And, so it is, that to those who chronicle such feats, it seems at times that there are either many of him, that he lived for ever, or that he never lived at all.
Be careful in your quest for knowledge.
The road is long and journey perilous.
I know for I have fallen a thousand times in its rocky ditches and sunk ten thousand times in its sulphurous lakes.
Better to live happily with Ignorance than suffer the unrequited love of Knowledge. Remember, Ignorance is the father of Peace and Peace has no prejudice. Both Ignorance and Peace can sow as bountifully in the soils of Deceit as they can in the earths of Honesty.
Bronty lowers the paper and sees Mitzi waiting for his opinion. ‘Without seeing much text it’s difficult to know what to make of this. I could easily jump to foolish assumptions and—’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, Bronty! People got killed for this. Just tell me what you think without all the lawyery cop-out crap.’
‘Okay.’ He holds the paper so she can see it and slides his finger over a line. ‘Here the writer claims to be a sorcerer.’ He stabs another paragraph. ‘And here he expoundsThe Arthurian Cycle and its role in the universe. The author goes on to claim he is the sorcerer who made “the true king”. He says he cast him in the image of man. Created him like a circle of iron that has no beginning and no end.’ He pauses to see if she’s making the connections on her own. ‘Does any of this sound familiar to you?’
‘Yeah, I’m thinking about superheroes, Iron Man in particular and how cute Robert Downey Junior is.’
‘Think God instead of Hollywood.’
‘You’re going to have to explain that to me.’
‘Forget King Arthur for a minute, this is a tale of God the Father — he is the sorcerer, and Jesus Christ the true king. It is about how Jesus was created by a divine power, how he died but never died, how he rose and is still among us. How some people believe in him and others think he’s just the stuff of legend, myth and fairy tale.’
‘Shit. Really?’ Mitzi takes the paper from him. ‘You really see that?’
‘Was Christ not the King of Kings, the one true King?’
She plays devil’s advocate. ‘Not to everyone.’
‘But you get my drift?’
‘Drift a little more, so I’m certain.’
‘Well, perhaps what’s on that memory stick isn’t a stack of stories about some old king and his knights. It could be that Arthur was just another name for Jesus and what you have here, concealed in centuries of code, is an extract from an unknown gospel. Now, think how precious that would be.’
85
Blossom blows across the courtyard as Owain makes his way from Myrddin’s quarters to the main part of the castle.
Ahead of him, lost in thought, is Lance Beaucoup. His head down as he walks, Owain is sure his mind is on Jennifer and what kind of future lies ahead for them.
‘Bonjour,’ he says when only a yard away.
Lance turns in shock. His eyes glisten with guilt. He quickly tries to recover his composure. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t see you there. Good morning, when did you get back from London?’
‘Just in,’ Owain lies. ‘I wanted to make an early start because we have the Blood Line meeting this afternoon.’
Lance glances at his watch. ‘Some of the older members arrived yesterday evening. I heard them talk of going to watch the new recruits training, then a walk down to the lake.’
Owain smiles. ‘It brings back memories for them. As it will for you one day.’
He laughs and relaxes a little. ‘I want to forget my training. All those weeks out in the wild with nothing to eat or drink.’ He pulls a face. ‘Give me a five-star hotel and fine dining any day.’
‘I agree. Though I now have to take care I don’t turn too soft in my older years.’
They walk together along the foot of the castle wall and Lance makes small talk. ‘How were things in London? As chaotic as I imagine?’
‘Almost. The Cabinet is next to useless and the Prince of Wales wanted to see me twice a day for updates on the Eurostar bombing.’
Lance opens a door from the courtyard to the southern wing. ‘An over-interested patron is not always the best thing.’
Owain walks inside. ‘Interest, no matter how intense, is always better than a lack of interest.’
‘Je comprends.’
‘HRH also wants to join our Inner Circle.’
‘Figuratively?’
‘No. He really wants to take part, to get involved.’
Lance stops walking. ‘What did you tell him?’
Owain halts as well. ‘That I would put it forward for consideration.’
‘And are you in favour?’
‘I’m still deciding.’ He starts them walking again. ‘As well as his considerable wealth, which as you know is an important weapon in any war, the prince has enormous domestic and international influence.’
‘Today’s influence turns into tomorrow’s interference.’
‘You may be right.’ Owain changes the subject. ‘Were you with Jennifer last night?’ He lets the question hang until he sees his colleague tense up. ‘Only I called her mobile and she didn’t answer, and I couldn’t get through on the landline.’
Lance has to hide his anxiety. ‘Yes. I saw her for dinner. We were with Myrddin. I didn’t hear any phone call.’
‘How strange.’ He changes his tone. ‘You know that when I am not here, I really count on you looking after her. You realize that, don’t you, Lance?’
His heart thumps hard. ‘I do.’
Owain gives him a hearty shoulder punch. ‘Good man. I knew I could trust you.’
86
The hotel receptionist finishes dealing with an elderly Chinese couple, and then manages a welcoming smile for the smart-suited executive next in line. ‘Hello, can I help you?’
The dark-haired visitor looks at her name badge as he produces his ID. ‘I hope you can, Kata. I’m DCI Mark Warman from the Metropolitan Police. Can I see your manager, please?’
The young Hungarian presses a button beneath the desk. ‘I get him for you.’
‘Thanks.’ He senses a personal nervousness beyond any that his request should have prompted. Fortunately for her, he’s not interested in checking her immigration papers.
A portly man appears, dressed in a brown wool suit that looks at least a size too small. He straightens his tie and introduces himself. ‘Jonathan Dunbar, hotel manager. You asked to see me?’
‘Yes, sir.’ He edges away from queuing guests and is joined by a young woman in her thirties who’s been hanging back. He shows his credentials again. ‘DCI Warman. DS Jackson and I are from SO15, the counter-terrorism unit. We have an interest in two of your guests.’
Dunbar’s face turns pale.
‘Americans,’ adds Jackson. She produces two photographs from inside her lightweight red blazer. ‘The woman is Mitzi Fallon, a brunette in her late thirties. Her colleague is Jon Bronty, a thin man, with chestnut hair.’
‘I’ve seen them,’ he says nervously. ‘They checked in yesterday. They had FBI credentials.’
She smiles understandingly. ‘Credentials aren’t always genuine. Are they here now?’
‘I really don’t know. I’ll have to find out.’
Warman’s eyes grow intense. ‘Don’t tell them we’re here. We don’t want things to get … how shall we say… complicated.’ He opens his jacket slightly, lets Dunbar see the Met-issue pistol in its holster.