The Call of Destiny (The Return of Arthur Book 1) (41 page)

There was a crack of thunder.
In a way it was a relief. The storm had been brewing for a long time, ever
since they made him Foreign Secretary in fact. The cat jumped and ran for
shelter. The few pedestrians in Whitehall disappeared as the merciless rain
lashed tarmac and paving stones. Rats leaving the sinking ship, thought Uther.
Everyone runs for cover when the rains come.

One more drink left in the
bottle. As he tossed it back the sweat was already streaming down his face. A
sharp pain stabbed the inside of his left arm, the glass fell from his hand.
Throwing back his head he fought for breath, gulping in air. His throat seized
up and he started to choke as the room spun round him. A vice-like pain gripped
his chest, squeezing the life out of him. Folding to his knees he laid his
forehead on the carpet and drifted into unconsciousness.

 The resignation of the Prime Minister was
banner headlines in the morning papers, prompting endless speculation.
Journalists, by nature sceptical, had difficulty taking so sudden and dramatic
an announcement at its face value. The PM’s letter mentioned health problems
but gave no details. Some columnists suspected that the real problem was not
the PM’s health but powerful enemies in the New Millennium Party. Had there
been a palace revolution? More titillatingly newsworthy, he was rumoured to be
fond of the ladies. Was this a pre-emptive move to head off a sex scandal? But
when, a few hours later, the news of Uther’s heart attack broke, the doubters
were silenced. Uther was popular with the electorate, and there was
considerable interest in the details. How soon would he recover? Would he
recover at all? At first the cardiac infarction was reported to have been a
mild one. But as the day wore on and the doctors’ bulletins grew more cautious,
press and TV reports assumed an increasingly

valedictory note, as if they were premature
obituaries.

For the political hacks there
was only one issue. If it came to it, who would step into Uther Pendragon’s
shoes? Candidates for the succession rushed into TV studios. Their message was
invariably the same. First, they expressed earnest regret that the Prime
Minister’s health had compelled him to resign. Second, they professed total
optimism that he would make a full recovery. Third, they stressed their
unequivocal disinterest in succeeding him. And fourth and last, they hinted how
eminently qualified they were should they be compelled to answer the call.

Towards evening Uther waved
Igraine and his step-daughters out of the hospital room. He wanted to be alone
with Arthur.

‘The doctors say you’re doing fine,’ said
Arthur.

‘Doctors are even bigger liars
than politicians.’ Uther reached out and patted his son on the arm. ‘Thank you
for your concern.’

‘I blame myself for this.’

‘You did what you had to do.
You were not to know my ticker was going to give out.’

‘A few weeks rest and you’ll be back to
normal.’

A wicked smile. ‘Normal is one thing I shall
never be.’

Uther lay back on his pillow
and closed his eyes. Arthur could scarcely believe the change in his father.
Yesterday he was a man in his prime, still fighting, still seeing off his
critics with disdain, still answering questions on the floor of the House with
his customary confidence and flair. Under attack he had stood tall and proud,
as he always did, his colour high, his voice strong and vibrant. Now his face
was ashen, his voice weak. Twenty-four hours ago his hair had been charcoal
grey. Now suddenly it was white. In one day Uther Pendragon had become an old
man.

‘Cigar,’ demanded Uther. ‘You
really think you should?’

Uther snorted irritably. ‘Of
course I bloody shouldn’t. Inside jacket pocket and be quick about it.’

Arthur grinned. ‘I can see
you’ll be giving the nurses trouble.’ He clipped the end of a huge cigar and
put it carefully in his father’s mouth.

As the match flared, Uther’s
nostrils twitched. ‘Always liked the smell of sulphur.’ He winked at Arthur.
‘Something to look forward to.’

For a while he lay puffing
contentedly, then thrust the cigar at Arthur to dispose of. ‘Last cigar I shall
ever smoke, and I can’t even finish it. Sod it!’

‘You’ll be Cuba’s best customer for years to
come,’ said Arthur confidently.

In the corner of the room was
a TV set, switched on, but with the sound turned down. The appearance of a man
he loathed threw Uther into a sudden rage. ‘Anthony Jarvis, the obsequious
turd, the devious scumbag!’

‘You want me to turn up the volume, father?’

‘What for? I know exactly what
he’s saying. He’s saying he can’t wait for me to get better. Lie! The truth is
he can’t wait for me to die. He’s denying he’s a candidate for the succession.
Lie! He would sell his kids, his wife and mother too for a shot at Number 10.
Look at that nauseating smile.’ Pushing himself up, Uther shouted at the
screen, ‘They’re yellow, Tony! Get them capped!’ and fell back, panting.
Moments later he was directing his rage at the screen again. ‘Who gave you your
first job? Whatever happened to loyalty, arsehole?’

He began to cough
uncontrollably, a rasping, pitiful sound. Arthur held the cup of water to his
lips. Uther took a couple of sips and lay back, exhausted. ‘That man claims to
be my friend. I have no friends.’

‘You have many friends,’ Arthur assured him.

‘The Prime Minister has many
friends. Uther Pendragon has none. Watch out, Arthur. The House of Commons is a
dangerous place. It’s not your enemies you need to worry about, it’s your
friends. Your enemies sit opposite you where you can keep an eye on them. Your
friends sit behind you and stab you in the back. Take a tip from me, be on your
guard. It’s always the ones you trust most who betray you.’

The words were not aimed at
Arthur, though they might well have been. He had done what had to be done, but
that did not make it any easier to live with. A chip off the old block, Uther
had said, and he was right. His father’s mind was wandering, his thoughts far
away now. ‘I have done such things, Arthur . . . bad things.’

‘I doubt if anyone can look back on their lives
without some regrets,’ said Arthur consolingly.

‘True, very true.’ Uther
leaned towards him and whispered hoarsely, ‘Do you believe in Judgement Day?’

‘In a way.’ ‘This is mine.’

‘You mustn’t think like that.
You must concentrate on getting better.’ Right or wrong, his father had always
seemed so unassailable to Arthur. And here he was so vulnerable, so ill, so
desperately ill, his skull protruding through the flesh. It was almost too much
to bear, the more so since it was he who had put him here. He wanted to put his
arms round him and tell him that everything was going to be alright. ‘I love
you, father.’

Uther chuckled, ‘Thank God for
that. Think what you might have done if you had hated me.’

Arthur gave a wry smile.

‘Where did it go?’ asked
Uther. ‘Life. Where did it go? I want it back. Just as I’m beginning to
understand what it’s all about, it’s over. Absurd, isn’t it? I never dreamt
this would happen to me. All those years that old man with the scythe was
trailing me without my knowing it. And now he’s finally caught up with me.’ A
wheezy laugh. Uther’s eyes were suddenly fiercely focused. What was he thinking
of? ‘I have something to confess.’

‘Yes, father?’

‘Your mother’s first husband .
. . ’ ‘Godfrey Whittaker.’

‘They say he shot himself.’
Uther’s voice was stronger now, his eyes feverishly intense. Trembling fingers
dug into his temples as if he were trying to root out a painful cancer.

‘Shall I send for someone,
father?’ ‘Who?’

Arthur hesitated. ‘A priest?’

‘A priest!’ Uther was
outraged. ‘Why would I want a damned priest?’

‘I don’t know what your religious beliefs are,’
said Arthur. ‘We never talked about things like that. I just thought you might
want to . . . ’ How to put it?

‘Might want to what?’ asked
Uther suspiciously. ‘Ask God’s forgiveness.’

‘God? God! It’s none of his
bloody business! It’s my son’s forgiveness I’m asking for.’ Uther grasped
Arthur’s hand in a surprisingly powerful grip. ‘Godfrey wouldn’t give your
mother a divorce. He would have dragged us through the courts. It would have
been a huge scandal. He wanted to blacken your mother’s name. And mine.’

‘I don’t have to hear this.’
‘But I have to tell you.’

Arthur shook his head. ‘No,
father, you don’t.’ ‘Won’t you forgive a dying man?’

‘It’s not for me to forgive you,’ said Arthur.

‘Who can forgive me, then?’
asked Uther plaintively. ‘Igraine, your wife.’

Uther’s grip tightened. ‘If
you won’t forgive me, at least listen to me. Hear my confession.’

Arthur knew what his father
was about to tell him. He had known it since first he met him, though until
this moment he had never been able to admit it to himself.

‘Godfrey didn’t commit
suicide. I killed him. I shot him. There was a bang, and he dropped dead. The
most amazing thing. That’s all there is to a man’s life. Bang. And it’s over.’
He peered anxiously at his son. ‘You can’t forgive me, I can see it in your
eyes. No one can.’ Uther’s attention now seemed concentrated on the sheet
covering his bed. Over its surface his frail hands wandered, flattening out the
creases compulsively. But for every crease he smoothed away, another one
appeared.

Arthur was reluctant to ask
the question, though it was one that needed answering. ‘Did she know? Did
Mother know?’

Uther gave no sign of having
heard him. ‘It was soon after we married,’ he said, his eyes wandering, his
trembling fingers scrabbling at the sheet. ‘We were in a restaurant in the
South of France. This young fellow stopped at our table and handed her a rose,
a red rose. Then he gave a little bow and walked on. She was so happy, and I
was so jealous. How I loved her.’

‘Did she know, father?’ asked
Arthur again. ‘Know what?’

‘That you killed Godfrey.’

A long silence. ‘I never asked her.’

For a time the only sound in
the room was the steady beep of the heart monitor.

‘
Peccavi
,’ said
Uther. ‘I have sinned. How many times have

I said that? First time I ever
meant it.’ They had all sinned, thought Arthur. His sister’s sin was his sin;
his father’s sin was his sin. Could anyone escape their destiny? ‘I was always
an ambitious man, Arthur. Ruthless too. Anyone who stood in my way was my
enemy. Before you were born, Merlin told me I would have a son. He made a
prophecy. One day, he said, your son will overthrow you.’

Arthur stared at his
father. ‘So
that’s
why you wanted me

adopted.’

‘I never wanted you adopted,’
said Uther remorsefully, ‘I wanted you dead. I was afraid of my own son. It was
your mother who saved your life. Don’t ever forget that. When you came back to
me years later I was happy to see you, but I was still afraid of you. I was
certain that sooner or later Merlin’s prophecy would be fulfilled. And now it
has been. It was written, Arthur.’ Something in the corner of the room drew
Uther’s attention. In his father’s eyes Arthur saw what he had never thought to
see – a look of terror. Summoning his last reserves of strength, the dying man
raised himself up, staring intently at the television monitor.

‘What is it, father?’ ‘There!’

‘I don’t see anything.’ ‘He’s
come for me!’

‘Who? Who is it?’

‘For God’s sake, man, don’t
you see!’ Uther pointed a trembling finger. ‘Look there!’

‘There’s no one there.’

‘Is it you, Godfrey? God
forgive me.’ As the pain erupted in Uther’s chest he opened his mouth to cry
out, but no sound came. In the final moment of agony his body arched up from
the bed and his eyes rolled in their sockets. Falling back, the last of his
life slipped away in a long shuddering sigh.

 The man who had lived so long in the
public eye was buried privately in the churchyard of Brackett village. Igraine
stood by the graveside, her face obscured by a veil; Margot, elegantly
beautiful in a black couture dress, was flanked by her husband, Lennox, and
their five sons; Arthur stood a little apart amongst a group of friends and a
sprinkling of politicians.

Where were Elaine and Morgan he wondered.

As Arthur left at the end of
the short service, a policeman was waiting for him by the entrance to the
cemetery. ‘Good afternoon, sir.’ The policeman saluted.

‘Good afternoon. Can I help you?’

‘It won’t take a moment, sir.’
The policeman beckoned Arthur to follow him.

‘What’s it all about?’ said
Arthur as the policeman hurried off. One or two friends and several politicians
were looking at him curiously. ‘Caught up with you at last, have they, Arthur?’
a member of New Millennium’s cabinet shouted, to the amusement of several
guests.

In the police car a plain-clothes policeman in
the back seat leaned across, opened the door and gave an awkward salute. ‘Jump
in, sir.’ As Arthur shut the door behind him the car moved off slowly. ‘Won’t
keep you a minute, sir.’ The policeman held out a hand. ‘Detective Inspector
Warren.’ Leaning back he ordered the driver to drive somewhere quiet. As the
car drew into a lay-by Arthur waited for an explanation ‘I’m afraid I have some
bad news for you, Mr. Pendragon. It concerns one of your sisters, or
half-sisters, I believe.’ Arthur’s heart missed a beat.

‘I’m sorry to have to tell
you,’ said the D.I., ‘that Elaine Pendragon is dead. My sincere condolences.’

Arthur’s first thought was for
his mother. ‘Does Mrs Pendragon know?’

‘Not yet, sir. I am talking to
you first, because the Chief Constable would like you to be the one to break
the sad news to Mrs. Pendragon before the press gets hold of it.’

‘When did this happen?’ ‘Last
night, sir,’ said the D.I.

Strange.‘Why haven’t we heard about it before?’

The policeman chose his words
carefully. ‘There are unusual circumstances, sir.’

Arthur was rapidly losing
patience. ‘Get to the point, man.’ ‘As you probably know, Miss Pendragon was
playing Peter Pan in Huddersfield.’ Arthur nodded. Morgan had suggested they go
up to see Elaine, but he had not been able to find the time. ‘She was flying
across the stage on the wire when she fell.’

The D.I. lowered his voice
discreetly. ‘She broke her neck. Died instantly.’

‘My God. What a tragedy,’ said
Arthur, ‘what a terrible accident.’

Detective Inspector Warren
studied a herd of grazing cows. ‘It wasn’t an accident, sir.’

It took a moment for Arthur to
take that in. ‘What was it, then?’

The policeman did not answer
the question directly. ‘Elaine’s sister, Morgan, she was in the theatre at the
time. In the wings, to be precise.’

Arthur was torn. Still
impatient for the policeman to get to the point, he now dreaded to think what
that might be. ‘Surely you are not suggesting that Morgan was somehow involved
in Elaine’s death, inspector?’

‘Apparently there’d been a running feud with
the producer,’ said Warren, ‘all through rehearsals.’ ‘What about?’

The Inspector did not know
where to look. ‘Morgan wanted Elaine to play Peter Pan without a wire.’

Oh, no. Not that. Poor Elaine,
thought Arthur. Poor Elaine, poor demented Morgan.

‘She went on and on about it.
Wouldn’t give up. Obviously the producer refused to play ball.’ The Inspector
lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply, smoke trickling from each side of his
mouth. ‘He knew Morgan was upset, of course, but as far as he was concerned
that was all there was to it. Never thought for a second she would do anything
bad.’

‘So the police think that
Morgan . . . ’ Arthur left the rest unsaid.

‘There’s no think about it,
sir. The harness was tampered with.’

‘How can you be sure it was
her?’ asked Arthur, though he knew it had to be.

‘All the evidence points that
way. And anyway, she confessed. Said she was convinced Elaine could fly, so she
didn’t need a wire.’

‘What will happen?’

‘Obviously there was no intent
to kill, so it isn’t murder. Technically it’s manslaughter. But under the
circumstances . . . ’ The inspector left the rest unsaid. He and Arthur stared
at each other.

‘She’ll be referred for
psychiatric examination,’ said Arthur. ‘I think that’s the likely outcome,
sir.’ The policeman tapped the driver on the shoulder and the car moved off.
‘Drop you anywhere?’

‘The cemetery, please. I left
my car there.’ ‘You’ll be telling Mrs. Pendragon?’

Arthur nodded. Dear God. As if
his mother hadn’t had enough for one day. ‘Yes.’

After the funeral service Igraine stood at the
sitting room window staring with blank eyes, seeing neither the gardens, nor
the tree-lined driveway, nor the crowd at the end of it. All she could see in
her mind’s eye was the gaping grave and the black figures clustered round. All
she could hear was the silken voice of the vicar and the dreadful thud of earth
on coffin. Uther was dead. Yet so powerful was her sense of his presence, that
standing there in her widow’s weeds, she half expected him to slip his arm
through hers and whisper in her ear, ‘You don’t really think I’m dead, do you,
duchess? It was all a game, you know, one of my little tricks. I shall never be
able to forgive myself. What a thoughtless piggy I am. My fault entirely.
Mea
culpa.’

She pictured him smiling that
charming smile of his, gazing at her adoringly, making her feel, if only for a
moment, that she was the only woman in the world. She wanted to kiss him, and
she wanted to scratch his eyes out. With a start she remembered where she was,
becoming aware of the crowd still assembled at the gates to pay her husband
homage. How ironic, she thought, that Uther’s best friends were the ones who
scarcely knew him at all.

Silence enveloped her . . . It
was that bitter-sweet summer of ’93. Uther had invited her down for the weekend
to see his grand new house. He confessed he had bought it, furnished and
decorated it all for her, and that in fact Brackett Hall was hers, as he was
too, and always would be. He had known how to do things in the grand manner. If
she would not be his wife, he had said, he would never marry.
Brackett Hall
will be my Xanadu.
I
shall
be
a
solitary
old
bachelor
and
dine
alone
every night
at the head of a long empty
table.

But it was her, not him, who
would be dining alone now. She had lost two husbands, Godfrey and Uther, so
alike in looks, so different in temperament and character. Godfrey had loved
her, though she had never loved him. She had loved Uther, though he had never loved
her. In the end, though, it had made no difference, for he was still the most
exciting man she had ever met.
And with my dying breath I shall whisper one
word
–
not Rosebud but Igraine.
And now he was gone. Never again
would he make her pulse race with anger or desire. He had murmured his last
words of love, paid his last compliment, told his last lie, smiled his last
dissembling smile.

She had tried not to love him,
she had wanted not to love him. She had told herself that if you didn’t feel,
you could never be hurt, so that all she had to do was not allow herself to
feel. That had proved impossible. The truth was, she could hardly remember a
time when marriage to Uther had been anything but painful. Life, she thought,
was hard for everyone, but harder, much harder for the ones who feel.

Leaning back on the sofa she
dozed, dreaming that Uther was alive. Half asleep, half awake, she heard that
domineering voice in the hall outside telling one of the servants off. He was
coming this way. In a moment he would be here, filling the room with his
powerful presence. There was a knock on the door. She jumped up, her heart
beating fast. Was it him? Was it really him?

Arthur came into the room and
gently took her hand. ‘Can we talk, mother.’

On his way out, the library
door was open. Arthur looked in and saw Margot standing by the bay window on
the same spot and in the same pose as the first time they had met as brother
and sister. The evening sun lit her face with a soft, golden light. The years
had been kind to her, thought Arthur; she was as beautiful as ever she was.
Turning as he entered she looked at her brother, a suggestion of a smile
disturbing her lovely mouth. ‘I shall put this moment in a cupboard and lock it
up,’ she said softly. ‘And when I’m old and grey, I shall take it out and look
at it.’

‘What is it you want, Margot?’ he asked her.

The familiar pout. ‘Darling Arthur. You’ve been
neglecting me.’

‘I know all your tricks. You’re wasting your
time.’

She turned on him that
reproachful look he knew so well. ‘Please don’t scold me, darling. I do so hate
being scolded.’ Moving close, she brushed a piece of cotton from his shoulder,
an assumption of intimacy that he found disturbing. ‘You loved me once.’

‘We have been through all that
a long time ago. Why bring it up now?’

‘Because it’s true.’

‘I thought I loved you,’ he
said. ‘But it wasn’t you I loved. It was someone who didn’t exist.’

‘Oh, but I do exist, Arthur,’
she said, with a mischievous smile. ‘What must I do to prove it?’

‘I have to go.’

‘You are being tiresome. Who
cares about your silly politics? I haven’t seen you for ages.’ He could feel
the warmth of her body against his. ‘I’ve missed you so terribly. Have you
missed me? No? Not even just a little, Arthur? Just the teensiest bit?’

‘Margot, forgive me. I have to
get back to town.’ He tried to move to the door but she took his hand in both
of hers. ‘I adore your hands.’

‘Behave yourself,’ he said sternly.

‘My God,’ she said, ‘you sound
just like Lennox. You can’t imagine what a bore he is, boring, boring, boring.
If they handed out Oscars for the borer of the year that man would have a
houseful by now. Can’t imagine what I ever saw in him. And now that his
business is going down the drain he’s even more boring than ever. He walks
round the house with those pleading puppy-dog eyes of his. What does he want of
me?’

‘Sympathy? Moral support?’ suggested Arthur.

A peevish twitch of the mouth.
‘More scolding? Really, Arthur, you should have been a schoolmaster.’ Again he
made to leave. ‘Please don’t go.’ She laid her hand on his arm in gentle
appeal. ‘Did you make your peace with my stepfather?’

‘Yes.’

‘I didn’t,’ she said lightly,
turning a pirouette. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be.’ She stamped her
foot. ‘I loathed him. He was a pig.’

‘This is hardly the time,
Margot,’ said Arthur. ‘We just buried him.’

A disdainful look. ‘Blessed
relief.’ ‘He was our father.’

‘Yours, precious, not mine. He
was my stepfather.’ She smiled a coquettish smile. ‘More’s the pity.’

He took the bait. ‘What does that mean?’

‘Think of it, my darling,’ she
cooed. ‘If he had been my father, you would have been my brother, not just my
half- brother.’ Margot shivered with excitement. ‘How piquant, how delicious.’
The tip of her tongue moistened her lips. ‘Think what fun we might have had.’
Her dark eyes engaged his provocatively.

He turned away. ‘You’re too much, Margot.’

It was as if she had not heard
him. ‘Dear Uther,’ she said dreamily, ‘how he adored little girls. He certainly
adored me. Always called me his own little angel.’

Arthur frowned. ‘What are you
suggesting?’ ‘It was not my wings he was interested in.’

‘Uther would never harm a
child,’ said Arthur dismissively. Margot smiled sweetly. ‘I never said he did,
now did I? No, he was much too clever for that. He had other ways of getting
his kicks.’

‘I refuse to listen to this,’
said Arthur, angry now. But he could not bring himself to leave.

‘When I was a little girl,’
continued Margot dreamily, ‘my step-father would invite men round to the house
and make me sit on their knees; young men, old men, good-looking men, ugly men,
fat men, thin men, all sorts of men. But they all had one thing in common; they
were randy bastards. He liked to watch when they put their hands up my skirt
and did things to me. He would get very excited. Very excited indeed, if you
know what I mean.’

Arthur shook his head in
disbelief. ‘Why have you never mentioned this before?’

‘I was afraid of him. Now he’s
dead, he can’t scare me any more.’

‘He can’t defend himself either.’

‘There was this gardener,’
said Margot, ignoring the comment. ‘His name was Martin. One day Uther fired
him, no one knew why. The very next day he hired a young man. Tom, his name
was. Martin was getting on but he was still a good gardener. Tom knew nothing
about gardens.’

‘I don’t want to hear this, Margot.’

She went on taunting him.
‘Don’t you want to know what sort of man your father really was? He
was
your
father, after all. You might be more like him than you know,’ she said with an
insinuating smile.

‘Say what you have to say and let me go.’

‘I must have been ten or
eleven. One day when I was walking in the garden, Tom dragged me into a shed
and raped me. When I told Uther, he warned me not to say a word to anyone. If I
did, he would back Tom, and everyone would know I was a liar. Mother would die
of shame, and the family would be disgraced. What was I to do? I kept quiet. I
stayed away from the garden. For a time nothing happened. Then Tom came looking
for me. After that he raped me dozens of times. And every time he did, Uther
watched.’