his precious boxes, had he robbed a bank or something.'
Audley nodded at her encouragingly. 'Yes?'
'I said if it was a bank job we'd want our cut. And he laughed and said not a bank, but something just as good. And we'd get our cut, only it was going to cost us. Or rather, it was going to cost Mose, because that was the deal—'one bottle of Napoleon Brandy, the finest that money can buy. No more and no less', those were his exact words, and he said I was to make sure and tell Mose that.'
'We had this bet—' Mosby started quickly as Audley switched his attention. 'We had this argument in the club one night, started when I needled him whether he'd taken any good pictures of King Arthur lately. And he said how would I like a little bet on it—a proper wager entered in the squadron betting book the barman keeps under the bar for guys who are ready to put their money where their mouth is.'
He nodded at Audley. 'And I could see he meant it one hundred per cent.'
'So what did you say?'
'Hell, I told him I wouldn't bet on Arthur—because I didn't take candy from babies. Then he said 'Okay, so you won't bet on Arthur—so we'll bet on Badon, I know you believe that exists…' And he turned to the barman and he said 'Get the goddamn betting book out, Paddy, and write this down:
Brandy.'
There was a moment's silence, then Faith spoke. 'You mean—' she looked from one to the other of them '— but, David, you said that no one knows where Badon Hill was—or is?'
'No one does.' Audley continued to stare at Mosby. 'Where's Davies?'
'He's at the bottom of the Irish Sea, somewhere between Anglesey and the Isle of Man, with what's left of
Anthony Price - Our man in camelot
VI
THEY'D STARTED OUT at the crack of a grey dawn, following a cross-country route which Audley swore was not only simple and free from traffic bottlenecks, but which also encompassed some of the prettiest West Country and South Midlands scenery. But it rained miserably and one way or another they managed to lose their way four times, twice in a bewildering maze of tiny roads meandering in the middle of nowhere and twice in the middle of towns which they had never intended to visit.
The upshot of these minor disasters was Shirley's frayed temper, the product of her offer to navigate ('Scenery? I'm too busy looking for signposts to see the scenery'), and a time-loss which forced them to snatch a hasty lunch in an Olde Englishe pub so ruthlessly olde Englishe that it could provide no ice to cool the tepid drinks with which they tried to wash down their bread and cheese.
Yet with a perversity that brought Shirley's temper to fission point, Mosby enjoyed the journey: its sheer unpleasantness, recalling the family trips of his childhood, made him feel more genuinely married to her than he had ever felt before. His innermost and most secret fantasy, that this was really simply Dr and Mrs Sheldon, two innocent American tourists on the track of Arthur, required no special effort of self-deception for a few precious hours. For that brief space of time it was more real than the reality.
And then, with almost startling suddenness, as though the weather itself had caught his mood, the quality of their journey changed. They left the rainy country behind and drove into sunlight, with only a few puffs of high white cloud to set off the blueness of the sky. And when Shirley complained of thirst they stopped for early tea at a little roadside cafe which turned out to be closed but which nevertheless opened specially for them, with the plump little old proprietress fussing about them in a totally uncommercial manner, producing freshly-baked cakes from her oven, hot and delicious.
The change in atmosphere seemed to confuse Shirley.
'I don't know what you did to get that red carpet rolled out for us,' she murmured gratefully as they took to the road again.
'All I said was that you were tired and thirsty.'
'I guess she thought I was pregnant or something.' She looked at herself critically.
'Chance would be a fine thing… But it can be arranged if you like the idea.'
She gave a discouraging snort.
'Arthur for a boy, Guinevere for a girl.' Mosby hastened to hide himself behind a shield of flippancy.
'That'll be the day.'
Indeed it would be, thought Mosby wistfully. The millennium.
But now the excitement of journey's end took hold of him. For some time they had been travelling in distinctively Cotswold territory, a rolling landscape of weathered slate roofs and dry-stone walls enclosing small, neat fields—slate and stone which even in its grey old age retained a hint of the pale honey colour of its youth. And as they dropped down off the ridge from the main highway (even the signposts had now become easy to see and simple to follow) he was reminded of Audley's phrase: It's deep in the Cotswolds.
Anthony Price - Our man in camelot
The only indication that the valley was occupied had been the pinnacles of a church tower partially hidden among the leaves, but there was in fact a surprising number of houses clustered around the church, all linked and interlocked by high stone walls which turned the narrow streets into miniature canyons through which Mosby nosed the big car gingerly, knowing that he'd have to back up if he met any other vehicle larger than a wheelbarrow. But there seemed to be no other vehicles to meet, no other life even; the place was as empty as a Spanish village in the depths of its siesta.
Before he realised it they had cruised right through the place, over a tiny bridge, and on to the hillside
