Spectred Isle (Green Men #1)(11)
The Major’s library was extensive and eclectic, combining rare old maps and local histories with implausible medievalist folklore and books about magic, which the Major insisted on calling grimoires. Most of those were simply gibberish; others made an effort at scholarship. Saul had read a few to acquaint himself with the subject, including a History of Witchcraft by one Julian Karswell which had been genuinely disturbing, leaving him in no doubt that the author believed every sinister word he wrote. Saul had gone so far as to look Mr. Karswell up, wondering what sort of man could have been behind such an unpleasant piece of work, but discovered only that he had died in France well before the war. He couldn’t regret the fellow’s passing. The History of Witchcraft left some rather ugly phrases fixed in his memory, and after a couple of days with it sitting on his desk, unaccountably noticeable at the corner of his eye and giving the irritating impression that it moved a tiny bit every time he looked away, he’d put it firmly back on the shelf. Much longer in this job and he’d probably find himself a believer.
“I have it! Enfield Chase,” Major Peabody announced. “That is where the apogee of the hexagram surely lies. A crucial site.”
“I don’t know of it.”
“The ancient name of what was once a royal hunting ground. In what we now call Cockfosters.” Major Peabody swept his hand over north-west London on the map. “The land was once in the possession of Geoffrey de Mandeville; that is what gave me the clue. Do you know of de Mandeville?”
“The turncoat earl of Essex during the Anarchy,” Saul offered. “He changed sides several times between King Stephen and Empress Matilda.” That was all he remembered about the civil wars of the twelfth century, and he was surprised to have retained even that much from long-ago history lessons, but he felt quite sure that Major Peabody would enlighten him. Or, at least, tell him things.
“Quite right. Once neither claimant to the throne was prepared to trust him again, de Mandeville launched a rebellion and lived as an outlaw. He died excommunicate, and nobody would accept his body for burial except the mystical order of the Knights Templar. The Templars, Lazenby! The ancient founders of Temple Church! It all makes sense!”
“So what has he to do with Cockfosters?” Saul asked, in lieu of agreeing.
“De Mandeville once had a manor house there, on a site called Camlet Moat.” He tapped the map, indicating an area some two or three miles north-west of Oak Hill Park. “Does the name Camlet Moat suggest anything to you?”
“Not really, sir.”
“Camlet,” Major Peabody repeated with relish. “Or, as it was called in the fourteenth century, Camelot.”
Saul contemplated him. He appeared serious.
“Camelot. Isn’t that meant to be in Glastonbury?”
“A common misapprehension. Nobody knows where the true Camelot was located. Perhaps it was the name of the court and not the castle; perhaps it moved with the king. I do not assert as a fact that the legendary seat of King Arthur is in Cockfosters,” Major Peabody said, with scrupulous fairness, “not yet. But the name alone merits further investigation. And, let me add, there is a well remaining on Camlet Moat to which all kinds of legends are attached. Supposedly it contains his treasure chest, which sinks whenever drawn up by seekers after his fortune.”
Saul was moved to make a noise of protest. Major Peabody gave him a reproachful look. “I’m not a treasure hunter. The point is that legends cluster around important sites, such as holy wells. You must make a preliminary visit to Camlet Moat; this is where your training will come into its own. It is possible we may need to apply for permission to excavate there one day, but all in good time. Regrettably, Temple Church is closed for rebuilding work, but I shall trace the patterns around the area and see if I can learn more of de Mandeville’s connection to the Templars. What a revelation this may prove to be! I am delighted to have you with me in this, Lazenby. It was a lucky day for me when I took you on.”
He was beaming at Saul with such pleasure that Saul couldn’t help but smile back. “Yes, sir. For me, too.”
*
This latest freak meant another trip on the railway. Saul found a seat and settled back. He had a copy of the Archaeology Review in his coat pocket, but he didn’t feel quite like reading it, somehow. It contained a long piece about Leonard Woolley’s excavations at Ur. The great Sumerian city had not caught the popular imagination, unlike Howard Carter’s work in the Valley of the Kings, but it tugged at Saul as though he had a fishhook in his mouth.
He could have been there. He could have been under the Mesopotamian sun—they called it the State of Iraq now—working with Woolley, who had told him that a place would be kept for him after the War. He’d felt so lucky back in 1914. Billeted in the desert he loved rather than the mud and blood of Flanders, where one in three of his Oxford contemporaries would die before the slaughter ended; a plum role waiting for him that would, by now, have established him for life. All he’d had to do was get through the War without death or disgrace.
People said one out of two wasn’t bad. They were wrong.
He hadn’t presumed to approach Woolley after his release, but a curt note had arrived anyway, withdrawing the offer. He didn’t blame the man, just as he didn’t blame his family for disowning him. It was only what he’d deserved. Still, he stared out of the window rather than reading.