Percy del Graal, descendant of Sir Percivale, raises his hand. ‘Has NATO been informed, Sir Owain?’
‘They have been appraised. None of the treaty members is stirred enough to send its own troops. Country defence budgets are cut to the bone. We have the tacit approval of the General Secretary.’ He looks around the tables. ‘Any more questions?’
Heads shake.
‘Then, great members of the Blood Line, I respectfully ask you to favour the Inner Circle’s decree in the form of the crusade I proposed. Do I have your support?’
All one hundred and fifty members clench their fists and put hands to their hearts.
‘I thank you one and all.’ Owain dips a quill into an inkpot and records the vote in the great ledger laid before him and adds the date, his name and his own seal. He carefully blots the entry, downs the ancient pen and returns his gaze to the assembled members.
‘Dear friends, there is one other reason why I asked you here today.’ Unexpectedly, he feels emotional. He catches his heart thump and his throat dry. He looks to Myrddin and sees the old man wiping an eye. Across the tables, others are already discreetly touching their faces. Owain forces a brave smile and soldiers on. ‘I see some of you have guessed what I am about to say. The gates of Avalon are opening for me and I am readying myself for that great journey.’ There are gasps but he daren’t look up to put faces to sounds. ‘Today may be the last time I stand here with you, the last chance I have to thank you for your friendship—’
Someone shouts, ‘No! It is too soon.’
He halts the emotion with a raised hand. ‘I wish that were the case. I am afraid, the hour is always later than we think. May God bless you and protect you and your families, and may your blood lines run rich and run long.’
89
Twenty-one-year-old Zachra Korshidi hears them laughing at her as she struggles out of the grocery store.
‘Excuse me, miss. May I speak with you?’
She ignores the smartly dressed man and walks on. All she can think about is how much she hates the burqa and niqab that her parents make her wear. The long sexless cloak and veil are swelteringly hot as she carries the heavy plastic bags along the sidewalk.
‘Just one minute, miss.’ The man walks behind her.
She remembers a time when they let her wear jeans and a T-shirt. When she could cover her hair with a multi-coloured scarf, a nice roosari — but all that’s changed since ‘the boy’.
That’s what her parents called him. Not Javid, or her boyfriend.
The boy.
They said the words like he was a demon. All because they didn’t choose him. Because he was an orphan, with no traditional family, raised in America and full of all the modern values and opinions that they hate.
It’s little wonder she adored him. Loved him with all of her mind, soul and body. And wasn’t afraid to admit it. Privately or publicly.
That was the problem — the final straw.
Admitting to having sex before marriage won’t draw a second glance in New York, but back in Iran, it gets you publicly flogged and possibly executed. And these days, her parents spend most of the time behaving as though they are back in the old country.
She’d have left home and run away with Javid if his younger brother Sadeq hadn’t been in the final stages of leukaemia. Instead, she stayed and her father beat her so badly that for days she was unable to walk.
It was at the same time that Javid disappeared.
He didn’t call or text. He just vanished. He’d either been scared to death or put to death. Either way, she hadn’t heard from him again.
Not seeing him was like the end of her life. She overdosed on her mother’s sleeping pills. After having her stomach pumped at hospital and being told she’d brought even more shame on her family, she was brought home and locked in her bedroom.
Imprisoned.
Then came the chance to redeem herself. To make amends and bring honour back to her family and herself. A glorious suicide instead of a pointless one. That’s how her father put it.
Not surprisingly, when the day came she was frightened. Sick with fear, remorse, regret and rage. Disgusted with the fact that innocent people were going to die along with her. People she had more in common with than her own flesh and blood.
It was a miracle someone else had volunteered.
‘Miss!’
The insistent man is in front of her now. Blocking her way.
He peers into her dark eyes. ‘I’m a friend of the man who saved your life. The man who wore the vest.’
She feels her pulse race and pushes past him.
‘How long will it be, Zachra? How long before they come to you and ask you again? How long, Zachra?’
90
The email on Vicky Cantrell’s computer is from Professor Quinn at the Smithsonian.
Dear Miss Cantrell,
I have now discussed the sketch of your relic with Professor Wilson at Oxford and he concurs with my view that it is Irish Iron Age. He does however think that the shaped endings of the cruciform make it unusual for the time and he believes the hole in the centre of the cross may have been of ceremonial significance.
Professor Wilson told me that he thought it possible that the cross was planted on high ground for prayer in such a way that sunlight might be seen through it. He also mentioned that Celtic legends have great warriors being buried with objects like this that not only showed their faith to mortals coming upon their graves, but also equipped the dead with a holy weapon to fight evil spirits in the afterlife.
I hope this proves to be of value to you.
Yours truly,
Simon Quinn.
Vicky prepares an email for Mitzi and attaches Quinn’s findings. Eleonora Fracci is downtown with the cops on the witchcraft case, so she’s got time to do a bit more digging into the history of Owain Gwyn, his family and company.
She starts with Caledfwlch Ethical Investments and finds the company pre-dates the start of official public records. It’s a generous contributor to more than a dozen British charities, including Natural England, a group that helps the British government manage nature reserves and areas designated as being of special scientific interest.
There are also a number of intriguing connections to the Arthurian legend. Caledfwlch, the company name, turns out to be Welsh for Excalibur and the Gwyn family has large ancestral homes in Wales and Glastonbury, one of the spots where King Arthur and his wife Guinevere were allegedly laid to rest. Glastonbury is the place that Joseph of Arimathea, a central figure in the stories of the Holy Grail, was reputed to have fled to after Jesus had risen from the dead.
Owain’s home in Wales, Caergwyn Castle, is close to the Preseli Mountains and a landmark called Cerrig Marchogion — The Knight’s Stones — another location named as the final resting place of Arthur. The mountains are known for their geology, especially a distinctive bluestone that, according to legend, Arthur’s magician Merlin used to create Stonehenge. Additionally, the ambassador has an extensive personal property portfolio that includes numerous cottages in Tintagel, a south-western town where Arthur is alleged to have been born.