Flesh and Blood

by Bill Kitson

  I waited until after dinner before bringing the subject up. By that time, with no further uncomfortable questions, I could tell that Victoria had relaxed, and was savouring the red wine Robert had poured for her. Once Alison and Tammy had assisted Frank to clear the table and serve coffee, I judged it to be time to make my move. I tried to keep my voice relaxed, reassuring. ‘Victoria, we were interrupted a couple of nights ago, just as I was about to ask you a very important question. Would you please tell us what you know about the murder weapon Robert described?’

  There was a long silence. Victoria’s face went deathly pale. For a moment I thought she was going to faint again. Eventually she gasped, ‘The murder weapon?’

  ‘Yes, Victoria, the murder weapon.’ There was nothing casual or reassuring in my voice or demeanour now, and I hoped my determination to get the truth showed. ‘Tell us what you know about it.’

  ‘What makes you think I know anything about it?’ The denial was unconvincing.

  ‘We hoped you would tell us that,’ I persisted. ‘Have you seen it, perhaps?’

  ‘No, no I haven’t.’

  ‘If you haven’t seen it there’s no harm in telling us about it.’

  The silence that followed was oppressive with tension. ‘Very well, I’ll tell you what I know.’ There was a world of reluctance in Victoria’s voice. ‘Although know is too strong a word. Rumour would be better, and even that’s a wild exaggeration. You will have to suspend judgement and cast away any pre-conceived notions about the subject. And you will have them,’ she added, ‘everyone does. What I’m about to tell you is a story I have spent the better part of my life dismissing as a fable; a fairy tale that came from an old man’s fevered imagination. That was until Robert told me a story that seemed to indicate there could be more substance to the fantastic tale I had heard long ago than just an old man’s ramblings.’

  She sat back, and I thought she looked relieved to be given the opportunity to share the burden of her knowledge. After I heard what she had to tell us, I could readily understand how great that burden was. ‘I must take you back over forty years, to when I was about your age, Alison. I went on an archaeological dig in the summer. A lot of students did, they still do. It was fun, it was interesting to anyone keen on history, and one got fed, housed, and paid a small amount. This particular site was in the West Country. The head of the team was a brilliant historian called Professor Gladstone.’ Victoria smiled. ‘He was also a lecherous old soak, who was forever chasing female students. He managed to get astride at least one every summer. They became known as “The Gladstone Bags”.’

  I saw Victoria look across at Alison, and noticed the quizzical expression on the younger woman’s face. It appeared that Victoria had also seen it. ‘No, Alison,’ she told her dryly, ‘I wasn’t one of them. My taste has always been for younger men. Anyway,’ she continued, ‘when Gladstone wasn’t screwing a student he was usually unscrewing a bottle, or uncorking one. That wasn’t to say he was bad at his job. Edwin Gladstone was one of the finest historians of his era. His knowledge of Britain prior to the Anglo-Saxon era was unrivalled then and now, despite the many discoveries that have been unearthed since his death.

  ‘The incident occurred one evening after a highly successful day on the site. One or two very significant specimens had been unearthed and the dig team was in the mood to celebrate. So we trooped off to the local village pub, which had a good menu, an excellent wine cellar, and a very relaxed attitude to the licensing laws. We ordered a meal and proceeded to get sloshed. After dinner we decided to play a game. It involved selecting an event from history, one that had never been explained satisfactorily, and giving a new version. One of the students named it Mystery from History, I remember, and we were drunk enough to find that amusing. I chose the Princes in the Tower, the only other I can clearly recall was the Marie Celeste, because there was some argument whether it counted, because it was a sea mystery really.

  ‘Everyone bar Gladstone had told their tale. Some of them were good, most were poor. By then it had got to one o’clock and we were about as drunk as we could get. One or two had fallen asleep when Gladstone started to speak. They soon woke up though. If he hadn’t opted for an academic career Gladstone would have a made a damned good actor. He had a magnificent, compelling voice. He stood up, not even swaying, although he’d consumed the best part of two bottles of claret. “I want,” he began, “to tell you the true story of King Arthur.”

  ‘There was a howl of derision, “Not that old chestnut. You’ll be quoting Tennyson or Malory at us next,” someone called out. Gladstone raised one hand and said, “No!” Or rather he boomed it. That one word was enough to silence the objectors. Then he went on. I was drunk, yet I can still recall every word of that story as if it had been last night.

  ‘“You will not find this in any book or poem, play or film. Not in Gildas or Bede, Nennius, the Black Book, the Red Book, or any of the Welsh legends. It is a story to put flight to myth and legend, or perhaps to create another one. Towards the end of the fifth century AD the Celtic tribes that had lived under the uneasy protection of the Roman armies occupying Britain were oppressed from all sides. The collapse of Roman rule left Britain prey to all sorts of acquisitive aggressors. From the North, the Picts and Scots came marauding unchallenged over the now deserted Hadrian’s Wall. Raiders from Ireland came looting, carrying off women, cattle and slaves, but the greatest threat of all came from the Continent, where Angles, Jutes, and Saxons queued to invade.

  ‘“These were desperate and dangerous times. What the Celtic tribes needed was a warlord, a hero, a man they could trust to lead them and wield them into a fighting force worth the name. There had been one, Vortigern by name, but he had betrayed them, sold them out to the Saxons. In answer to their prayers they got not one man, not one leader, but two.

  “‘Celts were masters of metal. Celtic metalwork is still greatly admired to this day; and rightly so. Yet there was one man who took this further, took it to a fine art form. He used his unrivalled knowledge of science to great effect. Some said he was a magician, so great was his skill. No doubt he did little to discourage the notion. Of his character let’s say he was no better and no worse than others of his age. Among his misdeeds he had fathered two illegitimate sons, probably twins. In order to escape the wrath of the kinfolk of the woman he had wronged and fearful for the fate of his babies he fled with them to Brittany where the boys were raised and taught many of his skills and arts.

  “‘When they had become young men they judged it time to return to their native land. Accompanied by their father they set sail for England. Before they left, their father used all his knowledge and some say his magical powers to forge a mighty weapon each for the sons, weapons he knew would render them all but invincible in battle.

  “‘And so it proved. So great was the prowess of these two warriors that their fame spread and with it the reputation of the weapons. One of the sons, with a small band of followers, established himself as warlord along the southern coast of Britain, with a territory stretching to the Thames estuary. The other, with his cohorts, struck further west and soon became leader over the people dwelling in the West Country and the Marches. His campaigns even took him to the north of England.

  “‘But the Anglo-Saxon menace was growing all the time. The two brothers joined forces and with their armies routed the invaders in a mighty battle, at Mount Badon, also known by the Latin name of Mons Badonicus. So overwhelming was their victory that the Saxon advance was halted for almost a century.

  “‘One of these brothers, wise and cunning as his father, foresaw that the Celtic age was passing and that the Saxons would eventually hold sway. He married a Saxon princess and from his offspring came the dynasty that ruled the Kingdom of Wessex until the Norman invasion. Among his many illustrious descendants, the most famous was Alfred the Great. The founder of this dynasty was Cerdic. Most historians will state categorically that Cerdic was Saxon. Not true, for Cerdic is not a Saxon
name. It is a Celtic name, meaning strong arm.

  “‘Further to the west, his twin had also become ruler, but his life was beset with more battles and campaigns until after fighting his last campaign he slips from out of the pages of history books to reappear as one of the most legendary figures the world has ever known. The curious thing is that although much has been made of one brother, to the extent that even the weapon he wielded has become world famous, little has been made of his equally illustrious twin except to acknowledge his existence as the founder of a dynasty.

  “‘The weapons they carried were totally different, equally deadly. One was a sword whose blade was so sharp to receive a wound from it would inevitably prove fatal. The other was a dagger that would tear out the victim’s heart with the ease of a needle passing through silken fabric.

  “‘The western king was Arthur, his mighty sword Excalibur, kept sharp by the scabbard wrought for him by the boy’s father. The Wessex king was Cerdic, his weapon, longer than a knife, shorter than a sword, bore a cylindrical blade so sharp it would cut through skin and flesh, sinew and bone alike all the way to the heart and remove the flesh from a man’s body. The weapon wrought for Cerdic was named Excoria.

  “‘That is the true story of King Arthur, his twin brother King Cerdic and their weapons Excalibur and Excoria, forged for them by their father. The father has been ascribed many names, but you know him best as Merlin. I could tell you more, had you the wit to appreciate it, greater legends even than the Arthurian one could spring to life here, but I will not. Some things are better left unsaid; some things are better left as myths for the world to speculate on.”’

  Victoria Riley stopped. She was trembling and pale, and for a moment I was concerned, but she recovered and took a gulp of her wine. After a few minutes, she licked her lips and added, ‘Gladstone said no more, but everyone in that room believed him, for a time at least. I was more persistent. Something told me that there was more in that story than a drunken interpretation by a clever historian, and then there was that cryptic ending. What myth was it, I wondered, that was so great it would put even the legend of King Arthur into the shade? I was sure Gladstone had something to back up his wild tale, some evidence that none other had seen. I pursued him until he was dying, but without success. Nor was I the only one, as he remarked the last time I saw him. He told me, “I believed the secret was safe for all time, but recent developments make me wonder and worry if that might not be so.”

  ‘I asked him what he meant, and he said, “There are others seeking the same information as you, and they are equally determined to try and get it, which is one reason I have no regrets about what is happening to me. To be honest, Victoria, I tremble to think what might happen if the truth came out. If you have the bad luck to be the one to find it, the wit to decipher it, and the wisdom to interpret it you will know all I do, and I trust that you will interpret the danger and act accordingly.” I thought that was all he was going to say, but then he added something even more cryptic, “I hope for your sake, Victoria that you never find it. I hope it stays lost in the mists of time, where it belongs. If, by some evil mischance it should come to light, I hope you, or whoever finds it has the strength, the wisdom, and the courage to do what I have done and leave it for the past. Let the dead bury their dead. One resurrection is enough.” Then he burst out laughing.’

  ‘What do you think he meant by that?’ Robert asked quietly.

  Victoria shook her head. ‘I’ve absolutely no idea. I have racked my brains ever since then to try and work out what else he might have concealed from me, but I cannot claim any success.’

  ‘Do you believe his tale has any merit to it?’ Alison pressed her.

  ‘I’ve wondered that too, ever since I heard it. The problem has always been evidential. Recently one or two theorists have suggested a link between Arthur and Cerdic. The popular misconception that Cerdic was Saxon arose because he ruled a Saxon people, his Celtic name said to have been given to him by his mother, who may have been a Celt. That is entirely possible, but look at the names he gave his own offspring. For the next three generations these were all Celtic. How much more likely that Cerdic himself was a Celt and ruled over the Saxon kingdom of Wessex because he was both the most powerful man of his time and had married well. As to whether I believe it, I might have gone to my grave not knowing, or classing it as yet another Arthurian legend and God knows we don’t need any more of them, until I sat there and listened to Adam and Robert telling the story of the murders. I was little more than mildly interested in what they had to say, and then, suddenly, from out of the blue, Robert described wounds that could only have made by a weapon from a time fifteen hundred years ago, a weapon of fable at most.

  ‘It was then that I realised that evidence might exist that pointed to the existence of Arthur, Merlin, and Cerdic, beyond the pages of fiction, or doubtful factual accounts written many centuries later; proof that could lead to the complete re-writing of the history of that period. Can you wonder that I fainted?’

  Discussion of Victoria’s extraordinary tale took up the remainder of the evening. I could tell the others were having as much difficulty as me in believing what she had told us, and I mentioned this. ‘I think we have a huge problem here, Victoria. Let’s be honest, how often do you hear of myths and legends being brought to life without huge scepticism from those who witness it? Having said that, I must admit that you have provided the only indication yet as to how those wounds were inflicted, and the only weapon that might have been used, improbable as it might sound.’

  ‘Where does it leave us, though?’ Robert asked. ‘Should we go to the police with this story?’

  Eve counselled against that idea. ‘I have to say, I did wonder whether we ought to, but then I tried to imagine what their reaction would be, and I don’t think the time is right to involve them with something they would consider as far-fetched as this.’

  ‘Eve’s right,’ I added. ‘They would probably consider that the bump on the head had affected Victoria and have her carted off to the funny farm and then search the manor for the hallucinogenic drugs they thought we’d been taking.’

  My absurd remark made everyone smile, even Victoria, who I could tell was still affected by the story she had recounted. I guessed that the tale was something she had kept to herself for a long time, never imagining that she would share it with anyone.

  ‘Apart from Adam’s suggestion,’ Eve told them, ‘looking at it from a practical point of view, as far as the police are concerned hearing what Victoria has told us wouldn’t take them any further forward in solving the murders. We may have a clue as to the nature of the weapon, but that gets us no closer to identifying the killer or their motive. Whether you choose to believe the story of Arthur and Cerdic or not, we need something else, something that will lead us to whoever wielded the weapon that inflicted the wounds. Only when we get that will we be on our way to solving the mystery.’

  It was Alison who had the final word on the matter. ‘I agree with everything Adam and Eve have said. Their advice is spot-on. It is far too early to go to the police, not unless we have something far more credible. Having said that, the prospect of discovering anything that would prove the existence of King Arthur beyond the pages of fiction is immensely exciting.’

  There was total agreement on that score, and yet, as I pointed out to Eve in the privacy of the Rose Room, everyone had seemingly ignored or missed the possibility of something even more intriguing in Victoria’s story; something she had only hinted at.

  ‘You don’t think she was holding something back, do you? I thought she told us everything she knows. It didn’t seem to me that she was hiding anything.’

  ‘I’m not suggesting she withheld anything, Evie, but at one point she admitted that Gladstone hadn’t told her everything. The way she told it, there was the hint of an even greater mystery, and yet I can’t think of anything that might surpass the Arthurian legend as a sensational revelation.’

 
I found sleep hard to come by that night, which was hardly surprising given what we’d heard. Eve was luckier it seemed, having dozed off even before I got into bed alongside her. However, her rest was uneasy, and seemed troubled by dreams once again. From time to time she spoke, or rather she uttered sounds, but they were unintelligible. Not only that, but her voice changed, the tone deeper and more guttural.

  Hours passed and I was still awake. I was aware that Eve’s dream was causing her to become more agitated. Concerned by this, I reached over and put my arm around her, my sole object being to console her; to provide comfort. At first she stiffened, resisting my embrace, but then I felt her body relax, and she sighed contentedly. Her breathing eased and she turned to face me, returning my embrace. ‘Sorry,’ she murmured, ‘I was dreaming again, wasn’t I?’

  ‘You were a bit. Are you OK?’

  ‘I’m fine, absolutely fine.’ She began to caress me, and her voice dropped to a whisper, ‘Or rather, I will be if you make love to me.’

  I couldn’t see a problem with that idea.

  Next morning I was awake before Eve, but I didn’t move, not wanting to disturb her. I wondered what her dream had been about. Whatever it was, it obviously hadn’t upset her. Not if the outcome was anything to go by. I smiled at the memory of the passion that had preceded our falling asleep in each other’s arms. Almost immediately, however, as if she sensed that I was no longer asleep, she stretched and opened her eyes, her expression one of drowsy content. And as if she had read my mind said, ‘Good morning, lover, would you like to hear about my dream?’

  ‘Yes please,’ I replied. ‘I enjoyed the effect too much not to.’

  ‘It was the bear, like before, but this time he was showing me things.’

  ‘What sort of things?’

  ‘I don’t know, that’s the weird part, I couldn’t really make sense of a lot of it. I do remember some bits, though. There was an old cottage, one that was in a very dilapidated state, and a marsh, with reeds and an open expanse of water, and a baby’s cot, but I couldn’t see inside it, so I don’t know if it was empty or not. It was all very confusing and jumbled up, and I’ve no idea what it meant, if anything.’