‘Those cunning little monks,’ Mitchell said, almost admiringly. He went to the door and pointed at the base of one of the stone pillars framing it. A slot had been carved in it, a wooden wedge poking out. Nina checked the other pillar to find an identical arrangement. ‘Pull ’em out, you think?’
‘Just a sec. Let’s make sure Merlin doesn’t have a double helping of wrath.’ She scrutinised the wedges to make sure they hadn’t been booby-trapped with flints. ‘Okay, let’s give it a shot.’
Mitchell gripped the first wedge and pulled, straining against the weight of the door pressing down on it. Nothing happened for a few seconds, then with a sudden groan of wet wood it slid free. The door lowered slightly on that side. Nina took a deep breath, wished she hadn’t, then tugged at the second wedge. It took longer, but it too finally came loose.
The door dropped into the floor, displacing a rush of mud and turgid water. They jumped back as it washed around their legs.
A loud rumble filled the chamber. ‘Shit!’ Mitchell cried. ‘It’s gonna blow!’
‘No, wait!’ Nina aimed the torch at the hole through which they’d entered. ‘It’s draining!’ Frothing and churning, the water was indeed falling as they watched. A draught blew past them through the newly opened door. The air was still rancid with the stench of marsh gas, but not quite as strong. ‘The gas is escaping as well. Guess they decided that if you knew the secret of getting in, they might as well make it easier for you to get out again.’
Mitchell looked suspiciously through the doorway. ‘So the tomb’s just through there?
‘Soon find out.’ Nina took out the camera to take a picture of the carving of Merlin.
‘Whoa, whoa!’ said Mitchell. ‘Flash, spark, remember?’
‘The camera’s waterproof, so the flash must be a sealed unit as well. It’ll be fine.’ She pressed the shutter to prove her point - although with a momentary pang of concern.
‘Wait - oh, Jesus.’ Mitchell flinched as the flash fired, but the chamber stayed free of flames. ‘Okay, how about you don’t do that again? That was a pretty damn stupid risk to take.’
‘Oh, don’t you start,’ Nina said as she stepped over the lowered door into the passage beyond. ‘You really
Waiting anxiously at the entrance, Chloe looked round as a group of people approached, walking briskly along the terrace towards her cordon. Something about their appearance - their clothing, haircuts, even their complexions - instantly told her that they were foreigners. Eastern Europeans, maybe? Russians?
Wherever they were from, there were quite a lot of them. She counted nine in all: eight men, and one woman whose ragged hair was dyed a bright punkish green.
They stopped at the edge of the tape barrier. ‘Hello,’ Chloe said politely. Presumably they thought from her jacket that she was some kind of guide. ‘Can I help you?’
One of the men, the oldest, took a step forward, drawing the tape taut round his waist. His broad mouth reminded Chloe of a frog. ‘Yes, I hope you can,’ he said, his accent strong. Russian, almost certainly. ‘We are looking for Excalibur.’
Chloe felt a stab of concern. Mitchell had made it very clear that the search for Excalibur was somehow connected with national security - and therefore a secret. She put on a polite smile. ‘Oh, I’m afraid you’ve come to the wrong place. King Arthur’s tomb was supposedly found at the abbey, in the village. If Excalibur existed, it would have been there.’ She gestured in the direction of Glastonbury, out of sight on the far side of the Tor.
The man stepped forward again, the tape pulling tighter . . . and snapping. ‘No,’ he said quietly. Chloe’s concern turned to fear as she realised the man’s companions had moved to surround the cordon, blocking her in. He continued his advance, glancing at the tunnel before his cold eyes fixed on Chloe once more. ‘I am
Nina rounded one last turn in the passage . . . and found herself at the entrance to the tomb of King Arthur.
Unlike the earth and wood of the tunnels, the walls here were stone, the ceiling vaulted to support the weight of the Tor above the rectangular chamber. The resemblance to the architecture of Glastonbury Abbey was unmistakable, a product of the same era, even the same hands. The walls were inscribed with Latin texts, a cursory reading showing her they were all dedicated to the history of Arthur, a monument to the legendary king of the Britons.
Legendary no more, she thought. Rust had been vindicated; Arthur was real.
But if this was Arthur’s tomb, then . . .
‘So where’s the man himself ?’ Mitchell wondered aloud, completing her thought. There were no coffins or grave markers, the chamber a hollow space. ‘Shit, did someone beat us to it?’
‘No,’ said Nina, moving to the centre of the room. Although it was empty, there was something on the floor. A painted shape, a circle divided into segments, coin-sized holes at the outer edge of each one. And at the centre, a coat of arms . . .
‘No way,’ said Mitchell. ‘I thought Chloe said the Round Table didn’t exist?’
There were thirteen segments in all - and the hole in the one farthest from the entrance was filled by a bronze figurine about six inches high, protruding from the floor like a peg. Nina shone the torch over it. A regal figure bearing sword and shield, text running round the base beneath its feet.
ARTURUS.
‘It’s King Arthur,’ she whispered. The purpose of the other, empty holes was revealed when she directed the torch beam into one corner of the chamber. A small alcove contained stone shelves, more figures standing on them. She went to it. Each figure was revealed as a Knight of the Round Table, familiar names at their feet. Bedivere, Lancelot, Gawain, Galahad, Tristan, Bors . . . Twelve knights in all, one for each of the remaining holes in the floor.
Mitchell examined the chamber’s end wall, which closely resembled the stone door that had blocked the exit from the gas-filled chamber. ‘This looks like it might open. Maybe there’s another room through here.’
‘It’s a puzzle,’ Nina realised. She carefully lifted the figure of Lancelot from its position, finding that it too was resting in a hole: extending beneath the base was a metal shaft with a square protrusion at its end. ‘A key. I think we’re supposed to put the knights in their correct positions at the Round Table.’
‘Sounds like Chloe’s area of expertise.’
‘Maybe not.’ Nina moved to stand at the centre of the circle, trying to recall all the Arthurian background she had immersed herself in over the past days. ‘Lancelot was literally Arthur’s right-hand man; he always sat immediately to his right.’ She indicated the appropriate hole. ‘And the seat to Arthur’s left was called the Siege Perilous. It was kept empty, reserved for the knight who found the Holy Grail - which was eventually Galahad.’
‘So two down, ten to go. But what about the others?’
‘We’ll have to work them out,’ said Nina, gazing at the waiting knights.
She crossed the chamber and knelt in the circle. Though the Round Table was meant to be egalitarian, with no physical ‘head’ as found on a rectangular one, in practice Arthur himself would have fulfilled that role wherever he sat. There would also have been a pecking order amongst the knights, Bedivere and Lancelot traditionally being considered the king’s closest comrades.
But that knowledge didn’t really help her. If Lancelot were on Arthur’s immediate right, would Bedivere then sit on
And there was something else, the fact that Chloe had said the Round Table was merely an invention of the twelfth-century romantic writers. Maybe she was wrong, maybe the idea had been developed from a kernel of truth in earlier accounts . . . but the inconsistency gnawed at her. ‘Those who do not shall never leave,’ she whispered, remembering the words on the stone at the entrance.
‘Something wrong?’ Mitchell asked.
‘Yeah. There are over three million possible combinations, but I’m guessing we’ll only get one try.’
‘Maybe not.’ Mitchell walked into the circle, holding the figures of Lancelot and Galahad. He showed the keys
