Our man in Camelot

'We know about very few solid facts. We know the beginning and the end of it—in the year 466 the Britons appealed to the last great Roman commander in the West, Aetius, and there were British Christians at the Council of Arles in 443. But Aetius turned them down and there weren't any Britons at the next council in 484.

'That's one end of it. And at the other is Tony's battle of Dyrham, near Bath, in 577, the decisive Saxon victory—their Gettysburg, if you like.' He nodded towards Mosby. 'Myself, I'd say the battle of Bedcanford, which is probably Bedford, in 571 was equally decisive, but that's neither here nor there.

One way or another the Britons were finished by then. They'd lost the initiative for good.

'And the middle fact—the truly fascinating one—lies between those two dates: the greatest lost battle in British history.'

'Badon,' said Margaret.

'Badon. We don't know where, we don't know how, and we don't know who.' He swung round suddenly to stare directly at Mosby. 'Or do we?'

'We don't,' Audley cut in sharply.

'But you've got a strong clue.' There was an edge to Sir Thomas's voice which had not been there before.

There was the risk which Audley had understood when he had insisted on not coming straight out with the question, Mosby realised: to get the information they needed they had to go to the experts, but in their own field the experts were jealous of interlopers. That reference to 'poaching on our scholarly preserves', no matter how gently delivered, had been intended as a warning to the interlopers.

'Maybe.'

'No 'maybe'. I know you, David.'

Goddamn it, there was more than scholarly suspicion here. They had been sitting self-confidently on their box of goodies, sure that they knew something no one else did. But maybe they'd been a little too confident at that.

'We think somebody had a clue.' Audley wasn't going to reveal his ace in the hole that easily.

'Had?' Sir Thomas frowned.

'He's dead.'

'Dead?' Sir Thomas switched his frown towards Handforth-Jones.

'If he is then it's news to me,' said the archaeologist. 'And it would've been in the papers for sure.'

'Who?' Now Audley sounded puzzled. 'Who's this 'he'?'

'You tell us, David.'

Audley turned towards Mosby. 'It rather looks as though we've got two somebodies, Sheldon.'

'Sure as hell does.' Mosby's mind had reached the same junction. ' 'Tisn't likely they've got ours, Anthony Price - Our man in camelot

anyway.'

'No…' Audley thought for a moment before nodding his head towards Sir Thomas again. 'And your man's got a clue to Badon, has he, Tom?'

'Not so far as I'm aware. But he's been looking for one, I do know that.'

'An historian?'

'I wouldn't call him that. At least, not in the accepted meaning of the term.'

'An archaeologist, then?'

'Certainly not,' snapped Handforth-Jones. 'Not in any meaning of the term.'

'He was an airman, actually,' said Sir Thomas.

' An airman.' Mosby was dumbfounded.

'An ex-airman, to be precise. Now he considers he's been called to even higher things.'

'He was a very good pilot, so I'm told,' Handforth-Jones addressed Sir Thomas conversationally. 'I met a chap not long ago—he was excavating a site up in the Persian Gulf—he met him when he was leading a counter- insurgency squadron for some obscure sultan down the coast there. He was quite impressed with him.'

'I don't doubt it at all,' Sir Thomas agreed readily. 'But good military commanders are very often deplorable politicians. The Duke of Wellington is a case in point.' He nodded at Mosby. 'And your Ulysses S. Grant is another. I don't believe that—'

' Billy Bullitt,' said Audley.

'Billy Bullitt, of course. Do you know him?'

'I've heard of him, but never met him.'

'A treat in store, no doubt. Because he's the man you want to see if it's Badon you're after. Complete with that famous red shirt of his.'

'Who's—' Mosby began, only to be instantly over-ridden by Audley.

'But what the devil has he got to do with Badon?'

'Pursuing his patriotic duty, apparently. He was up here for a week last term looking for Geoffrey of Monmouth's 'very ancient book in the British tongue'. He didn't find it, not surprisingly, but he badgered the life out of the people in the Bodleian Library, so I've been told.'