The Excalibur Codex (6 page)

He closed his eyes and resolved to fight the corrosive rage that ate at him. But when he opened them again a young dark-skinned man in a turban had taken the seat opposite. Their eyes met, the other man’s dark and unfathomable. Jamie’s heart thundered and his mind went blank and before he knew what was happening he was walking towards the stairs. When he got off at the next stop the only loathing he felt was for himself. Christ, the man had been a Sikh, not a bloody Muslim, and the reaction was triggered purely by the colour of his skin.

By the time he rang the doorbell at Adam Steele’s mansion house he’d almost recovered his composure and his chest was filled with restless anticipation. A tall, chestnut-maned girl with a languid smile opened the door and welcomed him with a silky handshake, introducing herself as Charlotte Wellesley, the banker’s PA. Her greeting had the easy self-confidence that comes with the best public schooling, and beneath the black silk suit she had the kind of angular, rangy figure that reminded Jamie of an American detective of his acquaintance.
‘He’s upstairs in the play room,’ she whispered. ‘He was expecting you, but you know what he’s like.’

He smiled his thanks. Why had he come? Partly boredom. There’d seemed no reason to go into the office after Abbie’s death, but, when he worked from home, he found he couldn’t concentrate on the catalogue research that normally fascinated him. Gradually it became clear that grief had taken up permanent residence and was eating him away on the inside. He was drinking too much. He missed out on meals. He’d stare out of the window of his Kensington flat and before he knew it three hours had passed and it was dark. When Steele had sent a text message reminding Jamie of his offer it had felt like someone opening the door of his cell. He needed a change. He needed a life. At some point he needed to forget.

An enormous gilt-framed mirror dominated one side of the broad hallway, while the other wall held an astonishing display of curved cavalry sabres and scabbards, arrayed in a circular formation that must have been almost eight feet in diameter. The hilts were highly polished, but the blades had the dull bluish sheen and pitting that marked them as well-cared-for antiques and not cheap modern replicas. Other more exotic swords held individual pride of place in glass cases, some of them with jewelled hilts and great curved blades inlaid with gold and silver.

Charlotte led him past numerous oak-panelled doors to the carpeted stairway. ‘You know the way.’ The smile
faded and she reached out to touch his arm. ‘I was so sorry to hear about your friend.’

What she called the ‘play room’ was actually a large gym that filled most of the top floor of the house and before he reached it, Jamie could clearly hear excited shouts and the clash of metal on metal. He felt his blood begin to rise as he walked through the doorway and almost smiled. There was something about a battle of wills that brought out the best and the worst in him. Two anonymous figures faced each other on a narrow mat that ran virtually the full length of the twenty-five-yard-long room, sharply lit by the sunlight that filled the white-walled space. Each wore a mesh mask that covered the face and neck and a smooth white jacket with padding to protect the chest. As he watched, the man on the right advanced warily, a long narrow sword held aggressively in front of him, forcing the fighter on the left to retreat step by step. The button tip of the sword made slight threatening movements and it seemed certain the attacker had the advantage. So fast the eye could barely register it, the defender’s sword flicked out, forcing the attacker to parry and retreat in his turn, and following up with a whirlwind series of attacks that lasted only a fraction of a second. The swordsman on the left attempted another desperate parry and followed it up with an attack, but the point of his opponent’s sword made a solid hit on his chest and the blade bent into an arc.

‘My match.’ The victor’s muffled voice sounded hollow
and alien as the two men stepped back, allowing their blades to drop and removing their masks one-handed. Adam Steele’s face glowed pink with exertion and his breath came in short gasps, but his eyes shone with an almost messianic light. Steele’s opponent was short and compact, with narrow, suspicious features, cropped sandy hair and a mouth set in a sardonic smile. For a fleeting second, Jamie thought he noticed a hint of anger before the face dissolved into a wry grin. ‘Fair and square, boss.’

Steele smiled and introduced Jamie to the stranger. His voice was still fuelled by the adrenalin coursing through his body, the words emerging in machine-gun bursts. ‘Jamie Saintclair. Gault. Don’t ask. Just Gault. He does bits and pieces for me. Ex-squaddie, Special Forces type, sort of intelligence officer. Doesn’t like getting beat. Can be bloody wearing, but makes for a good contest. Fancy a crack? I’m just getting warmed up and there’ll be a vest to fit you. Nothing too strenuous. Best of five hits?’

Jamie murmured something about time being short. He knew Steele to be a fierce competitor, who would make the bouts last and who wouldn’t be satisfied if he didn’t win. They’d met by chance for the first time since Cambridge at a south London fencing club a year after Jamie had taken up the sport. Steele had been by far the more experienced, with a passion for the sport, but Jamie proved to have the speed, coordination and downright bloody-mindedness to give him a contest,
with the result that they practised often together. He hadn’t lifted a blade since Abbie’s death and really didn’t feel like it today. Yet Adam Steele persisted, and there was a challenge on the man Gault’s face that was almost a sneer.

He shrugged. ‘All right then, but just five hits.’

He slipped out of his jacket and Gault brought him a mask and a vest that fitted. The shoes weren’t ideal, but they’d have to do. He pulled a fencing glove over his right hand and picked up the rapier-like foil. It was an old-fashioned weapon, with a bone hilt, what they called an Italian grip, and not one of the new high-tech versions with the pistol grip they used in competition these days. He tried a couple of cuts to test it for balance and to flex his wrist.

‘We’ll make the first one a warm-up, shall we?’ Steele suggested. ‘Not fair to fight without letting you loosen up.’

Jamie took his stance, right foot forward and foil at the ready.

‘Fence,’ Gault snapped.

Jamie danced forward, his eyes never leaving the point of Adam Steele’s sword but his mind constantly calculating the position of his opponent’s body and the movement of his feet, always seeking a route to attack, but equally ready to defend if necessary. Steele allowed him to come, then feinted an attack that made Jamie step back in his turn.

They kept up the minuet for fifteen seconds, a lifetime
in a fencing bout, and Jamie knew that Steele was either playing with him or allowing him to loosen his muscles. At this stage of the contest, with his opponent’s mind already in battle mode, he understood he was at a double disadvantage. Still he managed to give almost as good as he got until Steele’s point hit him below the heart.

‘Good,’ the other man said. ‘Now let’s do it for real.’

They resumed the
en garde
position and waited for the word. This time it was Steele who attacked, forcing Jamie to parry, but allowing him no time to counter-attack before the point probed his defences again. Jamie was faster, but the other man the more experienced, and his blade created a bewildering whirlwind of bright steel. Somehow Jamie managed to force the point left so the touch was on his upper arm, an off-target hit that meant the bout had to be restarted. Now it was Jamie’s turn to go on the offensive, he felt a surge of adrenalin as he saw his opening and landed a good hit on his opponent’s chest, taking a simultaneous touch on his own body.

‘Your point.’ Steele acknowledged Jamie had been the original attacker and had priority, one of a dozen rules that made fencing so much more complex and interesting than it looked to an outsider. In the next ten seconds Jamie took one hit and gave another. One more and he’d be the victor. He went on the offensive, driving his opponent back and forcing him to parry frantically. But he had underestimated Adam Steele’s
determination. Steele let him come, giving him an opening, then manufactured a compound riposte that allowed him to slip inside the point to make a touch from an almost impossible angle. Two each.

‘Let’s make it interesting, shall we?’

Jamie frowned as Steele removed his face mask. ‘You’re crazy. You’ll lose an eye.’

The other man smiled. ‘I’ve always rather wished I’d lived in the age of the duellists, when you looked another man in the eye as you fought him. I’m pretty certain I can trust you not to spoil my good looks. The question is, do you trust me?’

The tone was jokingly self-mocking, but something in the air told Jamie his friend was being deadly serious. He glanced at Gault, but the former soldier only shrugged. Jamie’s first instinct was to lay down his sword and walk away. People fought in masks for a reason. Six inches of the finest Italian steel through the brain could seriously spoil your day. But to refuse would mean the whole foundation of their relationship would change, and he didn’t think he wanted that.
Do you trust me?
He pulled off the mask.

Steele visibly relaxed and Jamie realized he had passed some kind of test. Just what kind he would no doubt discover later. But first he had a fight to win.

Being able to see the other man’s eyes entirely changed the dynamic of a fencing bout. Against a masked man the point of the foil and the little hints betrayed by the body were the key. Now it was all in the eyes. The
eyes measured the distance between sword and target. They calculated the angle of attack. The signals they gave were fractional, at best, but if you could read those signals you had an edge. Jamie had been trained in the art of knife fighting by Royal Marine unarmed combat instructors. Not that long ago he had battled for his life against a man determined to skin him alive. Steele fought with his usual cold resolve, but he found his every movement anticipated; try as he might, he couldn’t break down Jamie’s guard. Jamie knew all he had to do was bide his time for the right moment. It came with a move born of Adam Steele’s frustration. The
flèche
. Steele executed a running lunge off the front foot designed to batter through the ring of steel that protected his opponent, and delivered with such force that it would have snapped the blade had it been on target. Jamie recognized the moment of decision and was already moving when the foil darted towards his chest, a dancing check step that took him inside the point. In the same instant his arm extended and his point hit Adam Steele in the centre of the chest. Steele’s eyes widened as if he could feel the cold metal in his heart and he stumbled off the mat.

The sound of a slow hand clap punctuated the stunned silence. ‘As neat an
intagliata
as I’ve seen.’ Gault grinned. ‘You’ll bear watching, Mr Saintclair, so you will.’

Steele gave him the kind of look that would strip paint, but his face split in a smile. ‘Neat? A combination
of dumb luck and an opponent who moves with all the speed and grace of a hippopotamus, eh, Jamie?’

Jamie knew being beaten had annoyed his host, so he kept his tone equally light. ‘Not my fault if you send a postcard every time you attack, old chum.’ They pulled off the fencing gear and by the time Jamie had replaced his jacket, Steele was already bounding for the door.

‘Time for a drink, I think. Charlotte?’ he roared. ‘Two bottles of the good stuff and three glasses in the library.’ Jamie exchanged a glance with Gault as they followed in his wake. ‘And I mean now, darling, not when you’ve powdered your bloody nose.’

Charlotte was walking towards the kitchens when they reached the stair. ‘Why do I put up with him?’ she whispered.

‘Because, despite my many faults, you can’t get enough of me in bed?’

She rolled her startling sapphire-blue eyes. ‘Ears like a bat and a mind like a sewer.’

True to its name, three walls of the library were lined with books on shelves that rose to almost twice the height of a man. Unlike books in some large houses of Jamie’s acquaintance, many of these looked as though they had actually been read. On the fourth wall, a gilt-framed canvas of some unfortunate Peninsular War general expiring as his red-coated soldiers looked admiringly on hung above the massive fireplace, surrounded by a display of individually mounted swords, each different, but an object of beauty in its own way. Some of them
were in their scabbards, others with the blades glinting dangerously. A window looked out on to the gardens and Adam Steele took his place beside it, staring appreciatively across the damp lawns until Charlotte appeared carrying a tray with two dust-coated wine bottles and three bulbous glasses. She picked up a corkscrew.

‘Gault will take care of that.’ Steele reached for the curtains. ‘Switch on the light on your way out.’

The girl hesitated.

‘Please.’ The tone and the word seemed curiously at odds and Charlotte frowned. She shrugged and, as the light flicked on, Steele drew the velvet drapes together, cutting them off from the outside world. He met Jamie’s puzzled glance.
You’ll see
.

Gault handed Jamie a glass and Adam Steele picked up another, breathing deeply at the tawny liquid within. ‘The ’eighty-six. Should probably decant it and let it breathe, but life’s too fucking short, eh? Not a bad year, if you like your tannins. All old boot leather and cow manure,’ he said appreciatively.

Jamie sipped his wine and waited.

With all the flamboyance of a Shakespearean actor taking the stage, Steele marched to the wall and swept one of the swords – a French cavalry officer’s personal weapon, individually crafted for the owner – from its scabbard.

‘When this was made it was the supreme example of the metalworker’s art. It had to be, because the care
that went into creating it could mean the difference between life and death to the man who wielded it.’ He tilted his head and studied the heavy, curved blade. ‘It is beautiful, but beauty is not its primary function. Killing is. That has been the story of the sword for at least four millennia, but it’s not why I collect them. Likewise, the reason I collect these beautiful objects is nothing to do with aesthetics. It has to do with magic. A sword is the child of earth, air and fire.’ He paused and lovingly resumed his study of the curving bar of glittering steel. ‘Look closely at this blade and you can see the ghosts of the tree roots that bind the earth to the Otherworld. The craftsmen who smelted the metal and forged the first swords from bronze were thought to be sorcerers or wizards and the blades they created became creatures of myth and legend; things of rare power to be passed down through the ages, or given as gifts to the gods. Sometimes the swordsmith came close to being a god himself. Think of Wayland, whose name has been passed down through English legend for more than two thousand years, or Murumasa, in Japan, whose blades are said to be endowed with supernatural powers.’