by Jodi Taylor
Sands twisted round to look at him. ‘He can’t possibly be from around here. Everyone’s got a beard. You could lose a small horse in the one on that bloke over there. There are six-year-olds with more facial hair than you. The goats have beards. Even some of the women have beards.’
Roberts struggled indignantly, failed to gain control of his outlying regions, and collapsed again. Seconds later he was snoring.
Markham stared at him. ‘No beard. Can’t hold his drink. No way this boy’s Welsh.’
We briefly discussed lugging him back to our campsite but no one could really be bothered and so, in line with the prevailing ‘sleep where you drop’ culture, we did the same.
Chapter Seven
We awoke at dawn, chilled and damp. Early though it was, most people were already up and moving around, stirring the fires back into life. A very wobbly Mr Roberts found us some stale bread. None of them fancied the beer. Peterson and I grinned at each other.
It’s a strange thing, but the sky was still dark and it wasn’t all smoke from the bonfires. I sat in the warm, wet wind and looked around me. Yes, Arthur would hold the Saxons for a while, but he would die at Camlann if all the legends were true, and then they would return in force and then there would be no one to hold them. I looked up. Dark clouds gathered overhead, and in the east, a dim light glimmered. For the time being.
Peterson nudged me back to the present. Something important was happening.
Arthur emerged from his hut, still wearing his good clothes. He carried a sword in his outstretched arms. Every historian present automatically reached for their recorders. Markham rolled his eyes.
At once, silence fell. I had no idea what was going on. The presence of the sword seemed to preclude this being some sort of religious ceremony. I know Christianity wasn’t yet fully established across the country – if in fact it ever was. I once read that during the Second World War a number of churches removed their altars for safe keeping and that buried beneath some of them were old pagan symbols – people hedging their bets, I suppose, just in case this new god didn’t make the grade. It would be interesting to know whether the pagan symbols were replaced under the altars after the war was ended.
This, however, was not a religious ceremony. A group of men – leaders of the community, I assumed, lined up behind him.
Behind them, in neat lines, Arthur’s own men. Behind them, a great mass of everyone else, all jostling and pushing for the best view. We grabbed our stuff and joined them, and the procession set off, out through the gates and down the hill. The ground was badly churned up and there was still the odd piece of Saxon lying around, but Arthur marched steadily onwards.
‘He’s going to the cave,’ whispered Roberts, behind me. ‘He’s going to Arthur’s Cave.’
I suppose, if you thought about it, where else would he be going? But why? Some historian sense was telling me this was important.
We wound our way down through hazel, beech, hawthorn and oak trees. There were even mighty yews here, ancient and venerable, sweeping the ground with their branches.
And there it was: a large rock formation loomed through the trees. We halted outside a double-entranced cave that opened into darkness. Other than the occasional murmur, the crowd was completely silent. I gazed about me. The rock was green with moss and ferns. Ivy scrambled everywhere. Generations of dead leaves carpeted the ground. The area in front of the cave had been cleared, but trees grew from above and their overhanging branches obscured the two entrances. Possibly because of that we didn’t see where he came from but, suddenly, he was there.
A collective gasp went up from the people – including five historians and a security guard, it should be said. Those at the front stepped back.
Arthur, however, stood firm.
‘Who is he?’ murmured Peterson. ‘Is he a Druid?’
He stood tall and straight, with a great beak of a nose protruding from the mother of all beards. Long, grey hair streamed down his back, almost to his waist.
For a few seconds, no one moved. If I close my eyes I can still see the scene today. The glowing colours of autumn. The crowd of people gathered around the cave entrance and standing amongst the trees, all still and silent and watching. Arthur, deliberately vivid in his red and blue, offering up the sword in his outstretched arms.
I had no idea what was going on here, but whatever it was, it was very, very important.
Arthur spoke. I couldn’t make out the words, but his voice was deep and solemn. He was taking an oath over the sword.
The old man, clad in dingy white robes and none too clean himself, stepped forward, and with great reverence and honour, accepted the sword.
A kind of sigh went up from those around me. A covenant had been made.
My mind was racing. Arthur had presented the people of Caer Guorthigirn with his sword. Well, a sword, anyway. Maybe he did this after every battle. As a symbolic gesture of his protection. Was this how the legends of Arthur’s mighty sword were born?
I strained for a glimpse of the sword itself. I couldn’t see clearly, but this was no Excalibur. This was an ordinary broadsword, tapering to a point. Peterson’s the weapons expert, but I could see it was modern in design with a pommel rather than the old-fashioned, washer-style handle. The handle looked golden, but I was willing to bet it was gilt. It wouldn’t be gold if he was handing them out all over the country.
Arthur bowed, although whether to the sword or the old man was not clear. Maybe both. The old man raised up the sword, holding it above his head where everyone could see it, flourished it three times, and then, still without a sound, turned and, I supposed, re-entered the cave, although a long curtain of ivy obscured him somewhat and when I looked again he was gone.
‘Where did he go?’ whispered Roberts. ‘I’ve been inside this cave. It’s quite shallow. Doesn’t go anywhere.’
‘Maybe not in our time,’ said Peterson. ‘Today though, I think I could believe anything.’
We’d had the forethought to collect our gear. No one had fancied struggling back up the hill again. As the crowd dispersed, we made our way slowly through the woods, back to the pod.
In the distance, I heard a thunder of hoofs. The great horn sounded again – in farewell, this time. Had Arthur already been called away to fight somewhere else? Was he, at this moment, riding hard into that faint light in the east? To his next battle?
We returned to the pod to find someone had already stacked a pile of logs against it. A tribute to the genius design, I suppose, but a bloody nuisance to have to clear away.
Our return was uneventful. We touched down gently and I operated the decontamination system. No one had been injured. Well, no one had been badly injured. Just for once, we could exit the pod, intact and successful.
I smiled reassuringly at Leon, who grinned back, and we all traipsed off to Sick Bay to listen to Hunter giving Markham a hard time about something. I spent the night sorting through our material and writing my report. Out of consideration to Dr Bairstow, some parts of it had to be quite carefully worded. Reading it through, I was rather proud. Without actually saying so, I’d managed to give the impression that I’d spent the day sitting in a well-appointed barn, completely divorced from whatever nastiness was going on out there. I deflected him further by spending a considerable amount of time describing the sword and recommending the location be passed to Thirsk for them to investigate further. Imagine if it was still in there somewhere. Arthur’s sword! I stuck my initials all over everything, bundled up my report with everyone else’s and sent it off to the Boss. Who requested the pleasure of my company first thing the next morning.
When I arrived, he had my report open in front of him. Some parts were highlighted. I thought I would pre-empt the inevitable.
‘I was never in any danger, sir. I was in the second compound, which never actually came under any attack at all. We all sat quietly and were rescued.’
He refused to be deflected.
‘You were, nev
ertheless, involved in a 6th-century conflict.’
‘Only very peripherally, sir. In fact, I wouldn’t dignify it with the word “conflict”. It was more of a 6th-century scuffle.’
‘Despite scanning your report very carefully, I seem unable to locate your reasons for not immediately returning to St Mary’s the moment it became apparent you were about to be involved in this … scuffle.’
Well, that wasn’t surprising because I hadn’t given any. The opportunity had been too good to pass up. And we’d seen Arthur. And his sword. I did think he was being just a little ungrateful. It seemed safer, however, not to mention this.
‘Well, we didn’t know that at the time, sir.’
‘So, the panic-stricken populace fleeing for their lives in terror, the burning buildings, the assembled soldiers – all that passed you by? Should I recommend you to Dr Foster for an eye test?’
Shit. That wasn’t good. I’ve never said anything, but sometimes, when I’m a bit tired, I can’t always make out small print. Or really, any print at all. Long sight was no problem. I would easily be able to see the bus that would run me over. I just wouldn’t be able to make out the number and route. You can’t wear spectacles on assignment and so I’d been telling myself it was just a side-effect of pregnancy. Inconvenient but temporary.
‘Thank you, sir. I shall avail myself of the opportunity as soon as it is safe for me to do so.’
He looked up. ‘I had not realised that eye tests could be so hazardous.’
‘Only to the pregnant, sir. The … emissions … from the … light box can be detrimental to the well-being of the foetus. Sir.’
Well I didn’t see why I shouldn’t play the pregnancy card once in a while. It was stopping me doing all the interesting stuff like drinking, stuffing myself sick on chocolate, getting the good assignments and so on, so I thought I’d use it to my advantage for once.
He raised a disbelieving eyebrow. ‘Emissions?’
I replied with conviction. ‘Indeed, sir. I’m certain you will agree one cannot be too careful.’
He sat back and prepared to enjoy himself, handing me a metaphorical spade to facilitate the hole I was digging for myself. ‘I struggle, Dr Maxwell, to reconcile your reluctance to undergo so hazardous an experience as an eye test, with the apparent enthusiasm with which you hurled yourself into a potentially fatal Dark Age encounter.’
‘Perhaps sir,’ I said cunningly, knowing he’d never in a million years authorise the expenditure, ‘the acquisition of some sort of protective garment would considerably lessen the risks involved.’
‘For whom?’
‘Well, me, for a start, sir.’
‘I quite agree,’ he said. ‘Let me do what I can to lessen your concerns. I shall immediately commission Professor Rapson to design some sort of lead-lined wigwam, which I’m afraid I must insist you wear, Dr Maxwell, to mitigate the potentially fatal results of a modern eye test. In addition, I shall ask Dr Foster to provide a visual record of your compliance, the unit-wide circulation of which will, I think, go a long way towards allaying any similar fears your colleagues may be experiencing.’
He took advantage of my speechlessness. ‘Dismissed, Dr Maxwell.'
The next thing, of course, was for him to alert Thirsk to the possible existence of Arthur’s sword. ‘One of Arthur’s swords,’ I kept saying, and no one took a blind bit of notice.
Thirsk were ecstatic at the prospect. As well they should be. As usual, we’d done all the work and they would get all the glory. We’d get the cheque, of course, which would keep Dr Bairstow happy for a day or two.
The Chancellor was particularly excited and I received a personal message from her, thanking me and the other members of the team. She’d never done that before. This was going to be big. Everyone was very happy.
As was I, because it was an opportunity again to shelve the longstanding problem of what to do with Elspeth Grey. Don’t get me wrong – she’s one of the nicest people on the planet but she was the fly in my department’s ointment.
Over a year ago now, we’d rescued two stranded historians – Elspeth Grey and Tom Bashford. They’d been snatched by that bastard, Clive Ronan, and stranded in Roman Colchester, just as Boudicca attacked the town. We’d got them out by the skin of their teeth, but there was no doubt it had been a traumatic experience for them both. Bashford not so much, because he’d been semi-conscious throughout most of it – it had been Elspeth who had battled to keep them both safe – but while Bashford had resumed his duties with enthusiasm, Grey had not. I’d given her the time I thought she needed, but her first assignment – to Ancient Egypt – had not gone well. Not well at all.
I honestly didn’t know what to do with her. Firstly, she was a fully trained historian and I was reluctant to part with her. Secondly, if she left, Ian Guthrie might well go with her and that would be a huge loss to St Mary’s. I often wondered if he wasn’t moving in that direction anyway. He’d named Markham as his number two and I often saw the two of them together these days. Was Markham shadowing Guthrie in preparation to take over the Security Section? It was very possible.
However, Arthur’s sword offered a reasonable compromise. Miss Grey had represented St Mary’s on the expedition to recover three missing Botticellis. She was the obvious choice for this assignment as well. It was a win-win situation for everyone.
I briefed her – she accepted the assignment – and disappeared off to Thirsk the very next day. I heaved a sigh of relief at having deferred the problem yet again and got on with things.
Six weeks later, unbelievably, they found it. They found Arthur’s sword.
And then the shit really hit the fan.
Chapter Eight
I honestly hadn’t been sure they would find it. I knew the cave had previously been excavated and although they hadn’t been looking for Arthur’s sword at the time, I myself was convinced it had been discovered hundreds of years ago and was quietly residing in someone’s private collection. Or that it had been hidden so completely that no one would ever find it. Or even that it was no longer of this world. You can blame pregnancy fantasies for that last one.
It turned out to be none of those. They went over every inch with metal detectors and there it was. They had to chip it out of the surrounding rock, but it was still there, wrapped in layers of desiccated leather.
The Chancellor sent me another personal message together with a series of images. I stared at it – remarkably well preserved and exactly as I remembered it. If I closed my eyes, I could still hear Arthur’s deep voice filling the silence around us. I could still see the old man’s gnarly hands reaching out to take it …
We were heroes. Everyone loved us. Especially the Chancellor who, apparently, had been having a bit of a rocky moment, politically speaking, and this was just what was needed to enable her to put the academic boot in. Or in her case, of course, an expensive but elegantly understated court shoe.
We basked in that almost unheard of phenomenon, Dr Bairstow’s approval, because our funding was secure for the foreseeable future. The word on the street was that he was carpeing the diem by compiling a wish list the like of which had never before been contemplated, let alone submitted. The rest of St Mary’s regarded us with awe and admiration. I’d like to think.
‘Arthur’s sword!’ people kept saying.
‘One of Arthur’s swords,’ I kept saying back, trying to keep a sense of proportion.
No one was listening and after a while, neither were we.
Did we get big-headed? Did we walk around thinking we were the dog’s bollocks? Of course we did. Anyone would. It was Arthur’s sword, for God’s sake. The Arthur and very nearly the sword. And we’d found it. Well – we’d enabled it to be found. Of course we got big-headed.
And then things started to go horribly wrong.
Not a huge thing to begin with. I thought afterwards it might have been a warning shot.
I don’t normally watch the news. The last time I bothered was whe
n, yet again, they reopened the controversy over Richard III’s final resting place, with the City of York waging war on the City of Leicester, and Westminster Abbey poised to engage the winner.
It was Peterson who drew my attention to it this time. A factory had closed. Not something that would normally interest us, but it was situated only a couple of miles from Caer Guorthigirn.
‘I think we might have walked past the site,’ he said.
I watched the screen. The company had, quite suddenly, declared bankruptcy and closed. They had been the major employer in a predominantly rural area.
‘A financial disaster for the region,’ declared the newsreader.
Roberts looked gloomy. ‘Half my family worked there,’ he said. ‘The half that doesn’t work on my dad’s farm, anyway.’
‘Bad luck,’ said Peterson, sympathetically.
He nodded and walked away.
Then, things went even more wrong.
The first I knew was when Roberts found me in the Library.
‘What’s the matter,’ I asked, in concern. His face was blotchy. Surely, he hadn’t been crying.
He laid a local newspaper before me. ‘My mam sent it. Look what’s happened.’
I folded back the page and peered at it. The word catastrophe leaped out at me. Shit! I read more closely. A heavily laden lorry had careered down the hill, failed to negotiate one of the bends, and smashed into a pub’s car park. Two parked cars had slowed it only slightly, and the whole mass of tangled metal, still travelling at some speed, had crashed straight into the crowded pub itself. Fatalities were high. Casualties even higher.
‘Gareth, I’m so sorry. What a dreadful thing to happen. Did you know any of them?’
He swallowed and nodded, unable to speak for a moment.
‘Do you want some time off? Go and visit your family? Everyone must be devastated.’
‘No, I’ve spoken to them on the phone. They’re OK. Well, reasonably OK. The thing is, Max …’
‘Yes?’