‘We need to.’ Owain takes a long pause before continuing: ‘Gareth, I sense that the next few days will shape our destiny — mine, yours, Lance’s and the Order’s. If for some reason it turns out that I cannot — how shall I say this? — be around, then you and Lance must guide our members until the next of my line is ready to step forward.’
‘Owain, I—’
‘No, please let me finish. You have been like a brother to me, and I love you deeply for all your support, your friendship and loyalty. Consider me foolish and this unnecessary, but I just want to say thank you.’ He leaves no opening for discussion. ‘Now let’s talk no further on this matter; I have cognac to finish and a bed to go to. Goodnight, dear friend, goodnight.’
115
Mitzi’s dreams are filled with flashes of medieval knights on horseback, Irish’s tumbling car and fish.
Millions of tropical fish.
Her daughters are swimming in the San Francisco aquarium with them. They’re all down there together. Horses. Knights. Irish. His trashed car. The Ford’s windows are busted. Fish and her girls are swimming in and out of the holes.
Somewhere above water, back in the real world, a phone rings.
Mitzi breaststrokes an arm out of bed and grabs it. ‘Urmgh,’ is the best she can manage.
‘Good morning, Mrs Fallon. It’s the front desk. There is a driver waiting for you in reception.’
‘What?’
‘A driver, madam. From Sir Owain Gwyn.’
She squints at the bedside clock. 08.55.
‘Crapolla. Tell him I’ll be ten minutes.’
‘Yes, madam.’
She bangs the phone down, flies to the bathroom and quickly showers and dries. A look in the mirror shows her black eyes have morphed into large purple stains. Make-up deadens the ugliness a little but nowhere near enough to completely hide them. She drags a comb through her hair. Attacks it with hairspray. Dresses in black slacks and an unironed grey top, then grabs a jacket and heads downstairs.
The same driver is waiting in reception. The one that says nothing and throws the vehicle around like it’s a cocktail shaker. He smiles and walks outside.
116
It’s rained all night and is still raining when Bronty sticks his head out of the tiny farmhouse where he’s staying. It’s not the kind of warm, light drizzle that makes you feel good to be out in it but torrential rain that soaks you to the skin and leaves you cold and shivering for the rest of the day.
The American hurries to the Marisco Tavern, the island’s only hostelry and a place where a full English breakfast of bacon, eggs, fried bread and mushrooms costs less than a cappuccino in London.
Within minutes, he’s pointed to a man breakfasting in the corner of the tavern’s main bar, a ferryman from the Oldenburg called Dan Smallfellow. The old sailor is a personification of his surname. He’s a tiny sparrow of a man, with a bent back and wisps of white hair that refuse to lie down on his mottled bare skull.
‘So what do you want to know?’ he says, after Bronty has introduced himself. ‘Are you looking for oil, gold or legends? It’s usually one of them things.’
Bronty is amused by his candour. He takes out a copy of the sketch of the cross seen by Sophie Hudson. ‘Does this mean anything to you? Does it have to do with the island?’
Old Dan looks at it and takes a swig of tea. ‘It looks Celtic but different. Like it belonged to a special sect or clan.’ He puts the drawing down. ‘So it’s legends you’re chasing. There are plenty of them here.’
‘Like King Arthur and his knights?’
‘You’re a Yank, aren’t you?’
‘I’m American, yes.’
He takes a bite of toast. ‘And you’re trying to link that there cross with King Arthur and Lundy?’
‘Is it a ridiculous suggestion?’
‘Not at all. There are them that say the island is Avalon — Arthur’s resting place.’
Bronty suspects he’s being strung along. ‘I thought that was supposed to be in England, near Glastonbury?’
‘Propaganda. The English claim it’s in England. The Welsh claim it’s in Wales and the French claim it’s there.’ The ferryman looks at rain hitting the window. ‘They are all liars when it comes to legends. They smell the tourist dollar and lie, lie, lie. Not for nothing is Lundy known as Annwyn, the gateway to the Otherworld.’
Bronty valiantly refrains from launching into a theological lecture about heaven. ‘So if Arthur is here, where exactly would I find his grave?’
Old Dan slurps more tea before answering. ‘That would be a secret, wouldn’t it? Think of how King Richard the Third’s bones lay for centuries beneath common ground in Leicester; perhaps King Arthur lies out here in an unmarked grave.’ There’s a sparkle in his eyes. ‘Go and visit the Giants’ Graves or the Celtic Stones — you might find him there. Or, look out to sea and figure if he were rowed out from shore and laid to rest with the fish and sunken ships.’
‘I get the feeling you’re making fun of me.’
He shakes his head. ‘I’m not ribbing you. Everything is possible on Lundy. It’s a place of magic. The longer you stay here the more you’ll find I’m right.’
117
Deer mooch at the edge of a copse of beech then scatter as a speeding Range Rover breaks the morning peace. Hares and rabbits skittishly head for cover. Fat sheep rise from slumber and plod damp morning grass.
The 4x4 stops by the main entrance.
Mitzi’s out of the back before the driver can walk round to her door. She flaps it shut and without looking round, heads towards the castle.
‘You’re the American, aren’t you?’
The deep male voice has come from nowhere.
She turns and is startled to see an old man, shrouded in long white hair, straggly beard and full-length black coat.
‘Holy friggin’ hell! Where did you come from?’
‘I am Myrddin.’ His skinny hand levitates towards hers. ‘It is my pleasure to have encountered you.’ His eyes roam her face and he remembers his vision at the Font of Knowledge — two women, one known, one a complete stranger. Both in danger. Both will see death.
She takes a long stare into his pale green eyes as she shakes his hand. ‘Mitzi Fallon. In future, you should go easy with your surprise encountering.’
‘Eyes tell you very little,’ he says, disarmingly. ‘If you are searching for the true nature of a person you should look instead to their mouth. The lips and tongue are the slaves of the brain; they are stupid and far more likely to make mistakes than the eyes.’
Unwittingly, she shifts her attention to his mouth. The teeth are plentiful, well-shaped and unstained. The lips youthful, plump and moist. All features more fitting a far younger man.
In return, Myrddin pointedly studies her. ‘Your mouth is well used to truth. You are a good person, but it is not right that you are here.’
‘I’m sorry, what did you say?’
‘You seek the men who entered the Cave of Past and Present, those who slayed the Keeper of Time—’
‘I seek what?’
‘—you pursue them and also the silent brown beast that carries the disciples of Death.’
‘Aah.’ She gets it now. The poor old guy has a screw loose. ‘Very nice to have met you, Mervyn.’ She smiles politely and shakes his hand again. ‘I have to go now and see Sir Owain in the real world, you take care.’