Excalibur Rising (23 page)

     “Oh come on,” said Mordricus, “you can speak English.”
      “I can,” said Bors, “but these men cannot.”
     “Better if they don’t understand us,” said Mordricus.  “You know Professor Ryan, of course.”
     Bors nodded his head. “Do you want me to kill him?”
     “No, I do not,” said Mordricus, “or at least, not yet.”
     Ryan stared at the man who had killed Taras Peacock, and Carlton Lewis, and taken Barry Marshall’s children.  He felt a kind of hopeless anger; anger at what had been done and hopelessness because he could see no way to right the wrong.  He was out of time and out of place, in a primitive thatched hall, surrounded by men who were armed with weapons that he recognized from his own archaeological digs; broadswords, heavy and blunt for hacking through flesh and bone, daggers sharp and furtive,  axes for fighting one on one.  He had nothing but the gift of his own wits, which at that moment seemed to have deserted him, and the faint hope that the children were somewhere in the village.  Violet had said that they were beyond her reach, in a different place.  Well, this was definitely different.
     Mordricus caught hold of his arm and led him to a corner of the hall where the air was a little clearer, motioning to Bors to stay back.
     “Owe you an explanation, old boy,” said Mordricus.  “I’ve been watching you for a while and you strike me as an intelligent kind of chap, and you definitely know your history.  Of course you don’t know this particular history, but I think you can make yourself at home here.”
     “Here?” said Ryan.  “I’m not staying here.”
     “It’s that or I give you to Bors,” said Mordricus.
     Ryan looked over his shoulder to where Bors had shouldered his way onto one of the benches and was demolishing a chunk of meat.  He appeared to be listening to the talk around the table, but his one eye remained focused on Ryan.
      A small ragged boy approached Mordricus and offered two wooden mugs. 
     Mordricus handed one mug to Ryan.  “Drink up,” he said. “You’ll feel better.  Going through the gate is a bit disconcerting, isn’t it?  No idea what the science is.  It’s Merlin’s magic, but you and I have both been to school, we know there has to be a scientific explanation.  I imagine it’s something molecular.”
     Mordricus paused.  “Ah, maybe you think I’ve given you poison.  I can’t blame you, after all, your old friend Taras...well, let’s not talk about that.” He took the mug from Ryan’s hand took a long swallow and handed it back.  “See, nothing.  It’s safe to drink.  Try it.”
      Ryan sipped at the drink.  The flavor was smoky and sweet with a hint of fruit, maybe apple. It was, in fact, delicious.  He drank again. 
      “Feels better,  doesn’t it?” said Mordricus.  “So let me tell you, old man, you’re not in Kansas anymore.”  He laughed at his own joke. “Wizard of Oz,” he said. “Oh, you have no idea how confusing it is to live in two worlds.  Bors understands, but basically, despite his experience in your world, he’s an oaf.”
      He indicated two rough wooden stools tucked into a secluded corner. “Come, sit,” he said.
      Ryan, still nursing the drink, dropped down onto one of the stools.  Mordricus scooted his seat closer to Ryan and dropped his voice to a whisper.
      “I’m going to tell you quickly and quietly,” he said. “The people in this hall probably wouldn’t understand if I shouted it from the rooftops but I don’t want to take the risk.  Believe it or not, they do actually speak a very early form of English and they will recognize certain words.  So we’ll keep this quiet and just between us.  We don’t want the peasants to be revolting, do we?”  He laughed again. “Sorry, I just can’t resist a joke, it’s the result of my ridiculous education.”
     Ryan drank again, feeling the calming fumes from the smoky liquid pacifying his angry thoughts and stilling the clamor of questions.  He resolved to be quiet and to listen. When he had listened, then he would take action, if action was possible. 
     “So, in a nutshell,” said Mordricus, “this is Albion, an island very similar to the island of Britain, occupying a similar position in a similar world, but in a different reality.  I read some science fiction when I was in your world, watched some TV,  caught a few episodes of Star Trek, so I don’t think you’re going to be too shocked when I say that we are in a parallel world.  For all I know there could be millions of parallel worlds, but I can’t speak from experience.  I only know of two, yours and mine. Thanks to the work of Merlin, who the people here think of as a magician, a select few of us are actually able to travel between the worlds.  Any questions?”
      “Not yet,” said Ryan. “Keep talking.”
     “Oh I intend to,” said Mordricus, “just remember that I’m giving you the basics. There are people here who could tell you the same story in epic poem form and it would take hours, and you’d be none the wiser, because of all the talk of magic.  Anyway, let me continue.”
      “Please do,” said Ryan.
      “Some nine hundred years ago, we were ruled by a High King,” said Mordricus. “His name was Uther Pendragon....no, don’t interrupt me, I know you’ve heard of him and that’s the point of my story.  Uther Pendragon, misusing his royal powers, raped the wife of the King of Cornwall, and she gave birth to a son.”
     “Arthur,” said Ryan.
     “I told you not to interrupt,” Mordricus said with a sudden flash of fierce anger that gave the lie to his cheerful schoolboy exuberance.
Ryan subsided into silence.
      “Arthur raised in secret, blah, blah, blah,” said Mordricus, “brought out of hiding by Merlin, pulls the sword out of the stone, becomes the king.  Well you know all that.  He was a good king, brought peace and prosperity to Albion, brought the army under control, married a beautiful woman, and all the rest of it.  Unfortunately, Arthur’s knights soon got bored with peace, and nothing to do but hunt dragons... yes, we had, and still have, a few dragons; so Merlin opened the gates to another reality and let them go through into your world, Britain in the Dark Ages, and that’s why you have your Arthurian legends and why you have no historical source for King Arthur.”
      “Really?” asked Ryan.
     “Yes,” said Mordricus, “if you think about it for a moment, it makes perfect sense.”
      “If I hadn’t seen this with my own eyes …”
     “But you have, haven’t you?” said Mordricus.
     “Yes, I have,” Ryan agreed, “but if it was nine hundred years ago___”
     “Yes, well, that’s the rub, as dear old Willie Shakespeare would say,” said Mordricus. “We are, for want of a better word, under an enchantment.  Arthur, you see, only managed to father one child, and the Queen was not involved.  Arthur and his half-sister produced a child who was double cursed, a bastard born of incest, my ancestor, Mordred.”
      “Your ancestor?”
     “Of course, that’s why I’ve had all the privileges of an education in your world.  For centuries the first born male child of Mordred’s line has been educated to become king.  We, along with some of our relatives, are educated in your world where learning has flourished.  We stand ready to assume the throne of Albion and usher in a new era, but we are still condemned to continue to live like pigs, in darkness and ignorance.”
     “But if Arthur is dead,” Ryan ventured to ask,  “what’s to stop you?”
     “If!” Mordricus bellowed, “If only.  But he’s not.  Your poets, Tennyson, Mallory, Taliesin, they have the story straight.  Arthur is not dead, he’s  sleeping.”
     “That’s what Molly Walker believed,” said Ryan, “or at least what she wanted to believe.”
     “Yes,” said Mordricus, still angry, still shouting, “It’s a lovely story isn’t it?  Righteous King Arthur sleeping until he’s needed again.  Does anyone stop to ask what’s supposed to happen to the rest of us?  We were at war, and we were winning.  Mordred was Arthur’s only true heir, bastard or not, but Arthur wouldn’t give up the throne to a bastard, which is ironic because he was himself a bastard.  So he’s wounded, he’s dying, and what happens?  Well, I’ll tell you what happens, the interfering old temple maidens from Avilion come and carry him away, that’s what happens.”
     Ryan stared at Mordricus whose face was red with anger.  Although he was telling a story that was nine centuries old, he was as angry as if it had happened yesterday. Perhaps in Albion’s strange time warp, nine hundred years was the same as yesterday.  When one reality could become another reality, and molecules could shift between universes, who could say what would happen to the reality of time itself?
     “Well,” said Mordricus, abruptly abandoning his anger, “thanks to your research, Doctor Ryan, we now know where Arthur is sleeping.  It’s as we suspected, he’s not in our world, he’s in yours, and it appears that he doesn’t have his sword.”
     “Does that make a difference?” Ryan asked.
     “None of us know how Merlin worked his magic,” Mordricus said. “For centuries we believed that Arthur and Excalibur were somewhere together, and that Arthur would eventually be healed through the power of Excalibur and he’d be back to finish the fight.  Well, it hasn’t happened, so we have to assume something went wrong, and my best guess is that Arthur and Excalibur are separated. Arthur is neither dead nor alive, and while he waits in limbo, so do we.”
     “So what will you do,” Ryan asked, “now that you know where he is?”
     “We’ll take him,” said Mordricus.  “I haven’t told Bors the good news yet, but I will as soon as I’ve finished here with you.  Bors and I will go back through the gate and we’ll bring him here.  Alive or dead, he’s coming back here.  That should be enough to bring Merlin out into the open.”
     “Merlin’s still alive?” Ryan asked.
     “He’s somewhere,” said Mordricus. “He’s in the wind, or the trees, or the water.  He’s still with us, still weaving his magic, and Arthur is our bargaining chip.  He’ll come out of hiding to rescue his precious Arthur, and the price will be a throne for me and the end of this war.”
     “You mean you’re still at war?” Ryan asked.
      “Yes, that’s exactly what I mean,” said Mordricus.  “We can’t win and we can’t lose but we still fight. That’s Merlin’s curse for us, the result of his interfering magic.  There is technology in your world that could end this war in a couple of days, a few rifles, a couple of bomb. It would take very little, but nothing like that can come through the gate.  We just go on hacking at each with broadswords, hurling spears, and shooting arrows.  It’s pathetic.  Without Excalibur we can’t end it ourselves, but if we have Arthur, then we’ll have Merlin.   Of course it would be better to have Excalibur, but I think we’ve waited long enough.”
      “It’s all very hard to believe,” Ryan said, risking another outburst of anger from Mordricus.
     Mordricus shrugged his shoulders.  “You can hardly deny reality,” he said, “unless you can come up with another explanation.  Do you think you’re dreaming ,or hallucinating?”  He abruptly raised his hand and struck Ryan hard across the face. Ryan sprang to his feet, spilling the remains of his drink and knocking over the stool.
     “See,” said Mordricus, “not a dream and not a hallucination.  You’re really here, Professor.  And it’s time to choose sides, because I’m not letting you back through the gate.  You’re either with me, or I let Bors take care of you.  Which would you prefer?”
     Ryan, still shaken by the sudden blow, struggled to form an answer.  He looked at Bors who stared back with undisguised menace in his one good eye.  He looked around at the other roughhewn men.  Although they appeared to be at rest, each had a sword at his side, and each wore a metal breastplate.  Even the shaggy, long-legged dogs nosing for scraps among the rushes looked at him with malevolence.  How could he fit into such a world?
     “Well?” said Mordricus.
     Any answer that Ryan might have made was cut off by a trumpet blast from outside.  The men at the table sprang to their feet, swords in hands, the dogs growled.  Bors rushed to Mordricus’ side and handed him a sword and a breastplate. 
     Mordricus buckled on the armor and turned from a caricature of an English gentleman into a primitive war lord. “Stay out of this,” he ordered.  “Get yourself into a corner and keep quiet.”
     He bounded to the center of the room, raising the sword above his head and screeching a glorious wild war cry.  The doors of the long house were flung open and Ryan heard the sound of women screaming and saw the flicker of burning thatch.
        Mordricus and Bors led the warriors out into the night, and a small boy closed the doors behind them.  The boy looked at Ryan with dark eyes full of fear, and then dropped a cross beam into place, and ran to bury himself among the reeds in a dark corner.       

CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Todd
     Todd allowed himself the luxury of a loud yawn.  The effect of the third cup of coffee was wearing off and he could scarcely keep his eyes open.  On the other hand, Molly Walker and Michael Mandretti seemed to have energy to burn. They were finally in among the display cases of the Regimental Museum at Shrewsbury Castle.  They had spun out the hours between their arrival in Shrewsbury at 3:00 in the morning until now by slumping around a table in all night cafe, drinking coffee to keep themselves awake while Freddie took a nap outside in the limo.
     They arrived at the red brick castle not long after sunrise.  The museum was not due to open until 10:00 a.m. but Molly had waved her credentials, and Mandretti had raised his voice, and they had finally persuaded a security officer to phone the Assistant Curator to come in and open the door. 
      Todd, generally a soft-spoken and non-confrontational soul, had distanced himself from his bullying companions, nursing his Styrofoam coffee cup, and trying to remain invisible. Now he watched Molly Walker stalking through the exhibits with the museum official, a small man who had obviously dressed in a hurry and failed to shave, close on her heels.  Michael Mandretti tagged along waiting eagerly for her to pronounce sentence on the various weapons on display.
     “Is this everything?” she asked the Assistant Curator.
     He nodded his weary and rumpled head.  “Everything, Professor,” he said.
     “They’re all 18
^th
century,” Molly declared.
     “Yes,” he agreed.  He stifled a yawn.  “I told you on the phone,” he said.
      “What about the bomb damage?” Molly asked. “1992 the IRA bombed the castle.  Did it destroy any of the exhibits?”
     “No;” he said, “nothing was destroyed and everything has been cleaned and put back on display.”
      “And this is what you showed to Professor Taras Peacock?” she confirmed.
     “Yes, he catalogued the collection for us and it was very kind of him.  He said his family had a connection with the area, and he was happy to help out.  I’m sure you know, Professor, the value of a well curated exhibition.”
     “Yes, of course,” said Molly, “and I also know that value of rotating the exhibits and bringing some out for special events.  So do you have some items that are not currently on display?”
     “No,” said the Assistant Curator. “Professor Walker, if you could just tell me what you’re looking for …”
     “A sword,” said Mandretti.  “A big sword.”
     The official looked wearily at Mandretti. “I’ve shown you the swords,” he said.  “I don’t know what else to tell you.  I’ve given you every courtesy here, Professor Walker, but I really don’t see how I can be of any further assistance.  So, if you’ll excuse me____”
     “Did you put everything back on display?” Molly asked.
     “Almost everything.” he replied.
     Todd pricked up his ears and stepped closer, sensing the first chink in the Assistant Curator’s armor.
     “Almost everything,” said Mandretti.  “Are you keeping something back?”
     The official took a step backward. “No, I’m not keeping anything back.  There’s nothing else here.”
     “But you said almost everything,” Mandretti insisted. “Perhaps you don’t understand how serious we are about this sword.  If it’s a question of money?”
     “Money?”” said the Assistant Curator “I don’t know what you’re implying.  I’m sure I don’t know what the custom is in your country, but let me tell you___”
     Todd stepped forward before anyone could say anything else, and before the official took it into his head to call the security guard and have  them ejected from his museum. 
     “If we can all calm down for a minute,” he said, “I’m sure we can achieve an understanding.”
     “Understanding?” the Assistant Curator said, turning red in the face, “What kind of understanding are you suggesting?  You Americans think you can come over here and throw your money around and buy anything you want.  Let me tell you, those days are long gone.  The treasures of this regiment are not for sale, not to you or to anyone else.”
     Todd stepped back. Obviously he was not helping the situation and he could think of no way to calm the official’s ruffled feathers.  However, he could see that Molly Walker didn’t give a damn about ruffled feathers. What a character!  She would be magnificent on the stage.  He filed her away in his mental catalogue.  One day, he was going to reproduce her, especially the way that she now thrust her chin forward as she loomed over the Assistant Curator.
     “Don’t be silly,” she said. “No one is trying to take anything from you.        Quite obviously you don’t have what we want in any of these showcases.  We’re looking for something much older, and considerably more important than the items you have here, and our research suggests that it must be in this museum.”
     Somewhere in Todd’s brain the pattern shifted, and he saw what he had not seen before.  “No, it doesn’t,” he said.
     Molly Walker and Michael Mandretti turned to look at him.
     “We don’t know that,” he reiterated. “We’ve jumped to a conclusion.  We know that Peacock found...it, and we know that he was cataloguing this museum, and we put two and two together and perhaps we made five.”
     “What?” said Mandretti.
     “You may be right,” said Molly. “We just assumed that because he was working here, that’s where he found it.”
     “No,” said Mandretti, “that old French broad said that she gave it to Colonel Peacock.”
     “Sold it to Peacock,” Todd corrected.
     “And Peacock was in this Regiment,” Mandretti concluded.
     “So we assumed he gave it to this museum,” Todd said, “but we don’t know it for a fact.”
     “Excuse me,” said the Assistant Curator.
     “Yes, but where else would it be?” Molly Walker asked.  “If it’s not here it could be just about anywhere.”
     “Excuse me,” said the Assistant Curator again.
     “So what are we supposed to do?” Todd said. “Without Violet and      Professor Ryan, we’re screwed.”
     The Assistant Curator raised his voice. “Excuse me!”
     Todd looked at him and tried to retrieve his normal good manners.  “I’m sorry,” he said. “Are you trying to say something?”
     “Yes,” the Assistant Curator replied. “I have no idea what’s going on here, and quite frankly I don’t want to know. What I would like to do is go home and take a shower and eat my breakfast.”
     “I’m sorry,” Todd said again.
     The official ignored the apology.  “You appear to be looking for an item donated by Colonel Hubert Peacock,” he said.
     “Yes,” said Molly Walker. “Is it here?”
      “No.”
     They waited.  The rumpled little man seemed determined to enjoy his moment of triumph.  He looked from one to the other of them holding onto the moment. Todd knew what he wanted.
     “We’d be most grateful if you would tell us what you know,” he said.
     “What I know,” the Assistant Curator repeated.  He paused. “Well,” he said, “we did have a bequest from Colonel Peacock,” he said, “before my time, of course, and long before the bombing.  Apparently he was a bit of a collector with weapons from all over the place.  Some of them are on display. We have some items from the Boer War, Armentieres, Ypres. His collection really helped with our World War I display, but when we reassessed everything after the bombing, we had to tell the family that a lot of the items had no place in our collection.  We’re a regimental museum and some of them were just not appropriate; much too early.”
     “Was there a sword?” Molly Walker asked.
     “Oh, several I think,” said the Assistant Curator. “I wasn’t here at the time but I’ve been told there were swords, battle axes, that kind of thing although nothing of any great value.”
     Todd could see that Michael Mandretti was doing his very best to exercise patience.
      “So,” said Mandretti through gritted teeth,” what did you do with the swords?”
     “I didn’t do anything,” the official replied.
      Mandretti took a deep breath.  Todd would not have been surprised to see smoke coming out of his ears.
      “What did the museum do with the sword?” Todd asked.
     “We gave them back.”
     “You gave them back to the family?”
     “Yes.  I expect they’re all hanging on the wall at that old manor house they have.”
     “No,” said Molly. “It can’t possibly be that simple.”
     “It isn’t,” Todd said. “If the sword was hanging on the wall, Ryan would have seen it.”
       “Not to mention Crispin Peacock, or whoever is pretending to be Crispin Peacock,” said Molly.
      “Are we done here?” asked the Assistant Curator, heading for the door and looking hopefully to see if they were following him.
      “Yeah, we’re done,” said Mandretti. 
     They filed out into the lobby. The day staff was beginning to check in. The lights were on in the gift shop and a woman was taking her place behind the ticket counter.
     Mandretti slapped a handful of paper money on the counter. “For our admission,” he said.
     The woman behind the counter looked at him doubtfully. “I haven’t opened the register.  I can’t give you change.”
     “Keep the change,” Mandretti said as he sailed out of the front doors and headed for Freddie and the waiting limousine.
     Todd turned to thank the Assistant Curator but he had already vanished from sight. 
     “Where to now?” he asked.
     “Griffinwood,” said Molly.  “Maybe Ryan missed something.”