Cupid's Arrow

by Isabelle Merlin

  I found the notebooks in a corner, in a pile labelled 'Avallon'. There were various guidebooks to the region, dusty-looking books about archaeological digs in the area, a pamphlet called Avallon Gallo-Romain, which was about Avallon in Gaulish and Roman times, and a paperback book, in English, called The Discovery of King Arthur, by a guy called Geoffrey Ashe. I turned it over. 'Did King Arthur of legendary fame really exist?' the blurb asked me. 'This question has haunted the popular imagination for centuries.' Okay, I thought, but not mine. I put the book down, and pulled out the first notebook from the bottom of the pile.

  Mum was right. It was all just notes for books. Pretty random stuff too. Didn't make sense, a lot of the time, if you ask me. You'd think writers would need to plan their books pretty carefully or else they'd get confused, but that must not have been the case with Raymond. He was all over the place, with cryptic kinds of things like 'remember the letter comes the next day' or 'CS – black hair, PT – blond', or 'when he gets back from the war, she's disappeared', those sorts of things. The only clue as to what he was talking about was dates – he dated every entry – but no mention of what books were called, or anything like that. If Wayne Morgan was really planning a book about Raymond Dulac's writing, based on his notebooks, he'd have an uphill battle, that's for sure!

  I flipped through several more notebooks. It was in the seventh one I looked at that I found two or three sketches of a knight and a woman, standing on a forest path. I picked up the dream book and compared. Yes, those awkward, rather clumsy sketches were definitely Raymond's. Then, as I was flipping through the notebook to see if there were any more, I came across a passage that was much more together than anything else I'd seen so far. And it was an account of a dream, dated just over a year ago. It was in French, unlike the dream book.

  I am in the woods. I am me but not me. I am wounded. Badly. I am carried on a (here I puzzled at the word he used – litière – not sure what it meant, but some sort of stretcher, maybe?). I will die soon. I know that. It is silent. My men hurry. My men? Then I must be someone important. I feel my spirit ready to leave. Then we arrive at a place. Tall grey walls. A woman standing at the gate. Beautiful, dressed all in white. I ask where we are. Someone says, 'Oh great king, we are at the Lady's House.'

  And then I wake. I know that I have been granted this vision for a reason. It is there that I must look first.

  I stared at the entry, my heart thumping. The Lady's House! Once again, I felt as if his presence was so close to me, as if he was there, trying to show me something. I reread the entry. What had he been looking for at the Lady's House? Had he found it? I flipped through the rest of the book. There was no more about the Lady's House, or the dream, or anything. I read over the dream again. Who had he been in the dream? Someone had called him a 'great king', and he was obviously mortally wounded. Then I almost cried out loud as I realised what a thicko I was. Of course. He'd been dreaming he was King Arthur. The legends said he'd been mortally wounded in a battle with his treacherous son Mordred, and that he'd been taken to the Isle of Avalon, where his enchantress sister Morgana and her ladies would look after him – was the Lady of the Lake one of them, or was that another name for Morgana? I wasn't sure. Anyway, he was supposed to disappear then from all human knowledge. Some people said he still slept in that place, sleeping off his wounds, and that he would rise from his sleep if ever Britain needed him.

  But this wasn't Britain. This was France. Okay, so maybe Raymond Dulac was convinced the 'real Arthur', if such a person existed, had vanished somewhere near Avallon. But that didn't mean it was true. It especially didn't mean that you'd find clues as to his fate at the Lady's House. That was all too weird. But I couldn't help my scalp and hands prickling with excitement. What if he had found something? Maybe the tomb of the great king? Or something belonging to him? Something that proved, for sure, that he had existed?

  I might not be all that interested in King Arthur but millions of people out there were. Mum had said once that the legend of King Arthur was the biggest and most important legend of the West. If it was true, and not just a legend, then there would be a worldwide sensation. The person who found it would be famous. There'd be headlines in papers all over the world. TV crews. The place would be overrun by tourists and pilgrims and weirdos in no time, like Glastonbury. Hell, much bigger than Glastonbury, probably. Was this what Wayne Morgan suspected? Was this why he'd turned up so quickly, why he wanted to get his hands not only on the notebooks but on the house, because he thought Raymond had discovered something really big, something he wanted to claim himself?

  Feverishly, I rummaged through the next notebook, the most recent one there. Nothing. Or, at least, nothing but notes about books. And not books about discovering King Arthur's tomb, either. Or whatever it was he thought he might find. Did he have any diaries, I wondered. How could I find out? I went to the shelves and looked carefully in between the books that were left there – not many – and behind them. Nothing. Maybe he might have kept his diary in his study or his bedroom? I'd have to have a look.

  I picked up The Discovery of King Arthur. If I was going to find out anything, maybe I had to have at least a bit of a clue as to who this 'real King Arthur' supposedly was. Or had been. I flipped through it. There was lots of stuff about the background of ancient Britain, Arthur in literature, lots more like that, but in a chapter called 'New Discoveries', I found what I was looking for. Apparently, a Roman historian called Jordanes mentioned a British king he called Riothamus – which the author said just meant 'High King' in Latin – who in the fifth century, when the Roman Empire was falling apart, went across the sea with a body of men to Brittany, where he picked up a lot more troops and marched in aid of the Romans, who were fighting the Gothic barbarians in Gaul. He was successful at first but then he was betrayed by one of the Romans, called Arvandus, was defeated by the Goths, and fled with the remains of his army across France to Burgundy, where he had friends. Avallon lay on the line of march for him, and Avallon was an important town at the time and well-defended. It was there that he disappeared from history.

  Riothamus had certainly been a real person. He was mentioned not just in Jordanes' history, but also in a letter of the time and in a book about the life of some saint. Geoffrey Ashe, the author, said that no-one knew what his given name had been, but that it could have been Arthur. Or that maybe that name had come from some other story and been grafted on to the story of the real British High King who disappeared in Avallon. Anyway, that's what it sounded like.

  I flipped through the rest of the book, trying to find out if there had been any attempt to do any archaeological investigation as to where Riothamus might be buried, or whether there had been anything found anywhere near Avallon that was linked to him. But there was nothing about it, just stuff about the legend itself and how it had grown, and I wasn't really interested in that. I then looked at the pamphlets and books about archaeological digs near Avallon but there was nothing about King Arthur or Riothamus. Maybe the archaeologists didn't know about it? Or maybe, I thought, they don't believe it. Or being scientists, in a way, they can't go looking for a legendary king because it might look bad. Still. Mum had told me once about some German guy back in the nineteenth century who'd been obsessed with finding Troy. But everyone thought it was just a legend and there was no such thing as a real Troy. They'd laughed at him and told him he was a loony, but guess what? He'd gone out to this place, which is in Turkey I think, and he'd actually found the remains of Troy and proved it was a real city and that it wasn't just out of the imagination of the storytellers of Ancient Greece. They'd taken a real place, a real war, a real story, and made it into something bigger and better and more exciting and more magical, because that's what writers did when they were inspired by things. Maybe it was the same with King Arthur, only even more so, because there were all those millions of extra characters, like Merlin the magician, and Morgana and the knights and the quest for the Grail and the love story of Lancelot and Guin
evere and all the rest of it.

  I was just about to get up and go to see if I could get into Raymond's study without being sprung, when the door opened and Mum walked in, with Wayne Morgan behind her. She stared at me. 'What are you doing?'

  'Just having a look at the books. They're really interesting, aren't they?' I moved away quickly from the 'Avallon' pile and picked up a book at random from a nearby pile. Mum looked at me suspiciously, which wasn't exactly surprising, because the book I'd picked up was a handbook on the tarot, and she knew what I thought about tarot. But it was still not a bad thing to have laid my hand on, because it triggered a memory, something I thought she'd be interested in, and which would divert her from wanting to know what I'd really been doing. 'Mum, guess what? You know the Lady of the Lake Tarot that Raymond gave you? Well, Remy's mother painted it.'

  'Remy's mother? Oh, that boy you told me about. Is that where you were? Really, you could have –' She glanced at the blandly smiling Morgan, who was discreetly looking at a book he'd picked up. 'Anyway, never mind.'

  'Mum, did you hear me?' I said, patiently. 'It was Valerie Gomert who painted the figures in that tarot.'

  'Really? That's great. I really will have to meet her one day and thank her for it. But was she ... was she okay? I mean, from what Marie Clary said –'

  'I think Marie's just prejudiced,' I said. 'I mean, because they're alternative-type people, you know. Valerie's really nice, Mum, you should see her house, it's beautiful, and she's such a good artist.'

  'I've seen her work around the place,' said Wayne Morgan, raising his head from the book he'd been pretending to study. 'There is a magic and spiritual energy to it that is quite exceptional. But then she must get nourishment from such an exceptional place as this area, with its deep resonances of spiritual meaning. I would like to meet her too. Perhaps we could visit her together one day, Anne.'

  Yuck, I thought. His tone was too intimate. I didn't want him muscling in on us. I didn't like him. I don't know why but I was sure he was the sort of guy who would rabbit on about spiritual energies and crystals and star signs and positive forces and all that sort of thing but really it meant nothing to him and all he was interested in was selling expensive things to suckers with more money than sense. I reckoned he was interested in Bellerive, not for its 'deep resonances of meaning', but because somehow he had an idea of what Raymond had been up to and suspected he'd found something big.

  I said, 'They don't have a phone. And you can't just turn up. It was only because Remy invited me that I went.' That wasn't strictly true, but never mind. I didn't want him nosing around that place. He was already pushing in where he wasn't wanted. He didn't have to crowd in on everything.

  Mum frowned at me. 'Don't speak like that, Fleur. It's rude.'

  'Sorry, I didn't mean to,' I said, lying through my teeth.

  'I'm sure you didn't, Fleur,' said Wayne Morgan, smiling at me with all his teeth, but his eyes were cool and appraising. 'I am sure we will all become great friends. After all, we share the same interests and beliefs, do we not?'

  In your dreams, mate, I thought, but I forced a pleasant smile on my face. 'Mmm. Yeah.' I turned to Mum. 'Can I borrow your Blackberry? I just need to check my emails.'

  'Okay. But look, Fleur, next time don't go haring off on your own without a word as to where you're going. It's not very responsible. And do be more considerate about things. You did promise to be back by lunchtime, and you weren't.'

  'I'm sorry, okay? Time just got away. I didn't mean to be late.' I knew I sounded sullen, but I couldn't help it. I hate being told off in front of strangers, especially people like him.

  I took the Blackberry and managed to get away without any more of a lecture than that, which was lucky, because when Mum's in full flow about responsibility and trust and keeping your promises and stuff like that, she can go on for ages. So maybe I should be grateful Morgan had been there to distract her. But hell, I hoped she wasn't going to fall for that New Age phoney. I'd much rather Nicolas Boron, all things considered, despite his aggressive attitude to me earlier. It wasn't me he'd been angry at, really, just the intrusive presence of Wayne Morgan. And who could blame him for that?

  I went upstairs with the Blackberry and checked my emails. There was only one, from Dreaming Holmes. It was short and to the point.

  Hello Caroline

  It is possible for people, even when separated, to dream the same dream. But it is very rare and usually only occurs with very creative and imaginative people who are linked in some way – twins, for example, or soul mates. I think it is possible too for people to have a dream that appears to be a premonition about events but usually it is because in their subconscious the person is aware of something wrong about a situation they might be in, or persons they are associated with. I hope that answers your questions.

  Keep in touch if you have any more dream problems.

  Dreaming Holmes.

  Hmm, I thought, not sure if that really did answer my questions – but I'd never really expected much more. I wondered what Dreaming Holmes would think if they knew what had been happening here with the dream book. But I didn't think I'd keep in touch about that. I'd rather work out things for myself.

  I logged out of Gmail and went to Google search. I put in 'Riothamus Avallon Burgundy Arthur'. Up came various references. I clicked on the first one, a site called 'Burgundy Today', www.burgundytoday.com, which had several pages about the connection between Arthur, Riothamus and Avallon. The whole thing was called 'King Arthur's French Odyssey', and was in three parts and pretty detailed, talking about how the Riothamus theory was the most likely one in the search for a real Arthur, with lots of historical notes. It also talked about how Britain and, in particular, Glastonbury, had 'hijacked' Arthur so that most people had no idea the real Arthur had probably died in France. But it was in the third part that the author discussed ideas of where Riothamus/Arthur might have actually gone to rest in the Avallon area, and where things might be found. She didn't mention the Lady's House or anything like that but seemed to favour a place called Les Fontaines Salées, or The Salt Springs. It was a kind of ancient spa place that had been used by the Gauls and the Romans and was known for the healing properties of its waters. Yes, I thought, a wounded man might well have gone there. It was much more likely than a pile of rocks in the middle of nowhere. I looked it up on a map search place, and the hair on the back of my neck tingled as I saw it wasn't that far from where we were. Maybe I could go there one day. Maybe tomorrow. No, tomorrow I was seeing Remy. But I could go with him. Yes. That'd be great. Instead of a swim and a picnic by the willows, we could go off to The Salt Springs. We could investigate it together, poke around, see what we could find. We could go by bike or by bus or something. He'd know how to get there anyway, he was a local.

  I was excited now. Never mind not being interested in Arthur as a story, I was really interested now in the mystery of his identity, and whether Raymond might have found out something really important. Logging off the internet, I went out of my room and took a look up and down the corridor. There was no-one about. I would go and have a quick look in Raymond's bedroom, see if I could find any diaries or anything like that that might give us more clues.

  Haunted

  But I was doomed to be disappointed, because although I looked everywhere in the room, there was nothing there. I mean, no diaries, no other notebooks, nothing. And I felt uncomfortable being in that room. It was so obvious someone had lived here not long ago. There were still clothes draped over a chair, photos jostling on the top of the chest of drawers, two paperback novels by the bed. I flipped through those too but there were no secret notes in them, or cryptic clues. Not a thing. But the whole room had a poignancy that clutched at my heart.

  I slipped out again and went downstairs. On the way I met Christine Foy. She flashed me a bright smile and said hello in a friendly sort of voice, but fortunately she seemed tired and not about to stop for a long chat or anything like that. Up close, you
could see her skin wasn't as perfect as all that, she had a few fine wrinkles, and her eyes had a bit of a glaze to them – probably a glass too much wine at lunch, she was most likely going for a nap – but she was still amazingly beautiful. I wondered at her taste, though, getting together with a guy like Oscar. Not exactly gorgeous, was he? And not the most exciting personality either. Maybe Marie Clary was right and she was after him for his money. Anyway, it was none of my business.

  I checked first to see where everyone else was. Nicolas seemed to have left, as did Marie Clary. Oscar was in the library with Mum and Morgan. The coast was clear for me to duck into Raymond's study.

  Lucky he'd kept it tidy. It was easy to find stuff. Not that there was anything to find. There was a glass-fronted bookcase full of Raymond's books in various editions, including a couple of English ones. On the desk were bills and brochures and – I felt a little pang at this – a letter from my mother, listing a number of new books Raymond might be interested in. There was also one of those loose-leaf calendars with a day to a page but nothing written on them. But then, I thought, a bit late, the police would probably have taken any diaries, appointment books, and so on, for their investigation into Raymond's murder. Even if it was a burglar that killed him, they'd still want to check and double-check everything, in case. Struck by a sudden thought, I sat down in Raymond's chair.

  What if – what if after all Raymond hadn't been killed by chance, by a burglar randomly wandering in – but by someone who was after something that they knew Raymond had? Not something of the usual sort – not jewellery or valuable books or pictures, because nothing like that had been taken. But information – priceless information that might make the owner extremely famous. I tried to remember what Nicolas Boron had said, about what had been taken – bits and pieces, he said, a watch, money – and a laptop computer. The watch and money – that could just have been a blind, just to throw people off the scent, make them think it was just some stupid drug-addled thief. But the laptop – the laptop could be exactly where Raymond had stored the information on his discoveries about the 'real King Arthur'.