Part 3
Dr Byron Book was ready to face the final mystery of his search for Camelot.
He had begun his quest with a list of names: Sir Arthur Ambrose, his king Arthur, Lawrence Schuler, Gavin Green, Banikant Chaaruchandra, Vivian Redmond, and Tristan Bedford. And, of course, Godson Roimort.
He had traced them all, except only the last, in history and record, and pictures and stories. He'd visited their college – to cold reception – at Bardon Down near Bristol. But it was in Vivian's colourful memoir he had found Tristan and his address in the Royal Crescent.
So it was back to the West Country he would head, to Bath rather than Bristol, this time, though of course they'd all have lived and worked close to the college.
Bedford's townhouse wasn't really in the famous Royal Crescent, but instead was a narrow building in nearby Upper Church Street. The door had been painted black many years ago, but not recently. There was a heavy brass knocker in the middle of the door, but also a small brass plate inscribed with the name "Bedford" and a bell push underneath.
Byron pushed the button and heard a distant tinkling of the bell, followed by what might have been a muffled shout in reply. He waited. He waited long enough to wonder if he shouldn't push the bell again, but at last the door rattled as someone unlocked it from within and it shuddered open.
The man who answered the door was the oldest man Byron had ever seen. He was dressed in faded silk pyjamas, a cardigan and the remains of a purple velvet housecoat with some kind of crest no longer to be made out from the embroidery on the breast pocket. But the man within was shrunken by age and wear to an emaciated puppet; his head seemed huge atop his tiny frame, like a weathered egg, eroded of almost all features except his watery blue eyes which were made huge like a baby's in the shrinking of the rest of him. A few wisps of hair decorated the back of his skull; bone white ankles jutted from the cuffs of his pyjama trousers to disappear into his carpet slippers; hands like white spiders gripped the edge of the door.
He said: "Hello?"
Byron stared for a moment.
"Are you…? Are you Mr Bedford? Mr Tristan Bedford?"
He must have been a hundred. A hundred and ten, even. If he was the same man. He couldn't be, surely?
"Oh, from Ganymede to Tithonus, eh? Oh, I cut quite a dash in my younger days. Should have asked for eternal youth, shouldn't I. Too late now, oh. Maybe one day I'll turn into a grasshopper."
"Well, ah, quite. But… are you Mr Bedford?"
"Yes, yes, that's me. Oh. Was it me or Finn you were looking for? He's just popped out; I'm sure he'll be along in a minute."
"No, no, it was… you I was after. Who is Finn? Sorry, may I ask?"
"Finn? My Irish Prince. He's just popped out. He'll be right back. Shall I say you called?"
"No! Wait! I mean, that is to say, no, I'm calling for you Mr Bedford."
"Oh call me Tristan. Everyone does. Oh. Well, everyone used to, I'm sure. Well, if you want to come in and wait, I'm sure that will be all right. He's just popped out; he'll be back any minute."
The stairway was crooked and let on to a half-landing to one side, where a door took them up another step into a narrow sitting room, cramped with old photographs and two large armchairs. The whole apartment felt as though it had been squeezed in between the houses either side. How, Byron wondered, did this reconcile with the splendid dining room from the photograph in Vivian Redmond's book.
"Oh, I sold that off years ago. Had to sell most of the house. Oh, bit by bit. This does for me."
"Bit by bit?"
"What's that? Oh. It's just technology. 'Foreign powers', did you ever hear of them?" Bedford waved an admonitory finger under Byron's nose. "Very naughty, really. But people are often interested in a spare. Oh. Room! Yes, spare room. Won't you have a seat? Finn's just popped out; you could borrow his, he won't mind. I have some tea in a caddy somewhere. Oh."
At one end of the room there was a little two-ring gas stove on a side table and, inside a cupboard, a small sink. Bedford filled an old-fashioned kettle from the tap and placed it on the stove to heat. Then he started to rummage for cups.
Byron looked over the collection of photographs. They were mostly black and white, only a few in colour, and generally seemed contemporary with the plate of the college in Vivian Redmond's book. From each frame, the young face of Tristan Bedford gazed back, dressed in white tie or black tie or a blazer or smoking jacket. In many of them, he shared the image with another handsome young man. One colour shot revealed his uncontrolled hair to have a rich crimson hue. They posed in boats or in front of motor cars or at the opera or even, it appeared in one shot, halfway up a mountain. There were no recent pictures at all.
"Sit, please, sit. Oh."
Bedford returned with two fine china cups of weak tea. He settled himself into one of the armchairs.
Looking at the other, Byron carefully moved several books that had been laid there. The chair was thick with dust. Carefully, he perched on the edge of the seat, balancing his teacup and saucer on the arm beside him.
Bedford, entirely unselfconsciously, reached forward and took Byron's hand, held it in the cup of his left hand and gently stroked it with his right. The smile on the old man's face was so like weeping, Byron could have cried.
The last name on the list was Godson Roimort, and it was time to ask.
"Mr… ah Tristan… I should like to ask: does the name 'Roimort' mean anything to you?"
"Ah, Roimort. The Red King. I think you already know."
"I believe I do, but I should like to hear it from you, sir."
Bedford was silent, just quietly breathing.
"Vivian Redmond…" Byron prompted.
"Yes?"
"She had a son, didn't she?"
"Oh, yes. Yes she did." Bedford sighed; Byron realised that silent tears were rolling down the old man's smiling face. "Modeste, she called him. Roimort was what he called himself."
"Thank you. It's what I thought."
"Oh. How did you work it out?"
"She wrote a book."
"I've read it. She never mentioned him."
"She mentioned her son. Lady Jennifer couldn't have children, but Vivian had."
"She never named him."
"Who else could it be?"
"Oh. Well. Of course. Oh."
"He took the photograph that appears in the book? The one of all of you, here together?"
"Oh yes. He took…" Bedford waved his hand around the room, "…lots of photographs. We were so fond of him and he was so talented. Not just with the camera. He had so many gifts from his mother. From both his parents, his mother and his father."
"Luther Redmond?"
"Hmm? Oh. Oh yes. Luther, Luther taught him a lot."
"Do you know what became of him?"
"Oh he died. They all died. I'm sure he died. There was a funeral and everything."
"At Coventry."
"There was a meeting. He told us about it. I… I didn't want to go. Hadn't we done our bit? I didn't… I didn't go. Finn said he was just popping out for a moment. I… Oh. Oh. Oh."
Byron let the old man break down. After a moment, the gasping sobs stopped and Bedford looked around blinking, as if he had forgotten why he wept.
"There's a monument. To Modeste. To Roimort. Oh, not a big one but, oh where was it? A church, I think. Was it Benjamin? Basil? Basil? Boniface? Barnabas! St Barnabas. I'm almost sure it was… oh! It said you would…"
"It said? What is it?"
"Arthur told me to get rid of it, you know. Oh. But I didn't. Perhaps I should. Oh, I tried to throw it in a lake. I didn't really. Oh, I don't think it wanted to be thrown away. So it said, anyway. Oh!"
Suddenly someone was hammering at the door. They weren't using the bell, but giving it a good go with the old brass knocker. Byron jumped.
"Oh! Oh! You… ah… you… that is… I rather think that it is time for you to go."
"What? No! Mr Bedford!"
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I'm not supposed to. I'll tell Finn you called. He's just popped out, you see. Bound to be right back. Oh."
The hammering came again. Before Byron could do or say any more, the old man was pottering down the stairs to open the door. He paused with his hand on the latch, and turned to Byron.
"I shouldn't say but… there is an angel watching me."
Bedford opened the door. It was dim within, and for a moment, with the sudden light streaming in behind them, it looked to Byron as though the old man was right, and a glowing icon with wings too bright to look at stood at the door like Uriel at the gates of Eden. And then the figure pushed its way into the gloomy passage and it was the lank form of Merriman.
"Dr Book," he said curtly, "what an unexpected pleasure. What are you doing troubling Mr Bedford?"
"I could ask you the same question!"
"I'm sure Mr Green already told you: the college looks after its own."
They realised that Bedford was flapping about between them. "Hello, hello," he was saying, rather plaintively, "are you looking for Finn?" he added. "He'll be along in a moment."
Merriman scowled at Byron, before addressing the old man.
"You just go upstairs, Tristan. Put the kettle on, would you; I could do with a cup of tea. I will see your guest out."
"Oh. Tea, yes, I have a caddy somewhere. I'll put the kettle on." And still mumbling to himself, the sad form of Tristan Bedford retreated to his nest on the floor above.
"What happened to him?" demanded Byron.
"He lived," was the response. "You should go, Dr Book. I'll not have you disturbing my charges like this, first the Schuyler girls and now Tristan. They are old and it is unkind, so please do not do so again."
"But don't you realise how much more he could tell. He was there. He remembers…"
"No. Those memories are too precious and too painful for you to rummage through them. Mr Tristan, and his memories, will be preserved. Now, Dr Book, go. Go back to your university. Do not bother my charges again; you will be watched."
"That's outrageous…"
"Spare me. Just go."
Unable to think of anything else to say or do, Byron found himself ejected impotently onto the pavement of Upper Church Street, the battered door closed against him.
St Barnabas, then, he thought, St Barnabas: native of Cyprus; founder of the Church at Antioch; introduced St Paul to the Apostles and was his travelling companion over several years until they argued over the Evangelist John Mark; said to be brother to Aristobulus, first Bishop of Britain.
He started to walk back down to the station. The abbey was on his way. If he was being watched… Trying hard to look like he was a tourist, he went to look around the mediaeval gothic church. And, while he was there, asked.
There were five Churches of St Barnabas in the diocese of Bath and Wells: at Claverham, Ham, Queen Camel, Temple Cloud and one in Bath itself. Byron decided he would discount the last one until later, and took note of the others.
Concluding his tour, he carried on to the station to wait for his train, which, eventually, arrived. As he settled into his seat he thought… no he was sure he saw, just for a moment, Merriman on the platform sardonically saluting his departure.
He stayed on the train through Chippenham, but at Swindon he waited until the train was departing before jumping down from the carriage, stumbling slightly as he hit the platform. Catching himself on the metal pole that held up the platform awning, he looked about to see if there really was anyone watching. There didn't seem to be. Briefly something seemed to flash by overhead, following the path of the train tracks; it looked roundish, maybe with black and white markings, but it was gone before Byron could really register it. He wondered momentarily whether jet fighters ever flew that low over towns.
Claverham and Temple Cloud were nearer to Bristol, so he crossed over the tracks and took the first train going back West. After that, he could take a train from Bristol to Taunton to try the village of Ham. If he'd still not found the right church, he would just have to go on to Yeovil and then find his way to Queen Camel. If all else failed, he would return to Bath.
It didn't – quite – come to that, although by the time the first three churches had washed out he was convinced that it was going to. It was obvious, really, that Bedford would have been referring to the local parish, and Byron was kicking himself that he'd allowed Merriman's melodramatics to drive him away. The moment he saw the five tiers of the church tower in Queen Camel, though, a moment of premonition, something dreamlike, told him he'd not been wrong after all.
The monument stood in the churchyard among the headstones, under the watchful gaze of leonine gargoyles. It was a square-based plinth, nearly cuboid, about three foot tall and almost as much wide, tapering slightly towards the ground where it was fixed into a larger, irregular rock. Written in plain carved letters on the side were the words: "Vox non Vires" and underneath them "Godson Roimort, Last Wizard of Britain". Mounted in the stone was a black, metal cross.
Drawing closer, Byron realised that it wasn't just a cross; it was a sword: a black metal blade fixed, or driven, into the upper surface of the weathered granite box.
There was a woman waiting by the monument. She was of indeterminate age, dressed in a simple white linen suit and a hat. She was holding lilies, and Byron just assumed that she must be one of the ladies who look after the church.
"Hello," she said.
"Hello," he replied.
"You've been looking for something."
"I should say, rather, following a story."
"And have you come to the end?"
"I don't know. Have I?"
"Many stories end here."
"In a graveyard, you mean?"
"Something like that. Why were you looking?"
"I wanted to know what happened. They were bright, interesting people and they did brave things, but it all fell apart. I suppose I wanted there to be a better reason than jealousy and infidelities. I suppose I wanted heroes. But they just turned out to be human.
"I should have known better. The legend doesn't end well either.
"Do these things really happen over and again? Or am I just fitting their stories to the one I want? I'm sorry, I have no idea why I'm telling you this."
"Maybe because there is poor use in finding a story if you don't tell it to someone."
"Yes, you may be right."
"It doesn't have to be an end here."
"Really? It feels like an end. I mean I suppose I can go back to the research. Find out more about Godson Roimort or Modeste Redmond now I know who he is, but…"
"It could be a beginning."
"A beginning? What do you mean?"
"Take the sword."
"The sword? What, whosoever pulleth this sword from this stone shall be etcetera etcetera?"
"It isn't that sword."
"It was Sir Arthur's sword, wasn't it?"
"He wasn't that Arthur."
Byron stepped closer to examine the sword in the stone more closely. The blade, like the hilt, was a dull flat black. Judging by what he could see, it was nearly three feet long, tapering, probably to a point, with a hexagonal cross-section, the groove of a fuller running from rain guard down to where the sword entered the stone, though probably not all the way to the hidden tip. The grip above the cross-guard added almost another foot to the length. The pommel was a heavy iron ring, a circle inscribed by another cross.
"Forgive me the poverty of my heraldry. I'd have to say you have here a classic Oakshott Type XVI, hand-and-a-half sword, the kind they call a bastard sword. I'm sure I've seen some fine examples in the Royal Armouries. Or was it the tomb of the Black Prince? You're right, though, it's not Excalibur; these were the height of fashion in the Renaissance a thousand years too late for the Age of Chivalry."
Mockingly, Byron stepped up to the stone and gripped the cross above the cross-bar, the hilt of the sword he supposed. It was black, the whole of the metal was black, like old iron, but matt and electric-cold to the touch.
"Of course the sword in the stone wasn't Excalibur. That was the sword in the lake. The sword in the stone was Caliburn. I dub this sword–"
~VAROBAR!~
"– dear god!"
The black sword surged upwards in Byron's hand. He staggered backwards, the blade coming free as he fell back. It was light and fine, clean of any rust or corrosion and absolutely sharp. The counterweight of the pommel made it feel weightless as the point came up to be held in front of his astonished eyes. It vibrated, potent with energy.
For a moment, Byron just stared, breathing heavily.
"Does it… Is it supposed to do that?"
"For you, I think it is."
"What does that mean?"
"Dr Book, you are at a crossroads. All that you have learned, all that you have done has brought you to this place. Now you face a choice."
"What choice? No, wait, I don't recall telling you my name. Who are you?"
~SERENE BEATITUDE; PATIENT ENDURANCE~
"I am only someone who was asked to wait until you came looking for the sword."
"I wasn't looking for the sword!"
"We don't always know what we are looking for."
"Lady! Serenity! Whatever I call you! I'm pretty damn certain I was not here looking for a talking sword."
~YOU WALK THE PATH. BE NOT SURPRISED AT THE DESTINATION~
"…and can you hear that?"
The sword was… singing, ringing, a voice like distant bells, like the threat of thunder, like an imminent earthquake. Not so much a sound as direct vibration of the hearing parts of the brain.
~I AM VAROBAR. I SPEAK. FEW LISTEN~
"Dr Book, you are familiar with the Circles of the World?"
"Circles…?"
"You have knowledge of the Argai, yes? And of the Mab?"
"I've heard of them. In my research. Wait, is this something to do with the 'foreign powers'. Is this… is this… technology?"
"You might call it a 'thinking machine'."
"Really?"
"No, not really. Conceptually."
"I don't understand… You know that I don't understand."
"I do. Dr Book, you are kept in ignorance. There is a treaty. The ones that you call 'foreign powers', and the ones to whom they answer, the Order, the Trinomans, they do this to protect you, so they say."
"Who are you? Really?"
~WHITE DRAGON. TEMPTATION. ADVERSARY~
"We are the d'Toyz; we are not signatory to the Order's treaty."
"You're… you're the enemy."
"Dr Book, this is your choice. Ignorance is bliss. Lay down the sword and you may live in innocence."
"Or?"
"Or keep the sword, knowing that you break the Order's treaty."
Byron truly did think about it. If not for long.
"Innocence doesn't mean the same as good. People often make that mistake. But innocence means without knowledge of good or evil. I think we can only choose to do good – or choose to do evil – if we know what our choices mean. If the only way to know what is good and what is evil is to choose evil, then what choice do we have? They just become labels put down by an arbitrary authority. I never signed their treaty. And I want to know how the story ends."
He hefted the blade.
"Varobar, what happened to Godson Roimort?"
~THE TOMB IS EMPTY~
And he knew.
"He betrayed them. Of course. That's what none of them were saying. That's why there's no more college. That's why they were… oh god, the enigma codes… it's why they were in Coventry. He knew. He was the last and best of them, and he betrayed them."
~YES~
And Varobar told him the rest.
"What… do… what I do now?"
The woman, the d'Toyz, the White Dragon, smiled at him and said:
"Now, now you begin a new story."
And he took up the sword and went, and has not been found since.
