The Call of Destiny (The Return of Arthur Book 1) (34 page)

 The confrontation with his father gave
Arthur a sleepless night. The next morning he called Leo Grant.

‘I’m on board,’ he said
without elaboration. Leo understood. ‘You’ll stand?’

‘Yes.’

Leo laid aside his mobile, sat
back in his chair and let out a long contented sigh. This was a memorable day.

The Party grandees all agreed
that the matter of the succession needed to be handled with discretion. Arthur
was much admired but still only twenty-nine. Few in the country, or indeed in
United Labour, thought of him as a candidate for leadership of the Party, or at
least not yet. It would take a while to smooth the way, a few weeks, perhaps, a
few months at most, so in the meantime it was vital that the mass media knew
nothing. There were backbenchers to be sounded out, party faithfuls to be
prepared. Assuming all went according to plan, one or two well-disposed
journalists would plant a suggestion here and drop a hint there that Leo Grant
might stand down as leader of United Labour, and that one of the candidates for
the succession could be Arthur Pendragon.

Uther had his spies
everywhere, recognising as he did that having the right information at the
right time was crucial to success in politics. It was not long before a mole in
the ranks of United Labour passed on to him some interesting and extremely
disturbing gossip. If it were based on fact, and Uther thought it must be, then
Arthur was being groomed as the future leader of United Labour. It was a
sobering thought, for his son was already a thorn in his side, and seemed
destined to become much more powerful and influential. He had both the charisma
and the intelligence to galvanise the opposition. Yes, he could be a problem.

It is written that he
will overthrow you.
He could not

get those ridiculous words of
Merlin out of his head. Not that his son would ever succeed in bringing him
down. New Millennium was still the people’s choice, even if their majority had
been rather drastically cut in the last election. And He? Uther Pendragon? Was
he not a popular Prime Minister? Of course he was! Everyone said so. Arthur
didn’t stand a chance. Nevertheless something had to be done. What was the use
of having information if you didn’t make use of it? Uther called a journalist
friend and gave him an exclusive. The following day the story appeared in one
of the biggest-selling London tabloids. It began:

A secret plot has been
hatched by United Labour frontbenchers to topple leader Leo Grant who, they
believe, is no longer up to the job. My inside source tells me that the
young
and inexperienced backbencher, Arthur Pendragon, has the support of the
plotters whose intention is to crown him heir
apparent.

The next day Leo Grant
attacked the Prime Minister in the House for spreading malicious rumours, but
it was too late, the damage was done. United Labour backbenchers, most of whom
had not yet been consulted about the succession, were incensed. As for the
electorate, polls indicated that if an election were called, New Millennium
would be back with an increased majority. Leo Grant was bitterly disappointed
but there was nothing he could do. The rumours had well and truly spread and
continuing to deny them would only give them the oxygen of publicity. He would
just have to bide his time. Meanwhile he would stay on as Party Leader. Told
that his father had leaked the story to the Press, Arthur shrugged the whole
thing off. He was content to remain a backbencher as long as he could express
his views in the House, and no one, not even his father, could stop him doing
that.

The truth was that ever since
Guinevere’s party about a year ago, Arthur had become increasingly preoccupied
with other, more personal matters. His concentration was not what it used to
be. He remembered how he used to day-dream when he was a boy. At twenty-nine, though,
was he not a little old for that sort of thing? Adults were meant to dream at
night while they slept, not during the day when they were wide awake and had
more important things to do. It was disconcerting, not to say downright
worrying. One moment he would be absorbed in answering a letter to a
constituent, the next he was staring out of the window, thinking thoughts that
had nothing at all to do with politics.

Yesterday, for example, he
looked out of his office window and saw a couple walking down the street. Now
and then they touched hands, nothing more than that. They were not even looking
at each other. Yet it was obvious. Love was a strange and disturbing thing. It
came at you from nowhere, and for no apparent reason. Not that reason had anything
to do with it. For was not love a kind of temporary madness, a chemical
imbalance in the brain? It changed everything, or so they said. Certainly it
made it hard to concentrate.

Arthur had been inundated with
invitations – invitations to smart dinners in private homes and restaurants,
invitations to theatre and the opera, to country weekends and gallery openings,
fashion shows and charity evenings. Never had his social life been so active.
As a result there had been attachments but none of the girls, attractive and
charming though they were, had come close to disturbing the chemical balance of
his brain. It was obvious, moreover, that the invitations were planned and
co-ordinated by the mothers of all these eligible young ladies in a systematic
campaign of frightening efficiency. Astonishingly, he had, over a period of a
few weeks, been out with every unattached girl at the dance. Or not quite every
girl.

One of them he had not seen again. He had
thought of phoning her. In truth he thought of little else. But what would be
the point? Obviously she was not interested in him.

Why should she be? For one
thing she was far too young for him. Twenty-nine and eighteen did not walk the
street together, let alone touch hands. He would be wasting his time. Though
she was, he had to admit, exceedingly mature for her age. On an impulse he
phoned Leo Grant to invite him out to dinner. As fate would have it, it was
Guinevere who answered the phone. They began to go out, and the more time she
spent with Arthur, the more Guinevere liked him. She was reassured by his
strength, touched by his gentleness, and impressed by his insight. No man but
her father had ever understood her as well.

As the days and weeks passed,
something was happening to Guinevere. Lanky detected, and found remarkable, a
certain softening of her friend’s manner, and a tender look in her eyes that
she remembered seeing for the first time that night of the party. Fleeting
then, the look now seemed more settled, as if it were content to be where it
was and was contemplating taking up residence. Despite the most vehement
protestations to the contrary, Lanky was convinced that her friend was falling
in love.

Arthur was relaxing in the
sitting room of his flat when Merlin’s illuminated holographic head gradually materialised
in the bookcase in a gap between a book on astronomy and the complete works of
William Shakespeare.

‘I hope you don’t mind my
mentioning it,’ said Arthur carefully, not wishing to offend his friend and
mentor, ‘but I find magic and technology a confusing mix.’

Merlin sighed. ‘What am I
doing wrong this time?’ ‘I would like to see the whole of you.’

‘I don’t think you appreciate
just how tiring all this materialising and de-materialising is.’

‘Then please don’t trouble yourself,’ said
Arthur quickly.

‘Your head will do fine.’

‘Too late,’ said Merlin,
manifesting all of himself in an armchair. Virgil, perched on his shoulder,
ruffled his feathers and hoo-hooed a greeting.

‘She’s not the one for you,’
said Merlin in a sing-song voice. Is this what the magus had come for – to
interfere with his private life? He had never done that before. ‘How can you
say that? She is perfection.’

‘Perfection is not the word I
would use to describe Guinevere.’

Arthur was offended. ‘You obviously don’t like
her.’

‘On the contrary, I like her
very much. She is highly intelligent and quite remarkably beautiful. Still I
fear she is not your cup of tea – or your glass of champagne for that matter.
Find someone else, that girl will bring you pain. You will get over this
infatuation.’

Infatuation? No, that was not
the word to describe how he felt about Guinevere. He had been infatuated with
women before, seeing only what was on the outside; this was surely different.
True, it was Guinevere’s beauty that had first entranced him. Was that not
always the way of a man and a woman? Love had entered through his eyes, but it
had quickly captured his heart and soul. His whole being was filled with
Guinevere and nothing could ever change that. Life without her would be
unthinkable. Merlin would never understand. How could he? What did he know
about love? Still less, about being in love.

‘A great deal more than you
suppose,’ said Merlin, responding to the unspoken question. ‘I was in love
myself once. Still am, if you must know.’

This was a new and startling
thought for Arthur, revealing a very human side of Merlin that he would never
have suspected. Who was the lady, he wondered.

‘Her name is Nimue,’ said
Merlin, answering once again the question that had not been asked.

‘Tell me about her,’ said Arthur.

From the legs up Merlin’s body began to fade.
‘One day, one day, one day,’ his voice echoed.

Arthur wanted to know more but
he would have to wait for a better time to question Merlin about his love life.
Meanwhile the magus had got it wrong, he was certain of that; Guinevere was
most assuredly the girl for him. An entrancing face filled his mind’s eye, a
radiant smile lit up dark eyes, and then, in a sudden change of mood, a proud
tilt of the head and a toss of black hair accompanied a scornful glance and a
sharp rebuke. The blood jetted in his veins, his heart double-somersaulted in
his chest. Find someone else? Who could possibly compare with Guinevere? No
one. She was unique. There was no one like her in the whole wide, wondrous, love-smitten
world.

Nothing was left of Merlin now
but a wistful smile and a glow of green orbs, and just above where his shoulder
had been, there was Virgil’s heart-shaped face. A few moments later they had
both disappeared, leaving only the voice of the magus. ‘Testosterone – is often
prone – to mislead or suborn you. A bad rhyme but good advice. Don’t say I
didn’t warn you.’

Lanky waited impatiently. Guinevere had phoned
with something important to tell her. The suspense was unbearable. The instant
the bell rang, she rushed to the door and flung it open. Grabbing Guinevere by
the hand, she pulled her into the sitting room. ‘Sit!’ Guinevere did as she was
told. ‘Now tell!’ Guinevere fiddled with the ring finger of her left hand. ‘He
asked you, didn’t he?’

Guinevere nodded.

Throwing her arms round her
friend, Lanky shrieked with joy. ‘It’s too much! I can’t take it in. You and
Arthur! It’s a dream come true. Now darling,’ – sitting on the sofa next to
Guinevere she wriggled bum and shoulders ecstatically and settled down for a
long, luscious listen – ‘I want all the details. Everything. Nothing left out,
you understand. How he proposed. How you accepted. What he said. What you said.

Word for word. The lot.’

‘He was very sweet.’ Guinevere
hesitated. ‘It wouldn’t be fair to . . . ’

‘Come on, Ginny, don’t clam up
on me. Give!’ begged Lanky.

Guinevere looked
uncomfortable. Lanky could see she would have a hard time getting it out of
her. It was too aggravating for words. In Guinevere’s place she would have
recited the proposal syllable for syllable, forwards, backwards and sideways,
up and down and inside out, and what’s more, fleshed it out with an exhaustive
description of voice inflexions and facial expressions. ‘What’s the point of
coming here,’ she complained, ‘if you’re not going to tell me anything?’

‘But I am,’ said Guinevere.

Lanky was on the edge of the
sofa. ‘Well, go on.’ ‘He asked me to marry him.’

‘Ye-es?’

‘And I said no.’

Lanky rolled her eyes in
exasperation. ‘Be serious, Ginny.’ She looked at Guinevere again. ‘You are
serious.’

‘Yes.’

‘You turned him down?’ ‘Yes.’

‘You actually turned him
down.’ ‘Yes.’

‘We are talking about the same
man, are we?’ said Lanky incredulously. ‘Arthur . . . ? Arthur Pendragon?’

‘Yes.’ It was little more than a whisper.

Lanky put her head in her
hands. ‘Tell me it isn’t true.’ Her muffled voice was anguished.

Silence.

Lanky looked in horror at her
friend and saw what she had overlooked before. Guinevere’s face was pale, her
eyes circled with dark shadows.

‘Well Ginny, you finally lost it. I always knew
you would sooner or later. Congratulations! You are now one hundred percent
certifiable.’

‘I knew you’d say that.’

‘What else is there to say?
You have just thrown back the catch of the season. Or any other season.’

Guinevere lifted her chin and
said nothing. ‘Do you mind telling me why?’

Guinevere looked down at her
hands. ‘I don’t know. I wish I did. I suppose I funked it. He’s so bloody
distinguished and important. Ex-army. Rising star in the House. Dad says he’s
sure to be Prime Minister one day. It’s more than I can handle. I don’t deserve
him.’

‘If we all got what we
deserved,’ observed Lanky darkly, ‘we would die spinsters. Try again.’

The tears welled in
Guinevere’s eyes, overflowed and rolled down her cheeks. ‘I didn’t sleep a wink
for thinking about it. I only know I don’t feel the way I ought to feel. I
don’t light up when he comes into the room. I don’t feel that special
excitement they talk about. And anyway,’ – she wiped the tears from her face –
‘I’m not even sure I want to feel like that. The thought of losing control
scares me. I think I must be too selfish to fall in love.’