The Call of Destiny (The Return of Arthur Book 1) (29 page)

Ian rushed over to give his
friend moral support. ‘Everyone says she’s a liar. They all know you would
never do anything like that.’

‘Do they?’

‘How can you doubt it?’ said Ian earnestly.

‘Forgive me, Ian, but I don’t
share your rose-coloured view of human nature,’ said Lancelot. ‘People love to
gossip. It’s something of a national pastime, isn’t it, destroying people’s
reputations? Never believe the best of anyone if you can possibly believe the
worst, especially if they don’t conform to the dreary, politically-correct
norm. They hate me, Ian. They hate me because I’m not one of them. Wouldn’t
they just love it if Lancelot the virgin turned out to be Lancelot the rapist.’

‘I can’t say I blame you for
feeling bitter. The whole thing is so unfair. The worst of it is, none of this
would have happened if it hadn’t been for me.’

‘I certainly wish you had kept
our discussion confidential,’ said Lancelot, ‘but there it is. You were not to
foresee the consequences.’ He shook his head in bewilderment. ‘Why does she
hate me so much? I never showed the slightest interest in her.’

Ian was about to make the
obvious reply but thought better of it. Lance would never understand.

Two days later Lady Eleanor was fished out of
the river Cam and rushed to the local hospital where she was detained for a few
hours before being released. The apparent suicide attempt won her much
sympathy. Until now, most students had been inclined to give Lancelot the
benefit of the doubt. Eleanor’s desperate act convinced many that she was
telling the truth. The students’ mood changed abruptly, and feeling against
Lancelot ran dangerously high.

In college an angry crowd
gathered round the old well in the centre of the quadrangle. Some students had
obviously drunk too much. From the window of his rooms Lancelot looked down on
them with disdain. ‘Look at the lynch mob. Nothing less than a hanging will
satisfy them.’ As he spoke, someone shouted and threw a stone at the window,
cracking it. Another followed, and another and another, until finally a brick
smashed through the glass, and dropped on the floor. Lancelot did not move a
muscle.

Ian Duncan jumped back. ‘Get
away from the window. Things are getting out of hand, Lance. Let’s get the hell
out of here before someone is hurt. We can climb out of the bedroom window,
across the back quad and over the wall. Hurry!’

‘I refuse to run away,’ said
Lancelot proudly. ‘What do you suggest we do then?’

‘I’m going down to talk to
them.’ Lancelot moved to the door.

Ian grabbed his arm. ‘Don’t do
that. They wont listen to you.’

The foot of the spiral
staircase leading to Lancelot’s rooms was blocked by a group of young men. As
he walked slowly down the stairs, however, they backed away and let him
through. Out in the quad the students cleared a path for him. There was some
belligerent muttering, and a cry of “rapist” from one female student, but no
one tried to stop him. Head held high Lancelot walked through them,. By the
well stood a giant of a man, the Hon. Daniel Shalott, Lady Eleanor’s brother.
As Lancelot appeared, Daniel’s face distorted with rage. ‘You’re a coward and a
rapist. I’m going to break every bone in your body, starting with that
beautiful nose.’ He spat in Lancelot’s face.

The blood surged in Lancelot’s
head. His eyes misted over, his nails scored the palms of his hands as he
struggled to control himself. It was not just that he wanted to hit the man; he
wanted to kill him.

Daniel Shalott’s punch had the
whole weight of his body behind it. Lancelot ducked, and the huge fist flew
over his head. The force of the blow swung Daniel round, throwing him
off-balance. He tripped and fell, and the back of his head smashed against the
cobbled surround of the well. The big man lay motionless. In the stunned
silence Lancelot knelt at his side and felt his pulse. ‘Call an ambulance.’

As the ambulance drove off,
the crowd in the quadrangle quickly dispersed, with hardly a look or a word
exchanged. For the next few days a strange inertia took hold of the university,
as if the very life and soul of the place had been extinguished. Students went
about their business as before, but now they were joyless and subdued. Few
spoke of Lancelot or Eleanor, and no one mentioned the alleged rape. Theirs was
a communal grief and a communal guilt, a sense that all were suffering, and all
were responsible.

Daniel Shalott fought for his
life in intensive care, his parents and Lady Eleanor constantly by his bedside.
For two days he lay in a coma. On the morning of the third day his condition
rapidly deteriorated. The neuro-surgeon could do no more: ‘We must pray for a
miracle,’ he said. In the late afternoon the situation became very grave as
Daniel’s condition worsened. Whilst they waited for the end, a nurse brought
word that Lancelot was outside, insisting on seeing the dying man. ‘Tell him to
go away,’ said Daniel’s father. His wife shook her head. ‘We must let him say
goodbye.’

Lancelot nodded stiffly as he came in. Sitting
on the bed, he clasped Daniel’s hands. ‘Daniel,’ he said, ‘I know how tired you
must be but you must not give up. For your parents’ sake. For your sister’s
sake. For my sake.’ The lids of Daniel’s eyes were ringed with blue, his face
white as the sheet on his bed. Lancelot bent over him, tears streaming down his
face. ‘Don’t leave us, I beg you.’ One of his tears fell on Daniel’s cheek and
lay there glistening in the light of the bedside lamp.

Lancelot closed his eyes and
prayed to the God he was not sure he believed in. ‘Grant me a miracle, God.
Don’t take Daniel now. Bring him back to us.’ Then he kissed the dying man on
the forehead and left without a word.

‘Who does he think he is?’
said Eleanor, when he had gone. ‘Jesus Christ? The arrogance of the man!’

Five minutes later Daniel
opened his eyes and announced that he was ravenous. When they told him what had
happened, he insisted on seeing Lancelot. Lancelot sent word that he was
delighted to hear the good news but asked to be excused since unfortunately he
had an essay to write.

The police asked Eleanor
whether she wanted to press charges. She said that on reflection she may have
been mistaken. In her own mind she now doubted that Lancelot had actually tried
to rape her. Asked to explain her sudden change of heart, she said she could
only think she had been suffering from pre- menstrual tension.

No one asked Lancelot, nor did
he attempt to explain, what happened in the hospital that day. It was, everyone
agreed, a remarkable coincidence that the dying Daniel Shalott should so
miraculously have recovered after Lancelot’s visit. From that day on Lancelot
was something of a hero in the university.

Lancelot tried to dismiss the
episode from his mind. It had been good fortune, nothing more. No other
explanation was possible. He wished with all his heart that people would just
forget the whole thing, and stop treating him as if he were some kind of freak.

 Four months before the spring general
election Robert Marriott stood down as leader of the New Millennium Party and
Prime Minister. His resignation was a shock to the public but came as no
surprise to his colleagues who had known for some time that he had cancer.
Marriott had quit without leaving a footprint in the sands of international
affairs, nor in truth had he done much for the country. His chief contribution
was to his own Party where, with Uther’s help, he had restyled the old
Conservative Party and made them electable after many years in opposition.

There were several would-be
successors, though probably only one serious contender. Having been for years a
fixer at the highest level, Uther Pendragon was in a position to call in many
favours. If a Party grandee or a sympathetic businessman needed a favour – a
stock exchange tip, a box at Ascot, a dirty weekend in the south of France –
Uther was their man. It did not seem to matter that he enthused no one; he was
considered competent and unflappable, qualities much in demand in a world in
turmoil.

Despite the change in
leadership the polls indicated that the New Millennium Party would be
re-elected for a third term. The grim inevitability of yet another election
defeat weighed heavily on the leader of United Labour, Leo Grant, who could do
little but mull over with Thomas Winnington, Chairman of the Party, the
prospect of another four years in the wilderness.

‘What are our chances?’ asked Leo.

Winnington gave a rueful smile. ‘The truth?’
‘The truth, Thomas.’

‘My feeling is that New
Millennium will get in again, but with a reduced majority – probably around
fifty seats,’ said Winnington.

‘If Uther Pendragon succeeds
Marriott, how will that affect us?’ asked Leo.

‘He has serious flaws, no
doubt about it, both as a politician and as a man,’ said Winnington. ‘But he’s
plausible, and there’s always a honeymoon period, so by the time people
discover how incompetent he is, it’ll be too late. He’ll be Prime Minister.’

‘I’m not so sure,’ said Leo.
‘There are rumours in Westminster that Pendragon’s on the take in a big way. We
could make things very hot for him.’

Winnington shook his head. ‘That might rebound
on us.

Where’s the proof?’

Leo had no answer to that.

‘We should stick to a
political agenda,’ Winnnington cautioned. ‘God knows we have enough ammunition.
The government’s record is poor. Every year that passes the UK is more and more
divided – rich and poor, north and south, town and country. Terrorist incidents
are on the increase. Under Blair our Party made hundreds of promises and kept
very few; now it’s the turn of New Millennium to do the same thing. They talk
strong and act weak, they promise gold and deliver dross. That’s their
Achilles’ heel, and that’s what we should concentrate on, not on Uther
Pendragon.’

Leo Grant nodded thoughtfully.
‘I have another idea, Thomas. ‘I’m getting on.’ A grimace. ‘Sixty-one already.
I can hardly believe it.’

Thomas Winnington frowned.
‘Who cares about age? You are the best man for the job. That’s all that
matters.’

Leo acknowledged the
compliment with a smile and a small inclination of the head. ‘Uther is how old?
Fifty-nine?’

‘About. So?’

‘We should find a young man to take him on. New
blood, Thomas, would galvanise the electorate. People have been disillusioned
with politicians for years, we all know that. Fresh faces and a youthful
approach, that’s what we need to win this election.’

‘I don’t agree,’ said
Winnington. ‘What we need is experience and a safe pair of hands.’

Leo Grant looked unconvinced.
‘What’s on your mind, Leo?’ ‘Arthur Pendragon.’

‘You want to bring Arthur into
the shadow cabinet?’ Thomas Winnington was an experienced campaigner. He
neither accepted nor rejected anything until he had given it his careful
consideration. ‘It’s a thought. A bit young for the cabinet, though, isn’t he?’

‘I want him to succeed me.’

If Winnington was surprised he didn’t show it.
‘Who knows?

He might well do that one day. He’s a talented
young man.’ ‘Not one day, Thomas. Now. I want to stand down. I want Arthur
Pendragon to succeed me.’

‘Let me get this straight,’
said Winnington slowly, ‘you are proposing that a man of – how old is he
exactly . . . ?’

‘Twenty-six,’ said Leo calmly.

‘ . . . that a man of
twenty-six should become leader of United Labour?’

‘That’s right.’

Thomas Winnington shook his
head, tut-tutting his disapproval. ‘I’m sorry, Leo, but it simply doesn’t make
sense. We have a perfectly good leader. Give me one good reason why we should
change horses in mid-stream.’

‘I’m tired, Thomas, tired of
being in opposition, tired of lies and broken promises, tired of what used to
be this great country going downhill year by year, tired of living in fear, and
tired as hell of not being able to do anything about it. You want more
reasons?’

Winnington’s shoulders slumped. The burden of
depression bore down on him. He had never known Leo talk so negatively. ‘Very
well. Tell me why you think Arthur Pendragon can win the election for us.’

‘Because, Thomas, he’s a man
of principle. Because he means what he says. Because he’s strong. Because he
has vision. Because, young as he is, people have enormous respect for him. And
because he’s not afraid of taking on his father.’ Leo could see he was making
some impression on Winnington. ‘In only two years look how Arthur’s star has
risen in the Party and in the House. I tell you, Thomas, the man’s a natural
born leader.’

‘You could be right,’ said
Winnington. ‘I just don’t think he’s ready for the job.’

They agreed to talk further.
In the event, however, the decision was made for them. That night Leo invited Arthur
home, told him what he had in mind and insisted he go away and think about it.
The next evening Arthur gave him his answer. ‘I’m more than flattered by the
offer,’ he said, ‘but the answer is no.’

Leo hung on doggedly. ‘You
understand that I intend to stand down as leader soon whatever happens.’

‘Not before the election, surely?’

‘No. I shall see the election
through, lead the Party for a year or so, and then . . . ’ – emphasising his
commitment to the idea, Leo punched his right fist hard into the palm of his
left hand – ‘then you will be a leading candidate for the succession.’

Arthur did not answer Leo
directly. ‘You agree that my father will almost certainly be elected leader of
New Millennium?’

‘Who knows? Your father has
enemies. He’s ambitious, some would say ruthless. The road to the summit is
littered with the bodies he has stepped over.’

‘The chances are, though, that
he will take New Millennium into the election,’ insisted Arthur.

‘Let’s say he does,’ said Leo. ‘What then?’

‘In my opinion he has the qualities that could
make an excellent Prime Minister.’

‘You really believe that?’ asked Leo,
astonished.

‘I do. I know what people say
about him but he has the experience. I don’t. In any case . . . ’ – Arthur
hesitated – ‘I’m not sure I want to be a leader. I was born to be a
backbencher.’

Leo laughed. ‘That’s rich! You
have told me more than once that you want to make a difference, that you want
to change the world. Well let me tell you, Arthur, you can’t change the world
from the back benches. One day you will have to throw your hat in the ring.’

‘Maybe so,’ said Arthur, ‘but
at this moment in time I believe I’m too young for high office.’

‘Age has nothing to do with it. Please think
again.’

Arthur shook his head. ‘I am
greatly honoured by your confidence in me, sir, but no. I have made up my
mind.’

‘And if we win the election?’

‘Then I will think about your
offer again – if it still stands, that is.’

‘It will,’ Leo Grant assured him.

Uther was returned unopposed.
He had achieved his ambition, just as Merlin said he would all those years ago.
Leaving his celebrating supporters, he drove to Brackett Hall, brushing away
tears of joy, and relishing the police escort that accompanied his new exalted
status. This was the greatest day of his life and he wanted to share it with
his wife.

It was Uther’s misfortune that
this day also happened to be the day Igraine decided it was time to leave her
husband. For weeks now she had been reflecting on her marriage, wondering where
it had gone wrong. Had she expected too much of Uther? Perhaps. But he had
changed; he was not that glamorous and exciting man she had danced with on that
memorable New Year’s Eve when they first met. Then she had been the willing
centre of his universe; now, like some dead planet, she orbited his sun. That
very morning Igraine had finally confronted

the painful truth; it was no use denying any
longer that her marriage had foundered. There was nothing to be salvaged but
the truth. Even as Uther burst into the sitting room, she said it: ‘I want a
divorce.’

Uther was so shocked that for
a few moments he could neither move nor speak. ‘Come again?’ he muttered
weakly.

‘I want a divorce,’ she repeated.

At first he thought she must
be drunk or drugged. Looking at her more carefully he realised she was neither.
This was no sudden declaration made in the grip of some noxious substance, nor
even in the heat of anger. ‘How long has this been brewing?’

‘Twenty-five years.’

‘I see,’ he said, although he
didn’t. He paced the room aimlessly, casting anxious looks at her. ‘You can’t
be serious, Igraine. I may not have been a perfect husband but I haven’t been
such an ogre, have I? I’ve tried to be a good father to your children. I have
given you security and a beautiful home. What is so wrong with that? Damn it,
I’ve given you just about everything a man can give a woman.’

Tears filled Igraine’s eyes.
‘Except love.’ ‘Not true.’

‘Why pretend?’

‘Really, Igraine,’ he protested, ‘this is all
very distressing.

Tonight, of all nights.’

‘I am sorry,’ she said
bitterly. ‘Is the timing inconvenient for you?’

He could hold back no longer.
‘I have great news.’ A dramatic pause. Then, arms flung wide – ‘You are looking
at the new Prime Minister.’

‘Congratulations.’ She could
not have sounded less interested.

‘Is that all you have to say?’
‘What were you expecting?’

‘Something a bit more fulsome perhaps?’ he
suggested.

‘I am not in a fulsome mood.’

He switched into reproachful
mode. ‘You are being very unkind, duchess. And very unjust.’

She smiled sweetly. ‘And how
is May Middleton? Well, I hope?’

He raised his arms in mock
surrender. ‘So that’s it.’ ‘Not all of it, by any means, but part of it, yes.’

Oddly enough, though things
were not exactly going well, he felt relieved. Jealousy was something he
understood. ‘If I give you my word never to see her again?’

‘It’s a matter of total
indifference to me whether you see her again or not,’ she responded coldly.

‘Then why do you want a
divorce?’ ‘Because I don’t love you anymore.’

His mouth opened and shut but
no sound came out, his face was drained of colour, his eyes wounded. But then,
with one of those rapid mood changes of his, he assumed that sham expression of
contrition that she knew so well, and that infantile voice that she found so
demeaning to his dignity as a man, and so insulting to her intelligence as a
woman.

‘Duchess,’ he crooned, ‘why
must you be so cruel? Alright, I have sinned.
Mea culpa
. There, I
confess.’ He shook his head in self-reproach. ‘I am a child compared with you,
a naughty little boy, that’s what I am.’

‘You flatter yourself. You are a liar and a
hypocrite.’

‘Don’t be like that, duchess.
Give your old man a kiss and let’s make up.’ He bent his head towards her.

It was so grossly patronising
and insensitive that suddenly she was enraged. ‘Damn you, you bastard! Damn
you!’ She knew only that she wanted to wipe that inane smile off his face.
Before he could stop her she had reached out and dragged her nails down his
cheeks.

‘Bitch!’ He drew back his fist
to strike her. She flinched, and his arm dropped to his side. In all the years
there had never been any physical violence between them before. They were

both in shock. She was the first to speak. ‘I
shouldn’t have done that.’

‘I deserved it.’ ‘Forgive me,’
she said.

‘I should ask forgiveness, not
you. Give me another chance, Igraine. You were always the one, you know. You
always will be. I love you.’

Could it be, she wondered,
that he was being sincere? Certainly he looked it. He was still a fine looking
man. In an unconscious gesture of affection, she touched his hair; it was
greying now but she could still remember when it was jet black. Quickly she
pulled her hand away. What was she doing? She had witnessed this same
performance so many times, yet here she was again, almost believing he meant
what he said.

‘Do you really?’ she found
herself asking. ‘You know I do.’

Worn out with quarrelling,
they leaned against each other, like two ancient columns in a ruined temple.
How was it possible, she asked herself, to feel anything for him, after all he
had done to her? But she did. Was it what people called love? Or was it
something else, something that had bonded them together over the years almost
without their knowing it?

As they separated, he said, softly,
‘twenty-five years, duchess.

Surely they count for something?’

That brought a response from
deep within her. It seemed he felt much as she did. Perhaps they really did
have something worth saving after all. But then he spoiled everything by
adding, ‘I need you, duchess. If you leave me now, I’m done for. I’ll have to
resign before I’ve even moved into Number 10. What a scandal it would be. What
a disgrace. Don’t walk out on me, please.’