by Sam Christer
‘Whatever you can tell me. Why is the Celtic cross unlike normal crucifixes, and what does the circle signify?’
‘Well, it’s popularly believed that when foreign missionaries started to try to convert Druids to Christianity, St Patrick came upon a stone carved with the circle for the moon and he insisted a Latin crucifix was carved over it. He blessed the new symbol of crucifix and moon united and the first Celtic cross was born.’
‘Neat. You think it’s true?’
‘There’s as much to prove it as disprove it. Another theory has it that the circle is a Eucharistic emblem, the holy wafer of Christ, which is always round. Others believe it represents the halo of the Holy Ghost. These days everyone from the Church of Wales to any tourist company with a connection to Ireland, Scotland or Wales seems to use it. Plus online mystics, astrologers, shops selling fortune-telling crystals and any Irish folk group that’s ever played in public.’
‘All bullshit, then?’
‘One man’s bullshit is another man’s faith. And as we both know, faith can move mountains.’
‘And make lots of money.’
‘Of course. Nothing ever works without money – not even the church.’ Bronty remembers a story from his days as a priest. ‘Crazy old father in my seminary insisted the circle on the cross was nothing to do with the Eucharist or St Patrick. He said it was Christian recognition of an alliance with the Round Table Knights of King Arthur.’
‘Hard to imagine Jesus and Merlin in the same breath.’
‘Any harder than envisaging St George slaying a dragon, water being turned into wine or a virgin birth?’
‘Suppose not.’
‘Anyway, the old priest was a great storyteller. He used to entertain us with tales about how holy crosses for the knights were cast from metal dug from Jesus’s tomb by the Apostles. He said they were half dagger, half cross and would also be used to sink into the hearts of heathen warriors to save their souls.’
‘That’s a nice Christian act. Have you seen the sketch made by the store girl in Maryland?’
He looks guilty. ‘I’m sorry, I haven’t.’
She digs in her purse and takes out a folded copy.
He takes it off her and looks. ‘It’s hard to tell from this, as I guess the scale and dimensions are all wrong, but it looks part dagger, part crucifix.’ He hands it back with a smile. ‘That said, the pointed end was probably so the cross could be stuck in the earth and Mass held on a hillside or suchlike.’
She folds the paper up and returns it to her purse. ‘You think we should call your old priest and show him this?’
Bronty laughs. ‘Mitzi, Father Ryan was very fond of the altar wine. It aided the colour of his storytelling, if you get my drift.’
‘Okay, but if he believed this King Arthur and holy cross stuff maybe other people do. That would explain why it was valuable and why people killed for it. You know, like the Holy Grail and fragments from the True Cross?’
‘King Arthur didn’t even exist,’ he says dismissively. ‘Anyway, I thought you said Vicky had shown the sketch to someone at the Smithsonian?’
‘She has and they said Iron Age, remember?’
‘I do,’ he answers snappily. ‘And they’re much more likely to be right than Father Ryan.’
‘Still no harm in checking. Experts almost always disagree with each other.’
He shakes his head at her stubbornness. ‘Then you’ll need to do it through prayer and divine intervention – he died six or seven years ago.’
Mitzi falls quiet and mulls over the cross as she stares out of the car window. The landscape is rapidly changing as the city starts to rise up and wrap its arms of bricks and glass around them.
She takes out her smartphone, clicks on the camera function, leans close to Bronty and demands, ‘Smile!’
He forces a grin.
She takes the shot, and holds the camera so they can both see the result. ‘It’s for when I get back. I want to show the girls that I was in a Rolls. It might distract them from wanting to kill me for staying away so long.’
66
CAERGWYN CASTLE, WALES
Caergwyn Castle blushes pink in the afternoon sun. Its four corner towers and a sturdy central keep stand rudely exposed against the soft greens of fields and forests.
Jennifer Gwyn steps from the Range Rover. She’s wearing a light boat-neck sweater and blue Jacquard trousers, having chosen comfort over glamour for the two-hour road trip. The air is refreshingly crisp, with a hint of flint and iron and she enjoys the feel of a gentle wind in her hair as she looks up at the battlements.
She knows he is there. Behind the stone at the top of the tower, watching. Looking down through glassed slits that once concealed the deadly arrows of the country’s finest bowmen.
Myrddin.
He has known her all her life. At times, understood her better than she could herself.
The old man has had much to say while she’s been away in America. Once she’s face-to-face with him, he’s bound to peel open her thoughts.
The burly bodyguards spill from their vehicles and begin to relax. The SAS and Marines constantly train in outer sections of the fortified grounds. Arthurian ‘soldiers’ are drilled and barracked closer to the castle walls. Those two rings of deadly steel are supplemented by an armed security team that only operates inside the ancient building.
A moon-faced butler in black suit and white shirt approaches, followed by two young footmen in red jackets. ‘Welcome back, Lady Gwyn.’
‘Thank you, Alwyn. How is everybody?’
He walks with her to the door, as the footmen take cases from the Range Rover and instructions from Lance. ‘I am pleased to say that all are well, m’lady. Mrs Stokes is off as you know, due to have her first child next week, so Nerys is filling in as head chef.’
‘She’s up to that?’
‘Most certainly. Don’t tell Mrs Stokes this, but Nerys’s lamb cawl is the finest since my mother made it.’
Jennifer laughs and gives a traditional Welsh response: ‘Cystal yfed o’r cawl a bwyta’r cig’ – ‘It is as good to drink the broth as eat the meat.’
He’s pleased to hear her use the old language. ‘Will you and Mr Beaucoup be dining alone tonight? Only —’
She anticipates his comment. ‘No. We will eat with Myrddin. He will curse me into my next lifetime if we do not join him.’
‘A wise decision, your ladyship.’
Alwyn leaves her in the grand entrance. It is a cavernous space of dark wooden floors and walls, coats of armour, heraldic crests and mounted animal heads.
The young footmen smile as they pass her and haul cases up a grand staircase that splits at the top into two galleys.
Lance appears. Apprehension shows in his eyes. There is no escaping Owain’s presence in here. The castle is steeped in his heritage. His spirit runs like electricity through every room.
Jennifer sees his fear. ‘You feel him, don’t you?’
He tilts his head in resignation. ‘It is impossible not to.’
She takes him lightly by the hand and walks him into a corridor. ‘Come, let’s take tea in the southern drawing room. Afterwards, you can do your work and then we’ll meet again for dinner.’
‘With Myrddin?’
‘Yes, with Myrddin.’ She sees his worry. ‘I will see him first. Make sure that I soften the blows.’
67
LONDON
The street names flashing past the windshield of the vintage Rolls are places Mitzi’s only ever heard about. Piccadilly Circus. Oxford Street. Covent Garden. Leicester Square. The Strand.
Traffic slows as they approach a giant building of blasted white stone, tall arched windows, heavy black gates and soaring spires. It looks like a wing of Hogwarts. An impression compounded by an isolated stone plinth and grotesque sculpture of some kind of bird. She presses the button that Harold the chauffeur said would get his attention.
‘Excuse me. Can you tell me where the hell we are an
d what all these buildings and freaky statues are about?’
The driver glances back as he answers. ‘We’re on Fleet Street, ma’am. That’s the Royal Courts of Justice alongside us. Sir Owain’s office is just around the corner.’ He glances at the priceless Charles Bell Birch sculpture standing proudly on its column and tries to prevent a tone of cultural superiority from creeping into his voice. ‘This is the Temple Bar monument; it used to denote the edge of the city. The statue you mentioned is a heraldic dragon. You will find there are two on the crest of the City of London, along with the cross of St George.’
Bronty is listening with interest. ‘You said Temple – is that connected to the Knights Templar?’
‘Yes, sir. Its name comes from the Temple Church and the Temple area. They were once in the ownership of the knights but are now home to the legal profession.’
‘Saints and sinners,’ adds Mitzi, sarcastically. ‘A modern-day lawyer is about as far as you can get from a chivalrous and honourable knight of old.’
‘You might well be right about that, ma’am.’ The traffic starts to move a little faster and Harold manages to get into second gear. ‘It may interest you to know that each year the monarch customarily stops at Temple Bar before entering the City of London, so that the Lord Mayor may offer up the City’s pearl-encrusted Sword of State as a token of loyalty.’
‘I confess to being completely uninterested,’ replies Mitzi, ‘until the point you mentioned pearls. Then you got me. Next life, I’m sure as hell coming back as a British queen.’
‘I wish you luck, ma’am.’ He glides the car silently around a corner then noisily over a cobbled backstreet that ends at a gated archway. The Rolls stops until the metal slides back, then it effortlessly slips into a long passage.
Mitzi watches the gates close and the sunlight disappear. The narrow passage gradually becomes a spiralling underground ramp that makes tight twists and turns into a vast underground parking lot where it stops.
The chauffeur gets out and opens the door for them. ‘Please follow me.’
He leads the way into a smart reception area of glass and steel, and an elevator guarded by two blue-suited men. Words are quickly and pleasantly exchanged then Harold swipes a finger over a print scanner near the elevator’s call button.
‘This will take you to reception. I or one of my colleagues will be here for you when your business is finished.’ He nods courteously and steps aside as big steel doors slide open.
The door closes automatically once Mitzi and Bronty are inside and the lift rises without any sensation of movement.
When it stops and opens, they’re facing a large picture window with a panoramic view of London.
‘Wow,’ says Bronty as they step out. ‘We must be what, two or three hundred feet above ground.’
‘Three hundred and sixty,’ says a slim brunette in a business suit. ‘Welcome to CEI. I’m Melissa Sachs, Sir Owain’s personal secretary.’ A gold bracelet shimmers on the bronzed skin of her elegant wrist as she extends her hand to greet them. ‘He’s waiting for you.’
68
CAERGWYN CASTLE, WALES
Lady Gwyn crosses the cobbled courtyard to the south-eastern wing and what’s always been known as the Augur’s Tower. Generations of servants have assumed the name comes from an old wives’ tale that if you stood at the top you’d be so high you could see into the future.
Despite the modern security cameras and armed guards around her, the walk always takes Jennifer back in time. It’s easy to picture the battlements filled with archers and the thick walls running red with the blood of her ancestor’s enemies.
She takes a calming breath as she pushes the old oak door that has been left open for her and enters the cold, sparsely furnished space that constitutes Myrddin’s living quarters.
The old man is sat in a seven-foot-high wooden throne. A large heraldic coat of arms hovers over his head. It depicts two fiery dragons back to back, divided by a broadsword. His green eyes shine from beneath wrinkled hoods of flesh and his liver-spotted, bony hands hang over the ends of the arched armrests.
‘I expected you earlier.’ His tone isn’t critical. It has no trace of disappointment or judgement in it.
Jennifer understands it well. She’s listened to it all her life, learned how to decipher every decibel of speech. ‘I had to settle my lover.’
It is no shock to him. He’d had visions of the affair long before she tilted her head at the young man and he’s sure she realizes that. ‘Have you no warm embrace to raise the cold spirit of your old confidant?’
She smiles and goes to him.
Myrddin folds her into his musty robes. For a moment, they hold each other tightly, then she takes his icy fingers in her warm palms and opens up to him. ‘I am frightened. Afraid of the changes that I know you and Owain sense are coming.’
‘My child, you and your family have been through such things so many times before. The seasons change. Winter kills and spring gives life.’ He drops his gaze pointedly to her stomach. ‘Have you told him yet?’
‘You know I haven’t.’
‘Then you must.’
‘And how will he react? With joy or sorrow?’
‘With understanding. I have told him I have seen the child. He knows the vision points to his own mortality. Remember, in the birth of the new, the spirit of the dead is born again and grows stronger.’
‘I wish this wasn’t our way.’
‘But it is and always will be.’
She steels herself to ask the most awful of questions. ‘How will it come?’
‘I have not yet seen.’ He looks kindly on her. ‘It will be honourable and brave; of that alone you can be certain.’
Jennifer closes her eyes to stop the flow of tears. It is too soon to feel sad.
He sees her fighting her emotions and bends to comfort her. ‘There, there, my child. A love like yours and Owain’s never dies. That is the point of the Arthurian Cycle. Your children perpetually recreate the spirit and goodness that is needed to project the old Order into the new world.’
‘I know. But it does not stop my heart and soul from hurting.’
‘Then let us hope that the other man you share your bed with is as good at drying tears as he is at coaxing sighs.’
She blushes. ‘I trust tonight you will not be as shocking with him as you are with me.’
‘Only if you promise to come and see me every day that you are here.’
‘Then I promise.’ She leans forward and kisses him. ‘Now be sure to keep your side of the bargain.’
He smiles as she starts to leave. ‘Soon, Jennifer. Tell Owain sooner rather than later. Time is not feeling kindly towards us.’
69
CALEDFWLCH ETHICAL INVESTMENTS, LONDON
At the end of the top floor, Melissa Sachs stops in front of a set of double oak doors, pushes one open and steps aside to let the visitors through.
The room they enter is breathtaking. It is a giant dome of glass that overhangs the edge of the building. Reinforced panes and floor panels give the impression of walking on air.
Mitzi and Bronty move apprehensively towards the centre.
‘Please come all the way in – it’s perfectly safe.’ The amused reassurance is from an exceptionally tall and broad man in a bottle-green suit and waistcoat. ‘I’m Owain Gwyn and this is my colleague, George Dalton.’
‘Mitzi Fallon.’ She stares nervously through the floor onto the sidewalk hundreds of feet below. ‘This is my colleague, Jon Bronty.’
Owain shakes hands then leads Mitzi to two leather settees where there is a stretch of solid floor around her. ‘Please, sit here. I know some people find the room a little daunting.’
She lowers herself onto a seat. ‘Thanks. I get a little vertigo. Especially when there’s nothing between me and a splat, save an inch or two of glass.’
He smiles. ‘It looks like you’ve already had some kind of splat.’
‘I have. A car accident back in the
States.’
Bronty and Dalton join them on the sofas.
‘Help yourselves to drinks.’ Owain gestures to bottles of juice, soda and water laid out on a small table between them.
‘Thanks.’ Mitzi pops the cap on a squat bottle of water and takes a swig.
He waits for her to put it down before he continues. ‘Lieutenant, both George and I wish to be as helpful as possible. I stress the word possible because there may be matters of national security that prevent us giving you complete disclosure and I wouldn’t want you to misunderstand the reasons for that.’ He angles his body towards Bronty, who’s just produced a notebook and is digging around for a pen. ‘I must also stress that this conversation is purely “off the record”. We are seeing you without the presence of embassy lawyers and without reminding you of the rigorous defence that can be presented by diplomatic immunity.’
‘Except of course you just did.’ Mitzi smiles politely. ‘I get the picture. You’re both going to clam up; it’s just a question of when.’ Without hurrying, she takes out a deck of photographs from a file she’s brought. Like a Vegas croupier, she places them face down on the table, alongside the bottles.
As she looks up, she notices a stark contrast in the two men opposite her.
Owain Gwyn is relaxed and attentive. George Dalton, who is still to utter a word, looks as nervous as a kitten on a lake of ice.
Bronty is studying them as well. As a priest, he developed a strong intuition about character, almost as though he could tell who was struggling with the weight of sin and who wasn’t. Neither of them seems to be carrying heavy loads, but there is something unusual about Gwyn.
More than charisma.
He seems to radiate peace and gentleness. It’s the kind of intensity Bronty felt around missionaries in Africa, only more so. Considerably more so.