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
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 and 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
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.’