I wait another thirty seconds, then walk slowly up to him.
With a shaking hand, I lift the visor. Then I gasp. The eyes haven’t disappeared. They’re still there, bright blue, looking straight into mine.
I back up until I bump into the table behind me. “Who are you?” I demand. “What are you doing inside the suit?”
“I’m a friend,” he says. It’s the first time he’s spoken. His voice is deep and gravelly and makes a shiver run down my spine. “Don’t be alarmed,” he adds.
“Don’t be…” I give a short hysterical laugh. He blinks, and the corners of his eyes crinkle a little as if he’s smiling. I glance down at Merlin, wondering why he’s not barking his head off. He’s sitting in front of the knight, looking up at him with… dare I say it… adoration?
“Can you help me get the helmet off?” The knight moves his arm a little, the one I tied up with rope. It squeaks. “I appear to be restrained.”
“You nearly cut someone’s head off,” I point out. “Twice.” My heart’s racing so fast I think I’m going to pass out.
“They both deserved it.” He squeaks again. “Please? I want to talk to you.”
“You can talk with the helmet on.” I don’t want to go near him.
“It’s hot in here,” he points out.
I don’t know what to say to that. He doesn’t sound like a madman. He sounds calm and lucid. I think it’s me who’s going round the bend.
“Please,” he says again. “I just want to talk.”
I shake my head. “Not until you tell me who you are.”
“All right.” His eyes bore into mine. “I’m Arthur.”
Chapter Seven
I pull out a chair and sit down hurriedly.
“Arthur?” I repeat.
“Yes.” He moves his head inside the helm. “Can you help me take it off now?”
“Arthur who?” I ask him.
“You know me as Arthur Pendragon,” he says.
I stare at him. “The Arthur?”
“The one and only.” The corners of his eyes crinkle again.
“King Arthur?” I clarify. “The one with the round table and Excalibur?”
He shifts, the suit of armour squeaking around him. “I was never a king. I was a warrior. It was a long time ago, and things get twisted over the centuries.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I’ll explain everything,” he promises. “Only, please, can you help me take this helm off?”
His eyes are pleading. Cautiously, I get to my feet. What a load of rubbish. He’s obviously not who he claims—this is some elaborate prank. Resentment flares inside me and makes me lift my chin and glare at him. As if I don’t have enough to cope with this week!
“I’ll take off the helm,” I tell him, “but then I want you to explain yourself.”
“Okay.” His blue eyes watch me as I approach him, and they continue watching as I hold the helm, undo the clip that someone in the museum must have put there to make sure it couldn’t fall off, and then carefully lift it off his head.
I place it on the table and step back. He doesn’t ask me to untie his hand, and I don’t offer.
He smiles. “Hello.”
He has black hair with flecks of grey at the temples, and he’s clean shaven. He has strong features and doesn’t look unlike the bust I’ve seen in the museum of the Roman emperor, Julius Caesar. I think he’s in his mid-thirties.
He’s gorgeous.
I try not to notice. “All right,” I tell him. I feel a little calmer now I can see he’s a real person. “Time for you to explain.”
“It’s difficult to know where to start,” he says.
“How about you begin with why you’re inside the suit of armour in my café?”
He surveys me thoughtfully. I can see he’s thinking about what to say. “It’s complicated,” he says eventually.
“All right. I’ll make it easier for you. How long have you been in there?”
“Inside the suit?” He thinks about it. “About four hundred and eighty.”
“Seconds? Minutes?”
“Years.”
I stare at him. That would mean he’s been inside it since about the time of the English Reformation, when Glastonbury Abbey was suppressed. “What?”
“Well, not technically inside it.”
“You’ve lost me.”
“I don’t quite understand it myself.” A frown flickers on his brow. “My memory is a bit… fuzzy.” He looks away, out of the window into the dark night.
I study his face, with his straight nose, strong jaw, and firm lips. A tingle runs down my spine. But I can’t let myself be taken in by him just because he’s handsome.
“What’s your real name?” I ask.
His blue eyes come back to me. “I told you, it’s Arthur.”
I grit my teeth. “Okay, Arthur. You need to come clean with me, right now, or I’m going to call the police.”
“You can call Imogen if you like,” he says. “I don’t mind. I rather like her.”
My back stiffens. “How do you know about her? Have you been watching us?”
I expect him to deny it, but he says, “Of course. I’ve been watching you since you were born.” He smiles.
I don’t know what to think, what to feel. Coming from any other man, his words would puzzle me, maybe even scare me, but his eyes are so gentle, so full of tender affection that it makes me almost tearful. “I don’t understand,” I tell him, fighting against panic.
“I’ll try to explain,” he says. “About one thousand five hundred years ago, I fought in a battle in which I was mortally wounded.”
“Camlann,” I whisper, forgetting that I don’t believe him. It was supposed to be Arthur’s final battle against the invading Saxons.
He nods. “I was dying. I remember being on the battlefield, surrounded by the bodies of fallen warriors, in terrible pain.” His brow furrows. “Some of my men took me by boat through the marshes to the nearby Isle of Avalon, where my sister lived. She was the high priestess of a coven of witches.”
My jaw drops. “You mean Morgana.”
“Yes. They brought my wife there to be with me. I remember lying in her arms, looking up at her.”
He’s talking about Guinevere. Unbidden, my eyes fill with tears. He notices them, and just smiles.
“Morgana told me she wouldn’t let me die,” he says. “And then she cast a spell…” His gaze slides to the pommel of his sword. “Do you see the metal plate on the pommel?”
“Yes.”
“Unscrew it.”
I stare at him for a moment. The pommel unscrews? I lift a hand and take it in my fingers. Then I try to turn it anticlockwise. It doesn’t move.
“It’s not been undone for hundreds of years,” Arthur says, “it’s a bit stiff. Like me.”
Giving him a wry look, I turn it with more force and then, to my surprise, the top gives and turns in my fingers. It’s like a lid. I unscrew it fully and take it off to reveal the inside of the pommel. It contains a small red gem, about half an inch long, held there by metal claws.
“It looks like a ruby,” I say in awe. “She created a soulstone.”
He studies the way it catches the light. “They originally placed it in the church altar. The Abbey grew up around that old church.”
I’m astounded. “You were there at the foundation of the Abbey?”
His gaze is still fixed on the ruby. “Time meant nothing to me. Years passed, then decades, then centuries. People came to see the place where the mythical King Arthur was supposed to be buried with his queen. And then they came to destroy the Abbey.”
“The Reformation,” I whisper.
“The monks were afraid the king’s men would take the ruby. So they placed it in this sword, with an old suit of armour. The men didn’t look twice at it. I stood at the back of the Abbey for years, until one day they took me to the museum. And then eventually, I came back to you.” His gaze returns to me.<
br />
“Back to me?” I’m confused.
“To my wife.” His eyes are very blue. “Guinevere.”
There’s a long, long silence.
“I’m not Guinevere,” I say eventually.
“It’s your name.”
“My name’s Gwen.”
“It may be a modern translation, but it still has the same origins.”
“I’m not your wife,” I tell him gently. “She died a long time ago.”
“I know. I’ve been waiting for her to be reborn.”
My heart bangs against my ribs. “You’re talking about reincarnation.”
He nods.
I feel a little faint. “You’re saying I’m a reincarnation of Guinevere. The one from the legends.”
“No, the real Guinevere. The wife I adored, and who adored me.” His gaze is firm, brooking no argument. For a moment, I completely believe he was the infamous warrior who held back the invading Saxons for years.
I blink. “That’s crazy!”
“A little, I suppose.”
“A little!” I’m shaking. “How do you know I’m her?”
“You look just like her.” He smiles. “Beautiful as ever.”
“Stop it!” I’m close to tears now. “You appear in my café, inside the suit of armour that’s stood here for years, and you tell me you’re King Arthur and I’m the reincarnation of your dead wife, and I’m supposed to just believe you?”
“I’m not a king.” He doesn’t look alarmed or frustrated. He just says, “But the rest of it is the truth.”
“Even if that is the case, what do you expect is going to happen? Do you think I’m just going to fall into your arms? Declare my undying love for you? Because if so, you’re dreaming.”
His smile fades, and he looks at the floor. The look of disappointment on his face makes me want to cry.
“I can’t listen to this.” I desperately need to get away, to gather my wits.
“You want me to go?” he asks.
I speak without hesitation. “Yes.”
“All right. If you want me to come back, just ask.”
I walk toward the counter, then stop and turn. “And what if—” I stop.
With a racing heart, I stare at the suit of armour. The helm is still sitting on the table, but Arthur is no longer inside the suit.
He’s gone.
I wait for about twenty seconds, then walk up to it. Cautiously, I peer inside it. It’s empty.
My gaze slides to the ruby in the pommel of the sword. It catches the light and glints, almost as if he’s winking at me.
Slowly, I screw the lid of the pommel back, then lift the helm, place it on the suit, and clip it into place. Merlin is still sitting in front of it, but he stands now and whines a little.
“Come on,” I say softly, and he trots after me as I walk behind the counter, collect my coat, and then head out of the back door.
*
For the second time that week, I call in at Beatrix’s house on the way home.
“Hello,” she says when she opens the door. “Oh no, don’t tell me there’s been another murder.”
“No, nothing like that.” I go inside, follow Merlin through to the living room, and hug Max. “But something strange happened tonight.”
“I’ll make tea,” Max says, “and then you can tell us all about it.”
So, over a cup of tea and a chocolate Hobnob, I go through the events of the evening—from discovering the astrological signs in the library, to what happened with the suit of armour.
They both sit and stare at me, their biscuits halfway to their mouths, their jaws dropping in amazement, as I relay my story. When I’m done, I sit there sipping my tea, rather enjoying their stunned expressions, as it doesn’t make me feel quite so foolish.
“Arthur…” Beatrix murmurs. “Well, it’s plausible…”
I laugh. “Seriously?”
“Of course,” she says. “We know that Glastonbury was an island as far back as the Iron Age. You told me there was archaeological evidence for it.”
“Yes, but—”
“And we know that it was almost certainly the Isle of Avalon mentioned in the legends.”
“Yes, I get that, but—”
“It’s Arthur’s resting place,” she says. “It contains the tombs of both Arthur and Guinevere.”
“I can see what you’re saying, although—”
“You’re a witch,” Beatrix states. “You do magic. Why is it so unbelievable that the soul of this ancient warrior has been captured in a soulstone?”
“Arthur,” I state. “King Arthur.”
“You said he vanished from the suit of armour. Just dematerialized. And now you’re trying to convince me he’s not magical in some way?”
“I’m trying to convince myself.” I look down at Merlin. “He just sat in front of the knight and looked up at him adoringly.”
“Dogs have a sixth sense,” Max states. “I read that once.”
I look at my uncle, whose kind face is creased in a frown that shows he’s trying to understand. “Do you think it’s possible?” I ask him.
“I didn’t use to believe in witches. And then I met Beatrix, who can change things with the wave of a brush.” He shrugs. “I’m willing to hear him out.”
“But…” I look down into my teacup. “He said I was the wife he adored, and who adored him. Does he expect me just to fall into his arms and marry him all over again?”
“Was he hot?” Beatrix asks.
“What? I…” My face burns with the heat of a thousand suns.
She tries not to laugh, and I scowl at her, then my lips curve up, and then we’re all laughing. “He was gorgeous,” I admit. “Very handsome. But does that mean I should just throw all caution to the wind?”
“Of course not. We know nothing about him,” Beatrix says. “Well, almost nothing. But if he’s a good man, a decent man, he’ll give you time to get to know him, and he won’t presume you’re his, just because he says so.”
“Guinevere,” Max murmurs, tipping his head to the side as he surveys me. “It makes a lot of sense.”
“Because my name’s Gwen?” I try to make my voice sharp, but I’m not great at sarcasm, and it comes out kind of hopeful.
“It’s an odd coincidence,” Max says, “but that’s not the only thing. You’ve always been fascinated with Arthur, even since you were a little girl.”
“That’s true,” Beatrix adds. “You had that storybook about him that you used to make me read to you over and over again.”
“I don’t remember that.” It’s a lie. I still have it, and I still get it out and read it every now and again. The Tales of King Arthur. It reminds me of my mum, and of my childhood. It’s dog-eared and a little tatty now, but the hand-drawn pictures of Arthur and Guinevere are beautiful.
In them, she has red hair, like me. But it’s just a coincidence.
“He’s the reason you wanted to become an archaeologist,” she reminds me. “You’ve always had a fascination with Glastonbury.”
“That’s because I live there.”
She fixes me with a steady gaze. “I can see how much this has thrown you, and it’s good that you’re wary. Scepticism is healthy. Just make sure you don’t miss out on a wonderful opportunity because you’ve failed to keep an open mind. If he’s telling the truth, and he is Arthur, and you were once his Guinevere, he’s been waiting for you for nearly fifteen hundred years. I’d say that makes him a pretty devoted husband.”
“I…” Words fail me. “But… even if that was the case, there would hardly be a happy ending. He’s imprisoned in a suit of armour. I can’t imagine it leading to a normal life for either of us.”
“He’s imprisoned in the ruby,” she reminds me, “not the suit. I wonder what would happen if you took it out of the sword and had it made into a necklace or something else he could wear?”
My jaw drops. “You really think that would work?”
“I don’t see why not.
The ruby is the key to his presence here. Free the ruby, and I’m convinced you’ll be able to free the man.”
Chapter Eight
“Are you okay?” Cooper frowns at me as I go to deliver his beautiful flat whites with the carefully drawn leaf in the foamed milk to the customer. “That’s the third time you’ve spilled coffee this morning,” he scolds.
It’s the next day, and I’m in the café in body, but not in mind, which is somewhere else completely.
“I’m all fingers and thumbs today.” I smile to cover the fact that my hands are shaking.
“Let me do that,” he says, taking the two coffee cups from me, and he proceeds to take them over to the table by the window. Sighing, I join Delia behind the glass and begin making a fresh batch of muffin mixture.
“He only wants to chat up the girl with the ponytail.” Delia grins and gestures to the brunette that Cooper’s now talking to.
“Aw,” I say, “in that case I’m happy to help.”
She gives me a curious look. “Are you okay, though? Cooper’s right, you do seem a bit jittery.”
“I’m fine. Just didn’t get much sleep, that’s all.” I refuse to look across at the suit of armour. When I got in this morning, Delia was already there, and the suit of armour was empty. I’m guessing Arthur won’t reappear until we’re alone again tonight. There are no blue eyes behind the visor, and yet I’m sure I can still feel him watching me as I bake and stack the cabinet and carry coffees to customers. I’ve been watching you since you were born. The words make me shiver.
But there’s nothing I can do about it, so I try to put him out of my mind.
It’s impossible, of course. He’s all I can think about. He’s the reason why I struggled to sleep last night. He and Beatrix. I thought when I told her about him that she’d be annoyed at his presumptuousness and tell me to stay far away from him. And instead…
If he’s telling the truth, and he is Arthur, and you were once his Guinevere, he’s been waiting for you for nearly fifteen hundred years. I’d say that makes him a pretty devoted husband.
It can’t be true. It just can’t. It’s ridiculous. A fantasy fairy tale I want to believe because it’s incredible and romantic, and it would be lovely to think I’m somehow special. I love my life here, but I’m lonely, and I haven’t even dated anyone since Luke because Mum was ill for so long, so it would be amazing to know the man I’ve been destined to be with has been waiting for me all this time.
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