‘I spoke to Nina a couple of hours ago, yes,’ said Mac, taking a seat opposite him and putting down his glass, ‘but she didn’t ask me to do anything. She just wanted to know if I’d seen you. I told her I hadn’t - but I had a feeling you might have come here.’ He surveyed the surroundings. The Jug of Ale was a fairly generic central London pub, lined with fake olde-worlde wooden beams and shelves of faux-antique bric-a-brac bought by the yard, but it held meaning for Chase. ‘This always used to be your bolt-hole when Sophia was being difficult at home. I see old habits die hard. It’s been a while since we had a drink together here, though. Five years?’
‘Something like that.’
‘It looks quite different since the smoking ban. I can actually see the back wall.’ He raised an eyebrow and turned back to Chase. ‘Good God, was the wallpaper always that hideous?’ Chase’s expression didn’t alter. ‘Hrmm. Not even a hint of a smile - things must be worse than I thought.’
‘Any particular reason you’re here, Mac?’ Chase asked impatiently.
‘Actually, yes. The first one is that I wanted to offer my condolences about Mitzi. I’m sorry. I only met her the once, but she seemed a very nice girl.’
Chase looked down at his drink. ‘She was,’ he said leadenly, taking another mouthful.
Mac regarded the half-empty glass. ‘Not like you to drink during the day. How many have you had?’
Another swig. ‘This is the fourth.’
‘So you’re drunk?’
‘What, on only four pints?’ Mac stared at him unblinkingly. ‘Yeah, a bit,’ Chase finally admitted.
‘Now I know something’s wrong,’ said Mac, his tone somewhere between amusement and mild concern. ‘You would never have owned up to feeling drunk so soon when you were in the Regiment.’
‘Things change,’ Chase told him dismissively, shaking his head. ‘I’m getting old.’
Mac picked up his drink and downed it in a single gulp. ‘I’ll join you in the ongoing march of the ageing process, then.’
‘Not really sure I want any company right now, Mac.’
‘Well, you’re going to have some anyway. You see, the second reason I wanted to talk to you is that Nina sounded rather upset when she called me.’
Chase’s jaw muscles tightened. ‘Not so upset that it’s stopped her from wanting to carry on fucking tomb-raiding.’
‘You don’t think she’ll be safe?’ Mac asked. Chase shook his head again. ‘She knows the risks.’
‘I don’t think they’re worth it.’
‘She does.’
‘Doesn’t mean she’s right.’
‘If you’re so worried, why don’t you go with her?’
Chase took another mouthful, then put the glass down with a bang. ‘Because I don’t want her to go at all. But she still wants to anyway.’ He scowled. ‘With Jack Mitchell. We had a big fight about it.’
‘The man I met at your sister’s?’
‘Yeah, that’s him. The tall, dark and handsome one.’ Chase slumped back in his chair, letting out a long and unhappy breath of frustration.
Mac leaned forward, his voice taking on a forceful edge as he addressed the younger man. ‘Jack Mitchell’s not the problem, though, is he? He’s not why you’re sitting in a crappy pub getting pissed at one in the afternoon.’
Chase was silent for a moment. ‘No, not really,’ he said finally.
Mac’s expression suggested that he already knew the answer, but he asked the obvious question anyway. ‘Then what?’
Another pause. ‘It’s Mitzi. I never . . . I never lost someone I was looking after before. It’s not just that she died, I’ve seen friends die before, but . . . not like that. It shouldn’t have happened. It wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t got her involved.’
‘So you blame yourself ?’
‘Who else is there?’
‘The person who pulled the trigger,’ said Mac. ‘The person who sent out that person in the first place. They’re the ones you should be looking to hurt. Not yourself.’
Chase raised his eyebrows. ‘You’re saying I should go for some revenge? Not very professional.’
‘If you still think Nina’s in danger, then your mission isn’t over yet. These people are hostiles, Eddie. They’ve proved that. Eliminating a known threat to a mission is entirely justified, in my opinion.’
Chase let out a bitter laugh. ‘My mission? It’s Nina’s mission, not mine. I was just along for the ride - and she doesn’t even want me there any more.’
‘You don’t believe that,’ Mac said sternly. ‘She loves you. And I know you love her.’
‘And that’s the problem! Losing Mitzi was fucking horrible enough, but what if I lose Nina?’ His voice caught. ‘I do love her. I love her so much I’m scared of losing her. I’m actually scared of it. I don’t know what I’d do.’
He lowered his head. Mac watched in silence, then reached across and put his hand on Chase’s arm. ‘I’m not the person you should be saying this to.’
‘I know, but I . . . I don’t know what to say to her. I don’t want her to see me in this state.’
‘In what state? Drunk?’
Chase looked up. ‘No, Christ, she’s seen me drunk before. No, I mean . . . you know.’ His voice fell to little more than a whisper, the admission struggling to be heard over the noise of the room. ‘Weak.’
Mac leaned closer, fixing Chase with an intense gaze. ‘Eddie, you’re going to get married. She’s going to see you in every state, whether you like it or not. “For better or for worse”, I remember. And you were married to Sophia, for God’s sake - you know there are always going to be fights in a marriage. There’s nowhere to hide - you either have to face any problems head-on, or walk away from them. And you’ve never struck me as the kind to walk away from anything. As I said in the Regiment, “Fight to the end.” And you always did.’
‘Not always,’ Chase said, another quiet confession. ‘Not until you taught me. There was one fight before I met you that I . . . that I walked away from. And I shouldn’t have done.’ He sat up, contemplative. ‘Nina was right.’
‘About what?’
‘About family. She said it was a shame I didn’t get on with mine. And it didn’t have to be like that.’ He straightened. ‘Yeah, I need to talk to Nina, and I will. But there’s someone else I need to talk to first.’
‘Who?’
‘My sister. All this’s made me realise I need to tell her something. Face to face.’ He glanced at his glass. ‘I’ll have to take the train, though. Might have a problem hiring a car if I turn up pissed - assuming anyone’ll even let me after what happened to the last one.’
16
Warm late afternoon sun, a perfect clear blue sky, and dazzlingly verdant surroundings . . . yet they were just the icing on the cake for Nina as she took in the ruins at the heart of the parkland. ‘This is beautiful!’
‘Bit of a fixer-upper, though,’ Mitchell joked.
They stood within the grounds of Glastonbury Abbey, an oasis of tranquillity surrounded beyond its walls by Glastonbury itself. The village, about 120 miles west of London, was an odd mix of the everyday and the exotic, ordinary shops and businesses sharing streets with outposts of New Age expression and outright tourist traps, jugglers and street musicians and hippies mingling with residents carrying their groceries, who ignored the colourful strangeness around them with traditional British reserve.
But the abbey, or what remained of it, had an atmosphere of nothing but calm, the grey stone walls so weathered by time they felt almost a natural part of the landscape, as integral as a rock or a river. ‘It’s quite something, isn’t it?’ said their companion. Dr Chloe Lamb was a rosy-cheeked, broad-hipped woman slightly older than Nina, straw-coloured hair tied back almost in a copy of Nina’s own ponytail. ‘So tragic that it was destroyed. Henry the Eighth may have been one of England’s most important monarchs, but he was a disaster for monastic architecture!’
‘It’s still pretty incredi
ble,’ Nina said, pausing to take a photo as they passed between the remains of two still-towering pillars into the abbey’s former vaulted choir. Where there had once been stone flags was now just grass, a neatly mown lawn leading to the broken stubs of the eastern walls.
‘But it hardly compares to some of the other places you’ve been,’ said Chloe. ‘I mean, Atlantis! You turned the studies of history and archaeology on their heads overnight - and then you did it again when you discovered the Tomb of Hercules!’ Her already pink cheeks flushed a little more. ‘To be honest, I was surprised the IHA asked for my help. I have to admit that I feel a little intimidated by you.’
‘Oh, God, please don’t be!’ Nina said, laughing. ‘When it comes to Arthurian legend, I’m only really a step above anyone who’s watched Monty Python and the Holy Grail.’ That was false modesty, considering her recent immersion in the subject, but she decided the self-conscious academic would benefit from an ego boost. ‘We needed help from someone who specialised in that area - particularly with regard to Glastonbury.’
Chloe smiled. ‘Well, hopefully I can provide it. And this is the ideal place to start.’ She indicated a sign at the head of a stone rectangle marked in the grass.
‘“Site of King Arthur’s tomb,”’ Mitchell read. ‘“In the year 1191 the bodies of King Arthur and his queen were said to have been found on the south side of the Lady Chapel . . .” Only “said” to have been found?’
‘Unfortunately, there’s an awful lot “said” about King Arthur here at Glastonbury. The abbey monks were . . . well, notorious,’ Chloe said conspiratorially, as if concerned they would somehow overhear her. ‘They were extremely good at turning legend into gold. For example, the Holy Grail is now intimately entwined with Arthurian myth - but the two weren’t even remotely connected until the twelfth century, when Robert de Boron wrote Joseph d’Arimathie.’
‘Not the Joseph, surely?’ Mitchell asked. ‘As in Mary and Joseph?’
Nina shook her head. ‘Joseph of Arimathea was the man who donated his own intended tomb to bury Jesus after the crucifixion. He was sent the Grail by a vision of Christ and brought it to Britain as a pilgrim.’
Chloe nodded. ‘Since the abbey was already connected with Joseph because of the story of the Holy Thorn,’ she glanced towards the part of the abbey grounds where a hawthorn tree was said to have been planted by the pilgrim, ‘the monks took advantage of that to join two entirely separate legends, both of which conveniently happened to cross paths right here, into one.’
‘So they got a twofer,’ Mitchell realised. ‘The Christians come in the footsteps of Joseph, the Brits want to pay respect to their legendary king - and both groups give generously to the abbey.’
‘Absolutely. Glastonbury was second only to Westminster Abbey in terms of wealth.’ Chloe looked at the sign again. ‘And now the legends are inseparable. But so much of what we now think of as Arthurian legend is just the same - either merged with material from other sources, or simply made up by the twelfth-century romantic writers.’
‘Things like Lancelot,’ Nina said.
‘Lancelot wasn’t real?’ asked Mitchell.
‘I’m afraid not,’ said Chloe. ‘He first appeared in a poem by Chrétien de Troyes in the 1160s - no mention of him anywhere before then.’
‘Huh.’ He sounded disappointed. ‘So much for the legends. Next you’ll be telling me the Round Table wasn’t real either.’ Both women looked at him apologetically. ‘Aw, come on!’
‘It didn’t appear until 1155, in Robert Wace’s Roman de Brut,’ said Chloe.
‘And the knights didn’t eat ham and jam and Spam a lot?’
‘Sorry,’ Nina replied with a grin. She turned back to Chloe. ‘But as for the aspects of the legends that do have a historical basis . . . how does Glastonbury Tor tie in with the story of King Arthur?’
‘Ah!’ said Chloe. She led them out of the ruined abbey, strolling across the rolling parkland. ‘Now Glastonbury Tor really does have an interesting part to play in the mythos.’ She swept a hand towards the flat, lush English countryside to the south. ‘You see, this whole region is a flood plain. Until the marshes were drained for farmland, it would only need a small rise in the water level for it to disappear under water.’
‘How deep?’ Mitchell asked.
‘Not much, maybe as little as a couple of feet. But it would make almost the entire area inaccessible for a good part of the year. Glastonbury, and the abbey, were high enough to escape most of the floods.’
Nina tried to picture her idyllic surroundings as they would have looked over a thousand years earlier. ‘So where we are right now, it would have been an island?’
‘Yes. Although sometimes even this might have been at risk from flooding. But there’s one place the water could never reach.’ She stopped, pointing east. Their walk had taken them past a line of trees, giving them a clear view of . . . ‘Glastonbury Tor.’
Seen for real rather than framed within a photograph, the hill seemed to Nina even more out of place, rising up with the unexpectedness of a child’s lone sandcastle on an otherwise flat beach. The lowering sun gave its terraces an even more exaggeratedly unnatural look, the hillside striped in alternating shades of green. The isolated tower on its peak only increased the almost fairytale feel of the landmark.
‘It’s been associated with English folklore since even before the time of King Arthur,’ Chloe explained. ‘A lot of magical mumbo-jumbo as well. I’m sure you saw plenty of it in the village. Fairies, ley lines, UFOs and all that.’
‘Some of it might not be mumbo-jumbo after all,’ said Mitchell.
Chloe gave him an odd look, as if expecting a punchline and being surprised at his sincerity. ‘Well, anyway. According to legend, after Arthur was mortally wounded at the battle of Camlann, he was brought to a place called the Isle of Avalon, which is where he died and was buried. “Avalon” is one of the earlier names of Glastonbury - and since the surrounding marshes were often flooded . . .’ ‘. . . there’s your isle,’ Nina finished, indicating the Tor.
‘Precisely.’ They all stared up at the strange hill before Chloe turned to address the others. ‘Would you like a closer look?’
Holly opened the front door, reacting with pleased surprise when she saw who was standing there. ‘Uncle Eddie!’ ‘Hi, Holly,’ said Chase, managing something that was more or less a smile.
‘I thought you’d gone abroad?’
‘I did. Now I’m back. Is your mum in?’
‘Yes, in the kitchen.’ She ushered him inside and led him through the house. ‘How was your trip? Did you have a good time?’
‘Had better,’ he said stiffly.
They entered the kitchen, and found Elizabeth loading the washing machine. ‘Eddie?’ she said, surprised and far from thrilled to see him. ‘What’re you doing here? Come back to destroy the rest of town, maybe?’
‘Hi, Lizzie. How’s Nan?’
‘She’s all right - no thanks to you. But I’m sure she’ll appreciate your belated concern.’ She slammed the washer’s door. ‘What do you want?’
‘Can I talk to you? In private.’ Holly looked peeved, but exited the room.
Elizabeth leaned against the counter, arms folded. ‘Well?’
Chase took a long, slow breath. ‘I wanted to tell you that . . .’ He paused. ‘That you were right all along. About me.’
She was confused for a moment; then a triumphant, almost gloating expression spread across her face. ‘Well, I never thought I’d hear you say that! Eddie Chase finally admitting that he’s wrong, that he’s not perfect! I should get Dad on the phone. I’m sure he’d love to hear you own up—’
‘Elizabeth.’ The hardness of Chase’s voice as much as his use of her full name stopped her mid-sentence. ‘Someone’s died.’
‘What?’ The triumph faded, her eyes widening in shock. ‘Oh, my God! Not - not Nina?’
‘No,’ said Chase, feeling a deep shame and guilt for the relief the single word brought h
im. ‘Not Nina. But somebody else I cared about, and . . . and she’s dead because of me.’
‘How?’
‘Doesn’t matter. But she’d still be alive if I hadn’t got her involved. And it made me realise you were right - about me walking away rather than . . . rather than facing up to losing someone,’ he said, the admission almost physically painful. ‘But I couldn’t walk away this time. I had to go to two people I knew, friends - and I had to tell them their daughter was dead. And that - that it was my fault.’
‘My God,’ Elizabeth said softly. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘No need for you to be - you were right all along. I did just walk away when Mum died. But I was never able to admit it before. And . . . fuck!’ He turned away, banging his hands down on the worktop. ‘I just walked straight out after the funeral and joined the army without even looking back, and left you to deal with everything else, with Dad, fucked up your degree . . . Christ, no wonder you hate me.’
‘I don’t hate you, Eddie,’ Elizabeth said, crossing the room to join him. She hesitantly extended a hand, then placed it on his arm. ‘You’re my brother. That doesn’t mean I don’t still have some very strong feelings about the things you’ve done . . . but I never hated you.’
‘Yeah, but it still messed things up for you, didn’t it? You were the smart one, had all the big plans for after university, and if you hadn’t had to quit to sort things out at home—’
‘If things had turned out differently,’ said Elizabeth firmly, ‘I wouldn’t have had Holly. And I wouldn’t change that for anything.’ She squeezed his wrist. ‘I’m sorry about your friend, Eddie, really. And I know you feel guilty about it - but it’s normal to feel guilt when someone you love dies. I did when Mum died, even though there was absolutely nothing I could have done to change things. It was cancer, what was I going to do?’
‘But I didn’t feel guilty,’ Chase protested. ‘I just left and joined the army because with Mum gone I didn’t see any reason to stay in that house a minute longer. I was too busy with training to feel guilty. I hid from it. But this time, I couldn’t hide. I had to face it.’