The Midsummer Wife (The Heirs to Camelot Book 1)

by Jacqueline Church Simonds

  About The Midsumer Wife

  After a nuclear attack on London that heralds The Time Foretold, Ava Cerdwin, the anxiety-ridden high priestess in charge of fulfilling a 1,500-year-old prophesy, must assist the heirs of King Arthur and Merlin in healing the devastated country.

  The descendants of Britain’s great men of legend have kept the myths and relics for sixty-one generations, but no one is quite clear on what they must do next.

  Nothing goes as planned: Ava falls for the wrong heir, the panic attacks are getting worse, the complex obligations of reincarnation are straining old relationships, and Morgaine and her henchwomen are trying to kill them.

  Somehow, some way, Ava has to make the Healing happen, or Britain is finished. The Midsummer Wife, Book One of the Heirs to Camelot is an urban fantasy that combines Arthurian lore, love, and a race to a breathtaking finish.

  Praise for The Midsummer Wife

  “Sex, magic, and power collide in this [Urban] Fantasy that begins when a devastating terrorist attack on modern London sparks the long-foretold return of King Arthur to heal Britain. Simonds boldly continues the Arthurian saga into the present day, as heirs to Arthur, Merlin, and the woman both men once loved struggle to understand and fulfill their destinies and outwit the sinister agenda of the sorceress Morgaine.” ~ Lisa Jensen, author Alias Hook and Beast: A Love Story

  “Imaginative, mesmerizing, and emotionally complex, Simonds’ unique story boldly expands the Arthurian legend into exciting new territory. The fantastical elements—rituals from old Celtic religions, dark magic, forces of fate—are well drawn and skillfully integrated into a contemporary setting. And then there’s the romance… the palpable chemistry between Ava and Ron (the Arthur heir), complicated by their respective destinies, makes their relationship a riveting read.” ~ Mary Fan, author of Starswept and Artificial Absolutes

  Dedication

  To love, which endures through time and many lives

  The Midsummer Wife

  Book One of THE HEIRS TO CAMELOT series

  By Jacqueline Church Simonds

  Strange Fictions Press

  Chapter One

  18 June 2029

  Seven Days Until Midsummer

  Ava walked up the grand steps to Drunemeton House—considered one of the country’s finest surviving fifteenth-century Great Houses. Rain soaked, the mammoth four-story sandstone manor, making it look more dour than it might on a sunny day. The ancient building seemed to loom over her. She had wanted to see the place since she read about it as a student years ago, but now that it was the most important day of her life, she wasn’t so sure about it.

  Her knees were trembling so hard, she could hardly stand up.

  The manor was built in a large “H” shape, and as she stood in the entryway, it felt as if the walls were a narrow slot blocking out an all-but-inevitable destiny through Drunemeton’s entrance. Her stomach did somersaults, and a line of sweat crept down her spine.

  The great oak doors swung open at her ring, and a worried-looking man with thinning light brown hair greeted her.

  “Ava Cerdwen, here for an interview with the duke.” She just barely managed to keep the quiver out of her voice.

  He waved her in and took her coat and umbrella. “Nigel Ficton, Duke Drunemeton’s secretary.” He looked her up and down and wrinkled his nose as if there was a bad odor. “This way.”

  Ava followed him through the cavernous entry hall feeling wanting in some way. Have I already done something wrong? Worn the wrong outfit? What? She read him just a bit—then almost laughed out loud. He wanted the job of Director of the Harp Trust for himself! Well, he’s welcome to it.

  He led her into the grand mansion’s official office, a room about the size of the average house, surrounded by six-foot-high bookcases. The place was filled with antique furniture and artwork. Ficton had her take a seat in front of the desk and then left, still radiating icy-hurt feelings.

  Out of the gorgeous floor-to-ceiling divided glass windows in front of her were the famed gardens. On a nice day—which it decidedly was not—she had been told one could see Glastonbury Tor through the trees.

  Everything about the room shouted the Drunemeton family’s old money and judiciously wielded power, an effect which had obviously been meticulously crafted over the years to benefit the owner of the office. It was meant to intimidate. And if she hadn’t been prepared, she had to admit, she would’ve been.

  Who am I kidding?

  It’s intimidating as hell.

  Duke Drunemeton walked into the room. She stood and shook his hand. Without a word, he took a seat across from her at the Louis Quatorze walnut desk. To his left was a brilliantly executed bonsai fuchsia azalea in a gold Kinrande Imari dish. To his left, an elegant, old-fashioned Waterford cut glass oil lamp cast an antique charm over the scene. As with everywhere else in Britain, Drunemeton House had no electricity.

  She took slow, invisible breaths and tried not to break the silence as the ancient Morbier clock on the walnut credenza ticked away the precious seconds.

  “Did you have trouble getting here, Ms. Cerdwen? Glastonbury isn’t easy to reach these days,” the twentieth duke of Drunemeton asked. He fussed about with the paper documents in front of him unnecessarily, whether from unfamiliarity with the physical material or because he was unsettled by her was unclear. He stopped himself.

  “Ava, please, Your Grace. And not any more than one would expect. I got a flight into Dublin, then took a commuter to Bristol. I borrowed a friend’s car to get here.”

  “I would have expected the planes to be full,” the duke said.

  “Full leaving England. Coming in…” She didn’t feel the need to finish the sentence.

  “Yes, well, about that. Do you have concerns about working here? I was turned down flat by a few others who didn’t want to be near a radiation zone.”

  “I studied the reports. It seems unlikely the winds will shift this far southwest. The heavy rain reduces the fallout problem, as well. I’ve seen the tests that show no appreciable radiation in the rainwater.”

  He looked satisfied by the answer, then frowned. Ava was trying hard not to read him, but it was all too easy to pick up his ambient emotions. She had read in his file that Duke Drunemeton pretended to be casual and friendly with new people, but he was actually cautious and guarded around strangers. Was he worried she was too ambitious for the job, given the current circumstances?

  Moments into the interview, and I’m already screwing it up!

  Her skin was covered with prickles of sweat. It felt as if all the air had left the room. She was hot and cold. Her stomach started to spin.

  Staycalmstaycalmstaycalm.

  Keep in the moment.

  Focus!

  Don’t destroy the work of almost fifteen centuries over a case of nerves!

  She regained control.

  Somewhat.

  He said, “I know it seems a bit odd, going about looking for a director in the middle of a national emergency, as if nothing had happened. The fact is, events have transpired that will make me increasingly busy. Without someone I can count on, I’m rather hamstrung by my current obligations.”

  Ava had been invited to the interview after she applied for the position on an international executive work/hire site. The advert had been expected, and so she sent her fraudulent résumé some hours after it was posted—responding to it immediately would have looked too eager. She received a reply three days later.

  “You come highly recommended,” the duke said, looking at her CV. “Two British peers and a Silicon Valley entrepreneur. Impressive.” Names he wo
uld recognize but who’d been selected precisely because he didn’t personally know them. Nor was he likely to come into contact with them. “I see you went to the Sorbonne,” he said.

  She could tell he was calculating her age—twenty-seven to his forty-two. Perhaps he was also wondering how someone who directed a family foundation could handle the Harp Trust’s larger scope. “I enjoyed my time working for the Skellingtons. But I’m ready for new and larger challenges,” she said.

  The duke was an attractive man with a controlled and thoughtful way of acting. He stroked his gray-striped beard in a studied sort of way. There was what looked like a seam on his left cheek, and his index finger lingered over it. His gray eyes had a subtle, haunted look as he studied her appraisingly. She got the oddest feeling from him—as if his soul was larger than his body. She had never encountered such a phenomenon before. But his aura wasn’t as intense as that impression would suggest. It was a pale blue and violet, indicating spirituality and creativity, but there was something that was draining his energy.

  “You’re familiar with our charity, the Harp Trust?” he asked.

  “Yes. An impressive portfolio of activities, Your Grace. Musical education for poor children with talent. And the Trust funds several symphonies and opera companies around the globe. Your work demonstrating to developing countries that subsidizing the arts increases the cultural value of the state is of particular interest to me. I’ve heard your name whispered for a Nobel on that account.”

  The duke looked away, all modesty. “It’s been rewarding participating in that,” he said.

  She wondered what he would say if she told him she knew such an award was forbidden to him as a condition of his title. “The most curious branch of Harp is, of course, Eight Lights, dedicated to exploring increasing psi ability.”

  Duke Drunemeton cleared his throat, obviously disconcerted. “That’s not well known,” he said, attempting a calm tone of voice.

  “Yes, I expect not. I was just intrigued by the direction of your research and development arm. Has music got something to do with psi ability?” She knew quite well what the connection was.

  “How did you come by this information?” he asked.

  She could see he was alarmed at the turn of the conversation and trying to figure out what was going on. Ava wasn’t sure whether to press that particular line of discussion or not. The debate over how she should start the important conversation ranged over four continents and dozens of hours. She had argued endlessly with the Sisterhood over how she should introduce herself: what to say, how fast to reveal everything. She had wanted to be completely honest…within limits, of course. The Sisterhood wanted a far more cautious approach. In the end, Ava decided to let the first meeting play out at its own pace. She thought things were going about as well as could be expected. She just hoped she could keep from panicking. “I have well-placed sources.”

  The duke’s brow furrowed. “Have we met somewhere?”

  “No, Your Grace. I don’t believe we have.”

  The duke sat staring at her, pondering. Finally, he said, “I’m sorry. I have quite strong feelings about people, and I have this impression I know you from someplace.”

  “Not that I’m aware of.”

  His eyes narrowed.

  She almost laughed out loud—he was trying to read her. Well, good luck with that.

  The duke blinked a few times in confusion when he encountered her mental block. Straightening his tie, he said, “Why would you want to work for me?”

  “I believe I offer unique qualities that would assist you in your future endeavors.”

  Duke Drunemeton cleared his throat. “What qualities are those?”

  She allowed herself to smile, because she felt the Goddess path so clearly right that second. “I believe I can help you find the Oathstone.”

  His mouth dropped open. Slowly, he regained his equanimity. “You are obviously some government spy. Not from what’s left of our government, but some government.”

  Of all the models and projected responses, that wasn’t a reaction the Sisterhood had anticipated. “I believe if I were a spy, I would’ve simply gotten the job and let you tell me about the Oathstone in due course.”

  “It is not possible that you know of that artifact or anything to do with it. Not possible at all,” Duke Drunemeton said tensely. His anger was anticipated. It was going to be hard for him to deal with someone else knowing the family secrets.

  “And yet, I do.”

  “How?”

  “As I said, I have well-connected sources.”

  “I must insist you tell me who it was that gave you this information,” the duke demanded.

  “No one told me. No one had to. I’m looking for the Oathstone myself.”

  “Who the hell are you?” he exploded.

  “A person with similar interests…but no threat to you, Harp, or the Drunemetons.” She projected calm at him. She couldn’t work with a subject when they were this upset...and that disturbance was clearly her fault.

  Please Goddess, don’t let me screw this up.

  The duke sat back. In a controlled tone of voice, he said, “You found out about our research and from there, somehow, you hacked secure, off-the-grid files—because that’s the only place where you could have learned about the Oathstone.”

  “Yes and no. You see, we have similar family histories.”

  She could feel him trying to probe her mind again. The effort caused a bit of sweat to bead up on his brow. When he couldn’t get through, he said, “I can’t read you.”

  “No, you can’t. And besides, it’s rather rude, don’t you think?”

  His forehead creased. “Can you read me?”

  “Yes, but I’m trying not to, unless you get loud in there.” Ava hoped that once he realized there was a stronger adept in the room, it would open him up some more.

  The duke took a deep, calming breath. Ava was impressed he had that much skill to go from angry and flustered to…well, not relaxed, but less disturbed. He rubbed the seam in his beard. “Similar families?”

  “Yes, Your Grace. Very ancient families they are, too, aren’t they? Very important to this country’s history.”

  “I…I’m not aware of any other family members not…directly related to me…who would be interested…” A thought seemed to occur to him. “Are you from one of the second son families?”

  “Something like that. Extremely far back.”

  “Why haven’t you gotten in touch? All these years…” he said.

  “It’s not encouraged, is it? The children not selected are made to get on. It’s the first sons who matter in your lineage, is it not?”

  Duke Drunemeton, the first son of the first son of the first son ad nauseum cleared his throat. “Erm, yes. But—and I realize this is obvious—I note you’re not a first or second son.”

  “Not all families of the lineage are under the same structure, Your Grace.”

  “It never occurred to me until this moment that there were any other families...Cousin,” he said with his lips curled up at the corners.

  Ava laughed. No one told me he has a sense of humor! Maybe this will turn out all right, after all. “We’re related so far back, you probably have more genetic history in common with your chef than me.”

  “May I ask the sire your branch comes from?”

  “Not the sire,” she said. “I’m descended from Anya’s daughter, Arianrhod.”

  He looked somewhat nonplused. “And the House of Arianrhod is commanded to do…what?”

  “Fulfill Mother Anya’s vision for her line―to see the descendant of King Arthur return, served by the descendant of Merlin’s wisdom.”

  He swallowed hard.

  Ava had read that outside of the Sacred Grotto, no one in the families was permitted to speak those words aloud. “Almost fifteen hundred years ago, Anya, a priestess and healer of the Rus, fell in love with both Merlin and King Arthur, and eventually had sons by both. You, Duke Drunemeton, a
re the descendant of Merlin. The Earl of Steadbye, whom I hope to meet soon, is the descendant of King Arthur.”

  He gasped. “How do you—?”

  Ava rushed on, “Duke Drunemeton, these are The Days Foretold. As was written in the books you guard, this in the hour ‘when the King and Merlin shall come again and, with the Oathstone, heal the Land and its People.’ And as you are well aware, the ‘Once and Future King,’ as the author T. H. White called him, is in waiting nearby. All we need do now is locate the Oathstone. Then we can help Britain heal and regain its place in the world.”

  The duke stood up slowly and walked like a mechanical toy around the desk. He stood over her, radiating both fear and outrage. “How? You can’t possibly…” He was struggling to steady himself.

  Have I gone too far, too fast?

  “Who are you?” he demanded.

  “Ava Cerdwen—Arianrhod’s heir.”

  Ava decided a strategic retreat was in order. She stood up and drew her purse strap over her shoulder—the universal gesture that the interview was over. “I can see you need time to consider what I’ve said. My driver will stop back here tonight in case you want to reach me. I won’t be far. We’ll speak again when you’ve had time to let this sink in. I know it’s a shock, keeping a secret for so very, very long, then discovering others know, too.”

  She rested her fingers gently on his arm, which was swathed in an expensive camel hair jacket. There was a momentary spark, as if she had just run across the thick Aubusson carpet in slippers before she put her hand there. It was unexpected, but also another hopeful sign.

  He paled, and she could feel him tremble.

  “Don’t let fear overwhelm you. We must act as we’ve been trained to do since birth—and soon.” She turned and walked out of the office.