The Call of Destiny (The Return of Arthur Book 1)
The Call of Destiny
Alan Fenton
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© Alan Fenton 2015
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Born in London, Alan Fenton was educated at Mercers’ School in the City. Having won an open scholarship to Oxford he did two years National Service in the Royal Air Force, becoming a Pilot Officer, before going up to St Edmund Hall to read English Language and Literature.
On graduating, he worked as a trainee in business for a couple of years before writing a sketch for a children’s television programme starring Ronnie Corbett. This led to a career writing comedy sketches and scripts for T.V. comedy series, Saturday Night Spectaculars and Sunday Nights at the London Palladium for most of the top comedians of the day, including Ronnie Corbett, Bruce Forsyth, Dickie Henderson, Roy Castle, Arthur Haines, Jack Douglas and Joe Baker, Dick Emery, Irene Handl, Des O’Connor and many others.
After several years of comedy scriptwriting, he drifted back into business. Working for a large American trading organisation he travelled the world, until he and a few friends set up their own company trading in metals and minerals, and ultimately in oil.
Leaving business a few years later, he wrote the Shadow of the Titan, his first novel, based loosely on his business experiences. Subsequently he wrote The Call of Destiny, the first book in the Return of Arthur cycle, and its sequel, The Hour of Camelot.
Alan Fenton lives in London with his wife and nine Pekinese dogs.
The weapon forged
Yet some men say in many parts of England that
King Arthur is not dead . . . Men say that he shall come again . . . I will not say that it shall be so, but rather
I will say, here in this world he changed his life.
But many men say that there is written upon his tomb this verse: ‘Hic Iacet Arthurus, Rex Quondam Rexque Futurus.’
sir thomas Mallory
Table of Contents
Introduction
Part One
To Save the World
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Part Two
Father and Son
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Parte Three
Destiny Fulfilled
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Introduction
Time Past, Time Future
On the summit of a hill in the county of Somerset stands a solitary church tower, bearing witness to the ferocity of nature and of man. It is all that survives of two churches that once stood here. The first was destroyed by an earthquake, the second by the command of Henry the Eighth. As sunset approaches, subtle details of stone and lichen, archway and niche, buttress and embrasure, are lost in the deepening shadows. Silhouetted against the evening sky the stark stone mass of the tower dominates the soft contours of the landscape, uniting earth and heaven.
A few yards from the base of the tower, on a mound that marks the crest of the Tor two motionless figures stand, one taller than the other. Seen from the valley below, their dark shapes loom, remote and mysterious. There is a haunting and powerful aura about them, as if they were not people but primeval monoliths or statues of pagan gods in an ancient burial ground. In some strange way they are beings apart, belonging not to the present time, but to time itself.
The hill is otherwise deserted, as are the woods at its foot and the countryside beyond. The red ball of the sun sinks below the horizon. The west wind that has gusted all day is suddenly stilled. Not a sound, not even a breath of air, disturbs the silence. Nothing stirs. In this hushed moment, the earth and all the planets that only an instant before wheeled round the sun, seem to hang motionless in space.
Slowly the taller figure raises his hand, as if to release the world from its spell, then touches the boy lightly on the shoulder. ‘Shall we go? It’s getting late.’
They begin the descent. ‘Tell me more about him,’ says the boy.
‘He was a great leader,’ his older companion responds. ‘King of Britain, as they called it then. When he came to the throne the country was under constant attack by its enemies, both from outside and within.’
Down the steep track they jolt, each for a time absorbed in his own thoughts, the boy’s head buzzing with questions. ‘But what exactly did he do?’
‘The world had gone mad. The king tried to bring it back to its senses, and restore meaning to people’s lives. He wanted to give them courage and hope for the future. But to do that he first had to impose order on chaos.’
‘How do you mean, impose?’
The man nods approvingly. ‘You are right to question that word. He questioned it too. The thought of using force troubled him. But after much heart searching he decided that if mankind was to be saved, he had no other choice. He was given the power to do it, you see, power so formidable that many thought he had been sent to earth by God, or even that he himself was a divine being.’
‘And was he?’ ‘No.’
‘So he was just an ordinary man?’
A brief silence. ‘He was a man, but no ordinary man. When he was young he found it hard to believe he had a special destiny. He wanted to lead a fun life and have a happy time, just as most people do. But as he grew older he came to understand that he was not the same as other men, and that the road he would have to take would be a different one.’
‘Because of the power he had?’
‘Yes. And because of the way he chose to use it.’ ‘How do you mean?’
‘Other men would have used it for selfish ends, but not him. He decided to fight the forces of darkness and chaos. He was a brave and cunning warrior; but he was also much more than that, a philosopher and a visionary, a wise and humane individual, gallant, just and honourable. Those who ruled by terror feared him. Those whom they terrorised, worshipped him. And in return he loved and honoured them, the ordinary men and women. He had a dream, a dream that one
day the meek really would inherit the earth. But he knew they could only do it with his help.’
‘Was there no one else they could turn to?’
‘No one else whom good men and women would follow, no other leader who had the courage and strength of character to meet the challenge. Not that he was the only one who saw the world descending into chaos; there were leaders in other lands who feared for the future but were too weak, or too corrupt, or simply too afraid to act. As everything around them disintegrated, they stood by helplessly, resigned to self- destruction, accepting that mankind was doomed. They had abandoned all hope of changing anything; they no longer cared what happened. But he cared. He did everything in his power to create a new world for mankind, a world based on love and respect and justice.’
‘And did he succeed?’
‘For a while. Until things started to go wrong.’
The boy is impatient. ‘But how? Why? I want to know everything.’
‘It’s a long story. Are you sure you want to hear it?’ asks the man, teasing his young friend.
‘You know I do!’
A loving hand rests lightly on the boy’s head. ‘Then you shall.’
A mole of thought furrows the boy’s brow. ‘Is it just a story?
Or was there really such a person?’
‘There was,’ says the man, adding tantalisingly, ‘and may be again.’ The boy looks puzzled.
‘There are those who say that if ever he is needed, he will come again.’
The boy’s eyes shine. ‘What will he do?’
In the twilight the first star shows itself. A pale sliver of moon floats above the horizon.
‘Now there’s a question,’ the man says softly. ‘What will he do . . .? Well now, I imagine he will try to save mankind, just as he did all those centuries ago. Lord knows, we need saving.’
The boy nods in acknowledgement, though scarcely understanding.
‘You never told me his name.’ ‘You know it already.’
‘I do?’
‘From the story books.’
The boy stands still and looks up at his beloved mentor, puzzled.
The man looks fondly down. ‘You want a clue?’ ‘Yes.’
‘You have the same name as that king.’
For a second or two the wide eyes dream, catching the starlight, then suddenly sparkle as he laughs with delight. ‘Oh, that king!’ On an impulse he cups his hands around his mouth and shatters the silence, crying out the name at the top of his voice. ‘Arthur!’
The echoes wrap around him like a cloak in a swirl of wind
. . . ‘Arthur! . . . Arthur! . . . Arthur!’, then tumble down the hill, fading as they fall, losing themselves in the twilight woods.
Part One
To Save the World
One
1994
A tall, good-looking man in his early thirties strode briskly along Pall Mall, headed up St. James’s Street, pausing for a moment to peer through the window of his favourite cigar shop, and bounded up the steps of Grey’s, the most prestigious of all London’s private membership clubs. Pushing his way through the swing doors, he observed the tranquil scene inside with some amusement. Whatever upheavals and cataclysms had convulsed the world in the last three hundred years had left this hushed and elite interior undisturbed.
In the sitting area directly ahead, a few men lounged in button-back maroon leather armchairs, reading newspapers, chatting in subdued voices, or merely dozing. To the left, the famous bar (where it was said MI5 and MI6 once recruited spies) was almost empty. Not exactly what you would call a hive of activity, the young man thought. Most people would find the atmosphere stuffy and, in truth, so did he, but stuffy or not, Grey’s was London’s premier ‘establishment’ club, the one to which everyone who was anyone belonged. The question was, did he?
General Sir Roger Harding, KCVO, GBE, MC, DSO and bar, advanced towards him with outstretched hand. ‘Congratulations, Pendragon! The committee has approved your application.’
Yes! Elation powered through Uther’s body. With difficulty he restrained himself from punching the air triumphantly. Members of Greys did not punch air. ‘Fantastic! Thank you, sir.’
‘Don’t thank me. Having the Marquess of Truro as your sponsor was the clincher.’
‘If only he were still around to thank,’ said Uther sadly. Lord Godfrey Whittaker had died of a gunshot wound to the head less than a month ago.
‘Suicide, wasn’t it?’ enquired the general.
‘Could have been an accident. Coroner delivered an open verdict. But you know . . . ’ Uther lowered his voice discreetly, ‘there were financial problems. I tried to help, but . . . ’ – a shrug – ‘Godfrey was a proud man.’
‘How is his wife taking it?’
‘Devastated, naturally.’ Uther looked appropriately solemn. ‘But Igraine’s a strong lady. And of course she has the three girls.’
‘Quite so.’ A closer look at Uther. ‘Ever been told you look like him?’
Uther nodded. ‘Many times.’
‘All very sad. Still, there we are. Life goes on. Like you to meet a couple of friends of mine.’ The general gestured towards the bar.
‘Delighted,’ said Uther.
It was not yet noon, and there were only two other men in the bar. One was fiftyish, a wiry, compact man, with a neat moustache and close cropped hair – a civil servant he guessed, or a soldier in civvies? The other looked distinctly eccentric, not at all the sort you would expect to meet in Grey’s. He was young, considerably younger than Uther – in his mid-twenties, perhaps – with blond, shoulder-length hair. He wore some kind of white smock, and over it one of those sloppy linen jackets with no shape and no collar. The jacket was too short, and the smock reached almost to his knees. Fish out of water. What was a weirdo like this doing here?
Drinks ordered, the general made the introductions. ‘Colonel James Armstrong – Uther Pendragon.’ Just as he thought. The man with the moustache was a soldier, his keen gaze and firm handshake expressing his forthright personality. ‘James is Chief of the Joint Forces Weapons and Communications Research and Development Unit in Beaconsfield. Quite a mouthful, eh? Very hush-hush. A member of this club for how long, James?’
‘Twenty years,’ said the colonel, ‘and every one of them a joy and a privilege.’ He indicated the weirdo. ‘My deputy, Merlin Thomas.’ Expecting Thomas’s handshake to be limp, Uther was surprised to find his hand held in a strong and controlling grip. For a moment he had the impression he was being detained and scrutinised. The eyes that studied him were green, luminous and hypnotic.
‘We are trying to persuade Merlin to become a member of Grey’s,’ the general remarked. As he spoke, the weirdo blinked and released Uther’s hand. Persuade! Who could possibly need persuading to become a member of Grey’s? Uther was puzzled and irritated. Wasn’t there a ten year waiting list for God’s sake! In exceptional cases someone was able to jump the queue, as Uther had done. But what was so exceptional about Merlin Thomas? He looked as though he would be more at home in a field, with a crook in his hand and a flock of sheep at his heels, than here in the most distinguished club in London.
‘Merlin was the outstanding Oxford man of his generation,’ said Colonel Armstrong, as if answering the unspoken question. ‘A true genius.’
‘You exaggerate, James,’ said Merlin Thomas, smiling. ‘Does he?’ said the general. ‘Three double firsts before the age of twenty sounds like genius to me.’
‘He is also the outstanding inventor of the age,’ said the colonel. ‘The country is indebted to him. We are very fortunate to have him at Beaconsfield.’
Uther was beginning to be irritated by the praise they were lavishing on the weirdo. Were they trying to put him in his place? Did they secretly resent the upstart South London boy invading these hallowed halls? Or were they simply envious of his wealth?
‘Are you involved in the space race?’ he asked, trying to make intelligent conversation, ‘or are weapons
your speciality?’
‘Forgive me, but I’m not allowed to answer that,’ said Merlin.
‘Official Secrets’ Act,’ the colonel muttered.
After an awkward pause, the general abruptly changed the subject. ‘Pendragon’s a property developer.’
‘What company is that?’ asked the colonel.
‘It’s called Pendragon,’ said Uther. ‘My own outfit. You wouldn’t have heard of it.’
Merlin intoned, as if reciting from an invisible text: ‘Pendragon Property Development and Management. West End of London, 96-101, King George Street. Five floors. Private company registered in 1982 with an initial capital of two thousand pounds, now believed worth in the region of two hundred million. Major commercial developments in the City of London, the Docklands, Chelsea Harbour, Knightsbridge, Wimbledon, Manchester, Liverpool and Glasgow. Also fifteen apartment blocks.’
Uther laughed. ‘Have you been swatting up on me?’
‘Not really,’ said Merlin. ‘I expect I read about you somewhere or other. When I have nothing better to do, I soak up information on the Internet, or I memorise the Yellow Pages, trade gazettes, company reports, phone directories, that sort of thing.’