULLETH OUT THIS SWORD
OF THIS STONE AND ANVIL, IS RIGHTWISE KING

BORN OF ALL ENGLAND. Climbing
onto the stone, he grasped the hilt of the Sword and gave it a token tug.

‘Forget it,’ he said
scornfully. ‘Nothing could shift that.’ But for some reason, even though he
knew it was impossible, he could not resist trying again. This time he grasped
the sword with both hands and heaved with all his strength, arching his body so
that the back of his head almost touched the stone. Moments later he collapsed,
groaning. ‘That hurt!’ he muttered, nursing the red weals on the palms of his
hands. ‘Stupid. Don’t know what made me do it.’

Arthur turned away towards the
path. Keir slid off the stone. ‘Your turn. Don’t you want to be King of
England?’

Arthur smiled and shook his
head. Keir could not resist adding spitefully, ‘Now’s your chance to prove
you’re so damned special, like Mum is always saying you are.’

‘I don’t have to prove
anything,’ said Arthur. Keir had long since lost the power to torment him.

‘What are you afraid of?’ said
Keir, determined to provoke some reaction.

Arthur found a direct
challenge like that hard to resist. Jumping onto the stone, he laid his right
hand on the sword’s hilt. After a moment or two he turned to his brother, as if
appealing to him.

‘Get on with it, man,’ said
Keir waving his arms, urging his brother on.

From the sea the west wind rose suddenly and
raged round the headland. Head flung back, his long blond hair streaming in the
wind, Arthur held onto the hilt of the sword with both hands to stop himself
being blown off the stone.

As suddenly as it rose, the
wind dropped. Tensing the muscles of his right arm, Arthur drew the sword from
the anvil. In one swift movement he raised it high above his head, lowered it
to kiss the hilt, and slid it back in place. As he did so, a group of tourists
appeared over the brow of the hill, a man and woman and three teenage children.
They were looking at him oddly. Had they seen anything? Without a backward glance
at Keir, Arthur hurried down the path in the direction of the beach.

For a few moments Keir was so
stunned he could barely move. His face deathly pale, his expression half
incredulous, half fearful, he followed Arthur like a dog following its master,
every few moments erupting in irritable bursts of words, all the time breathing
heavily, as much from the shock of what he had just witnessed, as from the
jarring pace that Arthur set.

‘How did you do it? How did
you do it,’ he babbled. ‘Tell me how you did it! It was loose, it must have
been, it was loose wasn’t it? It was me that did it. All that pulling loosened
it . .

. Arthur! Answer me! Wait!
What happened? You think you can fool me? Well you can’t. I know your tricks.
You can’t bear to be ordinary, can you? You want everyone to think you’re
something special . . . You’re going to tell Mum and Dad a pack of lies! Well
don’t think they’ll believe a word of it, because they won’t . . . Arthur!
Listen to me, you little shit! Stop! Stop!

. . . They won’t believe you, I
tell you. I won’t let them. I’ll say you’re a liar . . .
I’ll
tell
them
I
did
it!
’

At a bend in the path below,
Arthur stopped and looked up at his adoptive brother. ‘Tell them what you
like.’

Down on the beach, Keir rushed
frantically here and there, searching for his parents, determined to get to
them first. Arthur wandered about, kicking pebbles disconsolately. At last,
Keir caught sight of Hector and Elizabeth in the half light of Merlin’s cave.
Long before he reached them, the words were tumbling from his mouth. Hector
shook his head in bewilderment. ‘Calm down, son, calm down. Let me get this
straight. Who pulled the sword from the stone?’

‘I did.’ Keir’s eyes challenged his father.

A giant wave crashed on the
shore, its roar echoing menacingly in the cave. High up in the vaulted roof the
wind wailed like a soul trapped in hell.

‘You did?’

‘Yes.’

‘You pulled the sword from the
stone?’ ‘Yes.’

‘How did you do that?’

‘How should I know,’ said Keir
sullenly. ‘Thousands of tourists must have tried the same thing. I expect they
loosened it.’

‘I see.’

Elizabeth said nothing. When
they were out of the cave, and Arthur had joined them, she asked Keir, ‘Do you
want to do it for me and dad?’

Keir blinked. ‘No point in
climbing all the way up again.’ ‘We have to climb up anyway. It’s not much of a
detour.’ ‘Fine,’ he muttered.

It was lunchtime and the
headland was deserted. The fickle weather had changed and a massive storm was
moving in from the Atlantic to the shore, the advancing clouds drawing a black
pall over the sunlit ocean. In their shadow the sea was restless now and
flecked with white. By the Sword in the Stone they stood facing the wind, hands
deep in the pockets of their windcheaters, hair flying.

‘Show us how you did it,
Keir,’ said Hector. ‘This is silly.’

‘Show us.’

With Hector and Elizabeth
watching intently, and Arthur’s attention apparently concentrated on the
ground, Keir rolled his large frame onto the Stone, grasped the handles of the
sword with both hands and pulled so hard that even in the wind that howled
round him, the sweat ran down his face. After a few seconds he gave up and
looked out to sea with blank eyes. Seizing the hilt of the sword once more, he
heaved, this time with the full weight of his body behind his arms, lying back
almost parallel with the stone. A third time he pulled, so fiercely that the
veins on his neck stood out, and it seemed as if his arms must surely be torn
out of their sockets. But for all his efforts, the sword held firm in the
anvil, moving not even the tiniest fraction of an inch. Finally his strength
deserted him, his arms went limp, and releasing the sword with a groan, he
folded to his knees. He was so exhausted that for a full minute he remained
there crouched by the anvil, his damp forehead resting on the cold stone.
Wincing with pain, he eased open his hands. The palms were flecked with blood.
‘It was a freak, that’s all,’ he muttered. ‘One of those things.’ His eyes
shifted nervously from one to the other. ‘It won’t move now. But it did.’
Elizabeth turned away, Hector looked uncomfortable. ‘It moved, I tell you,’
protested Keir, ‘it came right out.’

Seeing they did not believe
him, he appealed to his brother. ‘Tell them, Arthur.’

Arthur was silent.

Elizabeth dug her hands deeper
into the pockets of her windcheater and shivered. ‘It’s cold, and it’s going to
pour with rain.’ She walked quickly away. A few seconds later Keir followed
her. Hector did not move. Nor did Arthur.

‘Well, Arthur?’ No reply.

‘Tell me what really happened,’ said Hector.

Arthur touched the scar on his cheek. ‘Let’s
go, Dad.’

Hector had no intention of
going anywhere – not until he had learned the truth. ‘Did someone pull the
Sword out?’

Arthur shifted uneasily. ‘Please, Dad, let’s
go.’

‘I’d like to see you try it first.’ Hector
pointed at the Sword.

‘I’m waiting.’

For a long moment father and
son looked at each other. ‘Coming then?’ said Arthur brightly.

Hector shook his head. ‘I’m
not moving from this spot.’ ‘You’ll catch your death of cold.’

‘What if I do?’ said Hector, folding his arms.

It was a battle of wills, each
knowing how stubborn the other could be. In the end it was Arthur who gave in.
Jumping onto the stone, he set his hand on the Sword. Grunting and puffing, he
made a show of straining to pull it out. ‘There,’ he said. ‘It won’t budge.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘You saw me trying to pull it out.’

‘I saw you trying not to,’ said his father.

Arthur said innocently, ‘I
don’t know what you mean.’ ‘You never lied to me before.’

The sea was calm now, the wind
had dropped. Storm clouds hung low over the ocean, their long fingers reaching
down to the water. Soon the rain would come. Arthur laid his right hand on the
hilt of the sword and gently drew it out. For a moment he held it high above
his head, and then, as if embarrassed by what he had done, quickly replaced it.
Turning, he found himself alone, Hector was nowhere to be seen. A myriad stars
and galaxies glowed in the arched canopy of the night sky, but as he looked
down, there far below him, it was day. The Atlantic waves rolled green and grey
in the rapidly shifting light, as the rays of the afternoon sun, filtering
through the clouds, swept the surface of the ocean. Everything about him was
quiet and still. He was afraid. He wanted to call out in the hope someone might
respond but he did not, knowing there was no one there. Standing in the dark
night on the summit of this bleak outcrop of land, he felt uncannily alone, as
if he were the only one left alive on the planet. Never before had he felt such
dread, nor so profound a sense of isolation.