the street — oak, hawthorn, rowan — so dense that he would not be able to ride through. Their trunks broke through the tarmac, soaring up tall and proud and looking decades old. Mallory dismounted and tethered his horse before inspecting the barrier more closely.
There was a tiny path leading through the trees along which he could just about squeeze, but he would have difficulty defending himself if he was attacked — which, he guessed, was the whole point. No other entrance was visible, so, reluctantly, he pushed between two trunks and began to edge sideways along the route.
He estimated that the stand of trees was only twenty yards across at best, but it was impossible to see the other side and the path didn’t take a direct route. Perfumed flowers of a kind he didn’t recognise hung down from the branches and every now and then there were other strange blooms on either side, like rare orchids, gleaming black with the texture of skin, or others, like lilies, with a cloying aroma.
After ten minutes, Mallory began to wonder why he wasn’t coming out of the other side. Fifteen minutes on, he had begun to accept that he was in some kind of maze, though he couldn’t begin to guess how it could continue for such a distance. He decided to turn back to see if he had missed a branching path. He walked for half an hour and when he found no other path and had not reached his starting point, he realised that he was caught in some obscure trap.
For the next hour he pressed on in one direction. He was convinced that he never passed the same point twice and by that stage he realised there had to be some magic at play. Perhaps the other intruders who had attempted to break into the college were still wandering along the path somewhere ahead of him, or had died of starvation and fallen into the vegetation by the wayside.
It was futile to keep walking. Mallory leaned against the trunk of a tree to think logically. But after a few moments of racking his brains, he realised he was having trouble ordering his thoughts. Cotton wool packed his skull and honey trickled down his spine; if he closed his eyes, he could probably sleep for a long, long time.
If he had continued along the path for a little while longer he would probably have been lost, but there was still a small part of his mind sending warning signals. One of them drove him to draw his sword. The blue flames erupted around the blade and the air was suddenly singed with the aroma of burned iron. The smell cut through the claustrophobic scent of the flowers and the rush of energy gave him a jolt. In that instant, Mallory realised what was happening.
Quickly, he tied his handkerchief across his face, unsure whether it would do the job. With what little energy he had left, he leaped up to slash at the hanging flowers and any others he could reach on either side of the path.
He moved quickly, pressing the handkerchief to his nose and mouth with one hand, and after a while of hacking and chopping, the confusion in his head began to lift. Either the invisible pollen, or the scents themselves, were some kind of narcotic that had subtly tied his thoughts in knots.
Not long after, the path fell back into sharp relief and the dreaminess receded. Within minutes, he caught a glimpse of buildings on the other side. When the exit became visible, he broke into a run.
He was only feet away from breaking out into the open when a vine-like plant with long thorns swung across the path with a life of its own. Mallory ducked, but one of the thorns ripped open the flesh on his cheek. It felt as if acid was burning its way into his system. His legs grew sluggish, refused to obey his mind, until he was staggering around like a drunk. Within seconds, he collapsed. Paralysis flooded through him. He was aware of other vegetation moving around him, grass and tendrils wrapping around his legs and arms, enswathing him in green like a mummy. Darkness began to close around his vision and he knew that if the paralysis reached his heart, he would die. Slowly, he was being tugged into the undergrowth where he would never be found.
Filled with excitement, Hal waited for nearly three hours before he could finally see Reid. The chief spy had been in conference from long before breakfast with a succession of ministers, military advisors and nondescript people Hal had never seen before.
When he was finally ushered into Reid’s darkened office, Hal could see the toll the current crisis was taking on the man. His face was drawn and tired, and it looked as if he hadn’t received any good news in a long time.
But he seemed to brighten a little when he saw Hal and offered him a cup of real tea. Hal took it gratefully before pouring out all he had learned about the Poussin painting and the mysterious monument at Shugborough Hall.
‘All I need is your blessing to go to Shugborough,’ Hal concluded, ‘and the resources to do so. I know it’s dangerous-’
‘It is dangerous,’ Reid stressed. ‘The enemy is advancing very rapidly. They’re already crossing Yorkshire and Lancashire. It won’t be long before they reach Staffordshire.’
The news was a harsh blow to Hal. He’d always believed that the Government would come up with something to stop the enemy in its tracks and had never given the possibility of failure a second thought. ‘We haven’t got a response?’
‘No effective one. We’ve tried…’ Reid dismissed the thought with an irritable wave of his hand.
‘I’m sorry,’ Hal said contritely. ‘I know you can’t talk about it.’
‘It’s not that. I think the time has come for radical action. Others don’t agree. But that was always anticipated.’ He took a long sip of his tea, lost to his thoughts for a moment, and then added, ‘I trust your judgment, Mister Campbell. If you feel this is important for the war effort, then do it. Just make sure you’re in and out as quickly as possible. I can provide you with a helicopter — there’s no point taking any road vehicles out in this weather.’
‘I’d like to take an assistant. To help with any local research.’
Reid shrugged, uninterested. The phone rang and Reid snatched it up, his mood brightening as he listened. When he replaced the receiver, he said, ‘Good news. The PM has agreed to see you for ten minutes.’
‘What? When?’
‘Now.’
Hal grew anxious. ‘I haven’t prepared-’
‘Doesn’t matter. Just speak from your heart. With everything that’s going down at the moment, you probably won’t get another opportunity. And I believe this to be very important. The PM needs to hear it.’
‘OK,’ Hal said hesitantly. ‘Now? Really?’
‘Now.’ Reid stood up and waited for Hal to rise before hurrying him to Balliol where the PM’s private offices were situated; normally, no one with Hal’s low-level clearance ever got anywhere near them.
Once they were outside the prime minister’s door, Reid clapped Hal on the back and whispered, ‘You’ll be fine.’ He swung the door open, but Hal knew he wouldn’t be able to speak for a few seconds, for his heart was wedged firmly in his throat.
Mallory woke on a rough wooden pallet, his head thick and his limbs heavy. The aroma of wood smoke filled the air. When he finally accepted that he had survived his ordeal, he managed to lever himself up on his elbows to look around. He was in a roundhouse like ones he had seen as a child in history books about the Celtic era. A small fire crackled in the centre of the room, the smoke winding its way up through the hole in the centre of the turf roof. His bed was positioned so that he could see straight out through the open door across the lush Somerset countryside. The sun was rising, framed perfectly between the door jambs, golden and large and misty.
‘You’re bloody lucky.’
Mallory strained around to see who had spoken. A man leaned on a gnarled wooden staff, watching Mallory with a suspicious expression. Mallory guessed he was well into his sixties, but he was so fit and lithe that it was difficult to tell his true age. He could just as easily have been a hundred. His skin was browned from days in the sun, but his long grey hair was matted with dirt and grease and hung lank around his shoulders. He wore a dirty cheesecloth shirt, open at the front, shapeless, filthy trousers and a pair of well-worn sandals. He looked like someone who had spent his life at the music festival they used to hold annually just outside the town.
‘If someone hadn’t seen you getting wrapped in the defences you’d have been gone for good,’ the old man continued.
‘Who are you?’ Mallory said. He was already surreptitiously searching for his weapon. His scabbard was empty.
The old man realised what he was doing and gave a brief, hard smile. ‘Where did you get the sword?’
‘None of your business.’ Mallory swung his legs on to the floor, his head spinning.
The old man brandished his staff. ‘See this? I’ve split more heads open with it than you’ve had hot dinners. You couldn’t beat me even if you were fit, and look at you now. Better answer my questions before you’re out cold
