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The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Apart from wellknown historical figures, any similarity to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
Original title : Les héritiers d’Avalon
English translation : Teia Maman
Copyright © 2015 by Béatrice Mary
published with permission from the author by
© Bellica Publishing Ltd UK, 2017
Digital ISBN
978-2-9560162-3-6 The book is printed under the ISBN number : 978-2-9560162-2-9
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To Theo and Mathis,
whose love illuminates my life
every day.
Prologue
October 2012
Cambridge, England
For two long hours, I’d been absorbed in searching an ancient manuscript for clues. In fact, I’d been looking for clues, for answers, ever since coming to Cambridge three years ago.
My friend Henry suddenly erupted into my room, as was his habit, crying out, “Come on Gabriel! What are you still doing here? It’s your birthday! Do me a favor – Drop those stupid old books and come with me to the Eagle. We’ll celebrate your twentieth birthday like it deserves to be celebrated!”
Henry and I took the same classes, so we were often together. Henry was highly intelligent, with a real gift for computer technology, and an overabundance of energy. His infectious enthusiasm helped break the dull monotony that had settled on my life.
Noticing that I hadn’t reacted, he sighed loudly and fell into one of the soft leather armchairs. Relaxing, he put his feet on the coffee table and said, “I warn you – I’m not leaving here without you.”
He observed me for a moment. “Did I tell you about my last date with Kate?”
I rolled my eyes, trying to hide my exasperation while he poured out a flood of words at dizzying speed. Resigned to the situation, I capitulated. “Okay, let me take a shower and I’ll join you there in a few minutes.”
Satisfied, he said with a wink, “Better not change your mind, or I’ll come back looking for you!”
I smiled as I watched him leave.
Lost in thought, I pulled off my clothes absentmindedly and stepped into the shower, hoping the hot water would relax my muscles, which were stiff from sitting too long.
Another year gone by... I couldn’t help thinking about another anniversary, the one that changed my life. It didn’t take much to bring back that dreadful day, the day I saw my parents die. So many things had happened since then! I closed my eyes, assailed by the memories.
January 2004
Strasbourg, France
I looked up at the stars from my bedroom window one last time. A week had passed since they had died, and I missed them so much.
I was only eleven, and I couldn’t picture life without my parents. After the funeral, Grandmother had done her best to comfort me, whispering, “Everything will be alright.”
I had felt rather cross at that. I didn’t see how anything could ever be “alright.” And all those people who looked at me as if... I shook my head to chase away my dark thoughts. Actually, I was glad to leave. It would be a relief to get away from all those compassionate faces.
I looked at my own face reflected in the window. The ugly scar on my cheek would mark me for life, an ever-present reminder of tragedy. Images flashed before my eyes, violent, intense images, but when I tried to remember, anguish washed over me, devouring and icy, and I only saw black. Trembling, with my knees wobbling, I opened the window. I needed air.
It was nearly Christmas, and all of Strasbourg was lit up by garlands of thousands of lights. The city’s ambiance at this time of year was unique. Its residents took great pains to decorate their houses with fir branches, glittering ornaments and colored ribbons, and when night fell, the open-air market stalls, built to resemble miniature chalets, and all the shop windows in town glowed warmly, enticing people to stroll in the streets.
The odor of cinnamon and other spices rose up to my window from the mulled wine sellers installed just below. I contemplated the huge Christmas tree standing majestically in the center of the square. Decked out with its finest, it provided the tourists an unforgettable vision in this magical atmosphere. My eyes wandered farther, stopping to observe a child nestled between his parents in front of a pretzel seller. All three seemed so happy, so full of joy. I felt a twinge of sadness.
Christmas carols floated out from the cathedral and through the crowded streets, but I felt nothing. For me, all that magic was gone.
It had taken me two days to realize that my parents would never be coming back. In the hospital, when I had opened my eyes, no one was at my bedside. Nurses busied themselves all around me, but carefully avoided answering my questions.
“Where’s my mom?” I’d ask.
“You need to rest and get your strength back,” they would reply. “Your grandmother will be here soon.”
In my anguish, I wondered why she was coming. I barely even knew her! When she got there, she told me that my parents had died. At first I vehemently denied it. Maybe that would bring them back, I thought. But no, that was not to be. My pain was such that my cries became piercing wails. My grandmother came up close to me, and when she placed her hands on me, my suffering abruptly ceased, leaving only a feeling of emptiness.
I closed the window firmly and went to bed. Tomorrow I would change my residence. Tomorrow I would change my life.
Early in the morning my grandmother called a taxi to drive us to the airport. It was still dark, and the freezing cold bit my skin. The streets were empty and silent. At the airport, we headed toward the departures monitor.
“What flight are we taking?” I asked.
“We’re going to Rennes.”
“Hmm...” I didn’t see any flight to Rennes. In any case, we walked right past the monitor, with my grandmother taking no notice of it. I had never been to her home. Our contact had been limited to a few phone calls and two holiday celebrations, both at our house. I didn’t really know her, and the thought of spending the rest of my childhood with her in some unknown place worried me.
“Do you live in Rennes?”
“No, we’re going to Comper.”
That name didn’t ring a bell. Noticing my puzzled look, she said, “Comper is in Brittany, in the Broceliande region.”
“Broceliande?” I exclaimed. “Isn’t that the forest of Merlin and King Arthur?”
“Yes, indeed,” she replied.
A surprised gleam came into her beautiful blue eyes, the same eyes as my mom’s, the same as mine... Actually, no, there was something different about her eyes. My mother’s image suddenly appeared in my mind. She was so beautiful, with her long, golden-brown hair falling softly around her face. She resembled her mother but she didn’t have the same elegant way of moving.
I watched my grandmother walking with a firm step toward the departure lounge. With her black high heels, her chic suit and her bun, she looked far different from my mother, who had a graceful but simple appearance. I didn’t know how old she was when she had my mother, was but one thing was certain: I had a young grandmother.
“Mom t
old me stories about King Arthur and Merlin the Wizard every night before going to bed,” I explained.
“Really?” she said with an enquiring look.
“Are you familiar with them?” I asked her.
She narrowed her eyes and gave me a strange look, but she didn’t answer.
We entered a private waiting room – well, I think it was private, because the only person there was a hostess. This was the first time I’d ever flown on a plane, so it was pretty exciting for me. A man came for us and escorted us onto the tarmac. There was something bizarre in the way he moved. He was a giant, with black eyes and a calculated coldness. I had never seen anyone so big and so imposing. He gave the impression that he was monitoring the surroundings, but what exactly was he monitoring? He took me by the shoulder and pushed me calmly forward. I stuffed my hands deep into my jeans pockets, ready to brave the cold.
I had expected to go up in a crowded Airbus, not a
private jet!
I looked at my grandmother. My questioning eyes and raised eyebrows expressed my surprise, but strangely enough, she seemed to avoid meeting my gaze, as if she didn’t want to answer any potential questions from me. A hostess seated us at the front of the plane. I took the window seat, and the giant sat behind us.
Moments later, the plane took off. The city of Strasbourg got smaller and smaller and its lights disappeared under the thick clouds. It was still dark, but dawn was not far away.
The trip was not very long, but it was long enough to think about my parents. I still could not accept their disappearance – I felt that they would appear at any moment. Maybe they were expecting me at the airport? Then they would take me in their arms and tell me they’d missed me. No, of course not... It was so unfair. I was the sole survivor of that car crash.
What had happened?
Even though I tortured my mind, I could not remember. The plane started to descend and I shut out my feeling of frustration.
It was full daylight now. Rennes appeared, tiny at first, then more imposing. I heard a noise indicating that the pilot had lowered the landing gear, so I knew we were on the final approach. When the plane touched the ground, the shock made me jump. The sudden braking that followed lifted me out of my seat, and the seat belt held me back, cutting my breath off. That didn't lessen my enthusiasm though, and I fidgeted with impatience.
After getting our luggage, carried by the giant, we headed to the exit. From the corner of my eye, I noticed a man in a black suit and hat, standing stiffly. I was surprised to see him approach us.
“Good morning Lady Dymas, did you have a good trip?” he asked as he took our luggage.
“Yes, Charles, thank you,” she answered in French.
Then, looking at me, she spoke to him in perfect English: “May I present my grandson Gabriel?”
Apparently, my grandmother didn’t know that I spoke French fluently. I was born in France. My father was English, though, so we had lived in Lancashire since I was a baby. Then my parents had fallen in love with Strasbourg while on holiday, and had decided, only last year, to live there.
“Good morning, sir.”
Sir? I wondered what kind of place I was in, for someone to call me “sir” at eleven years of age.
“Good morning,” I answered in French, a bit intimidated but letting them know I understood French.
We followed Charles to the car and wow, what a car! A black monster with pure lines. A glittering winged figure decorated the front of the oversized hood. I love beautiful cars. My father and I used to watch all the TV shows dedicated to these superb machines.
My God, a Rolls-Royce Phantom!
I ogled it, my mouth wide open. I couldn’t believe it.
“Is this car yours?” I asked my grandmother, still thunderstruck and extremely impressed.
“Yes,” she answered curtly. “Apparently, your mother didn’t tell you much about your family, did she?”
I saw a flash of pain in her eyes, which puzzled me. My grandmother was obviously wealthy. I suddenly realized that my mother had never talked to me about her childhood. I did know that Grandmother hadn’t been in favor of my mother marrying an Englishman. Since the wedding, a coolness had developed between the two women, and my birth hadn’t brought them much closer.
Charles opened the rear door of the car for me. It swung open from the back rather than from the front, which I thought was odd. I climbed in gingerly and sat on the smooth leather seat. The interior was luxurious, with thick carpets and precious woods. The chauffeur drove off in silence, and as expected, the car attracted a lot of attention. We quickly passed through the city and entered a national highway. For half an hour, I only saw green fields scrolling by. Then the car turned onto a narrower road that branched off, and we plunged into a dense forest of extraordinarily majestic trees. Broceliande, a fairytale land…the legendary forest of kings and of magic. Contemplating the wilderness, I uttered my second "Wow!" of the day.
“Is it far?” I asked excitedly.
“No, we’re almost there.”
No sooner had she finished speaking when the trees disappeared and gave way to a clearing and a vast, calm lake. Beyond it, stood a medieval castle. The sight was stunning, beautiful, but strangely cold and sad.
“Wow!” again. I seem to have pronounced just this one word that day.
Two imposing towers topped with impressive, projecting parapets framed the entrance, and a spiky portcullis still in working order defended the door. The immense walls fascinated me – the fact that all this remained intact, even after centuries, testified to the energy with which the warriors of that era protected access to their fortresses. Charles drove onto the drawbridge and across the moat.
We entered the enclosure, and again, I was surprised. On the other side was a second building, newer, more like the kind I had visited with my parents in the Loire region. My mother had explained to me that they dated from the French Renaissance. The wing attached to the castle had big white French doors, and a Virginia creeper had taken possession of a part of the facade. The simplicity of the chapel next to it contrasted with the whole scene.
The tower door of the castle opened, and a man came out. I immediately recognized him as the giant who had accompanied us during the flight. The car slowed, allowing him to greet us, then stopped in the courtyard. Five people dressed in black and white uniforms were waiting on the doorstep.
The oldest of them opened my grandmother’s door, saying in French, "Welcome home, Countess!"
Charles opened my car door, and I got out, intimidated by five pairs of eyes staring at me. I walked with a hesitant step and everyone greeted me with a nod of the head and a "Good morning, sir." I opened my mouth to tell them to call me Gabriel, but the pointed look on my grandmother’s face stopped me. I finally mumbled a hello before following her in.
I was amazed at the ambiance inside. I had actually expected a colder and more somber place, but it was just the opposite – medieval style meets designer furniture and modern decorating. I was immersed in an elegant but warm and welcoming atmosphere, where I immediately felt at home.
I admired the heavy tapestries on the walls, the marble mantelpiece and the plush carpet partially covering the dark, perfectly polished floor. Soft and cozy sofas were arranged near the center of the room for conversation by the fireplace, where a fire crackled and called for relaxation. Beautiful white roses in large vases spread their perfume, which mingled with the odor of wax candles scattered around the room.
“Would you like to see your room?” my grandmother asked.
“Yes,” I replied, curious to see the space reserved for me.
“Come with me, then,” she said encouragingly.
I followed her up a splendid staircase from the foyer to the floor reserved for bedrooms. We passed a music room with a magnificent, black-lacquered grand piano. This room opened into another spacious room via a large doorway, through which I could see lots of books and publications on dark shelves. A few old leather
armchairs left no doubt that the room was a library.
The long hallway gave access to several rooms, all of them bedrooms. Lining the walls were paintings of young women, including my mother and my grandmother. The figures seemed to be related, as they all had fine, delicate features and bright chestnut hair, enhanced by gilded frames with a slight patina.
“These are all members of the family,” she explained to me, noticing the questioning look on my face. She pointed out a few of them, saying, “This is your aunt, and these two are her daughters.”
I studied the portraits as we walked past. There was not one man, as if they had been able to produce only girls in the family.
We finally reached what must have been my room, as she pushed its door open, and I entered a room bathed in light. The white silk curtains framing the huge windows were certainly one of the reasons for this. A massive bed stood in the middle of the room. A heavy curtain embroidered with a gold interwoven motif covered the wall behind the headboard. I was amazed and perplexed.
This couldn’t all be for me – there must be some
mistake!
My parents had always lived simply. True, I had never wanted for anything in my life, but it was a far cry from all this luxury! I turned to the bathroom. It was as big as my old bedroom. The walls and floor were covered with marble tiles, and the immense bathtub and Italian shower oozed relaxation with its rainfall faucets.
I was stunned at noticing that the towels had my
initials.
“If you need something, call George,” my grandmother said kindly, indicating the old man.
“Why, are you leaving?” I asked, instantly worried.
“No, I won’t be far away, but I’m very busy in the day.”
Then, after giving some instructions to George in French, she left me alone. I looked at my little bag, which George had placed at the foot of the bed. At that moment, it seemed to me that all my old life was inside that bag, the most precious element in this whole place.
Heirs of Avalon: The passage Page 1