5

Near Hitchin, between Oxford and Royston
The second week of May

The next day Tom and Laura were on a cream-colored bus again, heading back in the direction of Oxford. As Laura had suggested, they got off the bus at Hitchin, stowed their luggage in a locker at the station, and took a taxi down to Temple Despy. When they got out of the cab, though, there was no ruin in sight. There was only a pasture on one side of the road and a tall red brick wall on the other, with iron spikes on top to discourage intruders. They walked along the wall a few dozen yards until they finally came to an elegant wrought iron gate, with a painted family crest adorning the arch over the driveway. Peering inside, Tom saw a maze of lawns, gardens, staircases, and fountains. Further back was a red brick mansion, with arched windows and tall chimneys, a row of dormer windows along the roof and two towering gables on either side. The building looked to Tom like one of the Oxford colleges, not like someone’s private residence.

“Do you suppose it’s all right to go in?” asked Tom.

The two wrought iron gates stood wide open. Laura pointed to a stainless-steel chain hanging from one gate, with an open padlock on one end. “Mr. Mirden said they would be expecting us,” answered Laura, pointing to the open padlock. “I suppose this is the English-style welcome mat.”

She took a few tentative steps past the gate, pausing as if waiting to hear an alarm or the barking of dogs. But nothing happened so Tom followed her in. They walked down the driveway past immaculate lawns, bright lilies floating in dark water, and little arbors covered with yellow laburnum and purple wisteria. “I feel like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz,” said Laura.

“And I feel like the cowardly lion,” whispered Tom, turning his head left and right.

They finally reached the manor house, its pillared porch adorned with climbing roses in full bloom. There was a great brass knocker shaped like a boar’s head, but apparently it was just for show. At one side of the massive oak door was a little white button and a printed sign that said, “Please use doorbell.” Tom pushed the button and soon the door was opened by a young man of about thirty with pale skin and wispy brown hair. He was wearing a plaid sweater vest and a bow tie, but his serious demeanor did not match his sportive attire. “Yes, what is it?” he asked.

“Hello, I’m Tom McCord and this is my assistant, Laura Hartman. I’m researching a book, and we were told that Mr. William De Lott might be willing to speak with us a few minutes.”

“His name is Willem De Lott,” said the young man curtly. “He’s from the Netherlands. I’m his assistant, Lionel Mirden.”

“Mr. Mirden, we spoke on the phone,” said Laura.

Mirden turned to Laura and smiled. “Oh, yes. You’re the Americans who were going over to Royston,” he said. “Why don’t you step inside?”

Mirden led them into the front hall and then softly padded away. Tom and Laura looked around them at the oak-paneled walls, the crystal chandelier over their heads, the tables on both sides of the entryway covered with exotic objets d’art from all over the world—jade elephants, marble busts, alabaster vases full of flowers, and a silver chalice that could have passed for the Holy Grail itself.

“Impressive,” whispered Tom softly, almost as if he were in church.

“Lavish at any rate,” said Laura in a normal speaking voice.

Mr. Mirden came treading softly back, saying, “Mr. De Lott will receive you now.” Tom and Laura gave him their coats and followed him down the hall and to the left. They came into a room that looked like a library, lined with books from floor to ceiling, though the space was larger than most drawing rooms. Sitting at a mahogany desk in front of the fire was an elegant-looking man of about forty, with blond hair combed straight back, wearing a field-gray, three-piece suit with a flamboyant silk tie of scarlet and amber. “Greetings,” he said rising from his chair, “I’m Willem De Lott. And you must be our friends from America, Mr. McCord and Miss Hartman.” He shook Tom’s hand and made a graceful bow toward Laura. “Would you like to have a seat?” he asked, gesturing toward two leather armchairs near the fire and sitting back down at his desk.

“Tell me then. What brings you two out to our untrodden ways?” he asked. “We don’t get too many visitors this far off the main road.”

“Mr. McCord is writing a book on Arthurian sites,” said Mirden, “Miss Hartman says he’s traveling all over England—”

“Thank you, Lionel,” said De Lott with a tight smile. “Actually, I was speaking to them.”

Tom looked at De Lott, then at Lionel, then at Laura, and realized they were all waiting for him to speak. “Yes, that is right,” he said. “I’m writing a guidebook, mainly for tourists, about all the sites associated with legend and romance.”

“I’m a bit of a relic hunter myself,” said De Lott. “So tell us what it is you are digging for?”

“You already know all the stories about the Templars and their relics,” answered Tom. “Actually, I’m more interested in King Arthur, the historical figure, not the legendary one.”

Mr. De Lott made a little sighing sound. Tom couldn’t decide if he was disappointed or relieved. “I have something you might be interested in,” said the Dutchman, rising and walking over to a glass case with a curtained canopy, almost like a shrine. Tom and Laura followed De Lott and glanced down to see an ancient book beneath beveled glass, the opened pages showing bold black quill strokes in Latin.

“You know Nennius?” asked De Lott. “Historia Brittonum?”

“Of course,” said Tom, “the ninth-century codex that first mentions Arthur. I was just looking at the text in the British Museum a few weeks ago. Harleian 3859, I believe it is called.”

“That’s correct,” said De Lott. “The British Museum has a fine early text of the Historia. As do Oxford and Cambridge. As do I.” De Lott made a sweep of the hand toward his prized possession, like an impresario introducing an amazing new performer. “Can you guess why the book is opened to this page?” asked De Lott.

Tom stepped forward and peered at the script through the glass. He felt that this was some kind of entrance exam, but he was not sure what sort of school he was being invited to join. “Carolingian script, I guess,” said Tom, trying to buy some time. Then he spotted the word that looked like artur at the bottom of the page, and the phrase bellum in monte badonis in the preceding line. “This is the page about Arthur’s twelve battles with the Saxons,” said Tom calmly, as if he’d been glancing at a newspaper. “Ending with his victory at Mount Badon.”

“Very good,” said De Lott. “And where do you suppose that is?”

“I know there are quite a few candidates,” answered Tom. “To be honest, I haven’t investigated those sites yet.”

The three of them returned to their seats, while Mirden remained standing near the door.

“I’m not sure it really matters where Badon is,” said De Lott, with a casual wave of the hand. “Wherever it is, I doubt if you’d find much there but some broken skulls and rusty bits of iron.”

“Yes, but that would be evidence,” answered Tom. “Wouldn’t you like to be known as the man who proved, once and for all time, that there really was an Arthur and that you found the site of his most decisive battle?”

“That kind of research costs money,” said De Lott, reaching out for a poker to stir the logs in the fireplace. “I’m more interested in making money than spending it.”

Tom looked into the fire too. “Making money,” he mused. “It’s an odd phrase. Nobody really makes money, unless you’re the government—or a forger. All you can do is accumulate money. I’d rather make history.”

“Spoken like an affluent American,” said De Lott, jabbing a log in the fire till it gave off a shower of sparks.

Tom was surprised at his host’s bluntness, but he acknowledged the point.

“That’s probably true,” he said. “My grandfather made plenty of money in banking at the turn of the century. Then my father made even more money during the Depression, when everybody else was losing theirs. I can’t think of anything less interesting than trying to make even more money. ‘The world is too much with us, getting and spending,’ says the poet.”

“That’s where you and I differ,” said De Lott. “I started with nothing. Everything you see around you here, I earned all this by the sweat of my own brow.” Tom looked over at Laura, who was gazing out the window at the rose garden. He couldn’t quite visualize De Lott sweating much, and he knew that farmers and miners didn’t end up with manor houses the size of luxury hotels.

“What sort of business are you in?” asked Tom, “if you don’t mind my asking.”

“No, I don’t mind,” said Mr. De Lott. “I’m proud of what I’ve accomplished. I’m originally from the Netherlands, you know. I started out as an engineer, working on the dikes. Then I moved into manufacturing and capital investments. I liquidated all my assets in Holland back in 1938, when Germany annexed Austria. I could sense trouble brewing, and thought I’d be better off over here. If things get any worse across the Channel, I might have to move again and join you all in America.”

“I assumed you were a collector,” said Tom.

“Oh, no,” laughed De Lott, “all this is just a hobby of mine. In fact, I purchased this very property for antiquarian reasons, not investment reasons.”

“And what would those be?” asked Tom.

“Probably the same reasons you’re paying me a visit today,” said De Lott with a sly grin.

“Temple Despy?” said Tom.

“Very good!” said De Lott. “You are a quick study! And what else can you tell me?”

“Nothing you don’t already know,” answered Tom. “The three Knights Templar arrested by the king: they never did let on where their treasure was hidden.”

“Don’t think I haven’t looked for it!” De Lott exclaimed. “The old Templar preceptory was right where this building stands now. I’ve made probes everywhere I can think of, all around the foundations.”

“Maybe my assistant here can help you,” said Tom.

De Lott looked over at Laura, almost as if he’d forgotten she was there. “You know something about archeology?” he asked.

Laura just shook her head, first at De Lott and then at Tom.

“No, but she has uncanny dreams. Almost as if she’s seeing secret realities in her sleep.”

“Is that so?” said De Lott, leaning forward and peering into Laura’s face.

“Not really,” said Laura, looking down at her hands in her lap. “Mr. McCord here has a penchant for tall tales.”

“Tall tales?” said Tom with surprise. “Why just last week she was describing a dream of hers. A Roman commander being executed on a battlefield for refusing to kill a prisoner. An acquaintance of ours, a knowledgeable scholar, said her dream sounded like the martyrdom of Saint Maurice.”

“Really, Tom,” said Laura. “This is just a private interest of mine. Please don’t bore our host any further.”

Tom could tell it was time to drop the subject, but he didn’t like playing the fool. “Isn’t that why you wanted to come out to Royston Cave?” he asked. “To see if it matched your vision of an underground crypt?”

Laura got up and walked over to the window, letting the sunshine outside warm her face. “Can we just drop this please?” she pleaded.

De Lott got up and joined Laura at the window. “Please don’t be upset on my account,” he said. “I’m a student of dreams myself. I’d like to hear more.”

“Really, I’d prefer not to talk about it,” said Laura, her voice quavering a little.

“Since you seem to admire my gardens, perhaps you’d like a stroll around the grounds?”

Laura nodded that she would. Mr. Mirden hurried over and opened the French doors leading to the gardens in back. De Lott gestured for Laura to go first, then waved Tom through, following them outside. Mirden went last, keeping a few steps behind the rest of the group.

Laura began to step over to the right, where there was a brick pergola with overhanging vines of luminescent purple. But De Lott gently took her elbow and steered her to the left, toward a stone staircase leading up to formal gardens enclosed by a square green hedge. “I hope you like roses,” said Mr. De Lott, pointing to rows and rows of the fragrant flowers, red and pink and yellow and white, some with small, delicate blossoms, almost like primroses, others large and showy, more like posies.

“Yes, it’s beautiful!” said Laura, her mood seeming to improve with every step they took away from the house. They strolled to the end of the rose beds and came to a broad lawn with rows of lilies along both sides. There was a mound of dirt about ten feet high in the middle of the lawn and a gaping hole where the grass had once been.

De Lott turned to Tom, who been walking behind them. “Mr. McCord, you should have a look at this.”

Tom came up and looked into the hole, but he didn’t see much except a square-cornered excavation with a pile of dirt nearby. “Problems with your septic tank?” asked Tom.

“Hardly!” said De Lott, with a laugh. “This is my latest project. I told you I’d probed everywhere under the house for Temple Despy. We found a line of stones out here in the garden. We think there must have been some outbuildings here a long time ago.”

“Find anything?” asked Tom.

“Not yet,” said De Lott. “We did find some dressed stone and a few pottery shards. Nothing more on this spot.”

Mr. Mirden stepped forward and began explaining further. “One of the stones looked like it had a hole in it, like a cornerstone for an upright post. But which corner, we wonder? Did the building go off that direction—”

“Yes, yes,” said De Lott. “We’re not sure where to go next.” The Dutchman looked around him for Laura, who had wandered off a few paces to admire the lilies. “Miss Hartman, I wonder if we might have your opinion?” Laura came over and joined the others, looking blankly down into the hole.

“We were just talking about Temple Despy,” explained De Lott. “We’re not sure where to go from here. Do you have any opinion?”

“Dig for victory,” said Laura, still without much interest.

“Yes, but which direction?” asked De Lott.

Laura walked around the square hole, kneeling down once for a closer look, then rejoined the others. “I’d dig in that direction,” she said firmly, pointing south.

“Interesting,” said De Lott. “And why would you suggest that?”

“Because there’s only more lawn to the south. Dig in any other direction and you’ll disturb these beautiful flowers,” she explained.

De Lott looked distinctly annoyed and Tom decided maybe it was time to go. “Mr. De Lott, it has been a pleasure to meet you. But I wouldn’t want to take up any more of your time.”

“Oh, it’s no trouble,” said the Dutchman, recovering his poise. “I hope you’ll take a glass of sherry before you go.” Tom looked at Laura, who gave a little shake of her head. “Perhaps I can help you with your own research,” he added. Avoiding Laura’s gaze, Tom answered, “Yes, I’d love a glass of sherry. Thank you very much.”

The four of them walked back to De Lott’s study, Mr. Mirden following the others again by a few steps. They resumed their chairs by the fire, which had died down to embers. Mr. Mirden disappeared briefly, then returned carrying a silver salver with three crystal glasses and a decanter of sherry. He poured a glass for each of them, then set the tray on a side table and stood by the door.

“So you hope to make a name for yourself,” said De Lott, sniffing at his sherry and then taking a drink. “And how do you propose to do that?”

“I can’t really say,” answered Tom. He took a sip of sherry, which tasted to him like furniture polish and burned his throat. But he smiled appreciatively and continued. “There have been so many important discoveries over here the past few years. First they found that new manuscript of Malory’s Morte D’Arthur down at Winchester. Then they uncovered Tristran’s grave in Cornwall. Then the Saxon burial ship in Sutton Hoo. I just feel the time is ripe for another great find.”

Mr. De Lott smiled indulgently, with just a hint of condescension in his eyes. “If you want to make a name for yourself, you should go over to Wales and recover the sword Excalibur.”

“You’re not serious!” said Tom, his eyes widening.

“Quite serious,” answered De Lott. “Some people think that Arthur was no king at all, but only a daring mercenary hired by a Welsh chieftain to ward off the Saxons. When he died—as we all must—they might well have thrown his sword into a mountain pool over there someplace. Those old Celts used to do that, throw the swords of dead warriors into the water, a votive offering to the gods. Maybe the story of Sir Bedivere throwing Excalibur into a lake has some truth to it.”

“I don’t know,” said Tom, pulling on one ear. “I think of Arthur as Romanized, a Christian commander, not a pagan mercenary. And where would you even begin to look? There are dozens of lakes and pools to choose from?”

“You just start looking,” answered De Lott sternly. “Dredge. Drain. Dive. We have the technology now. You should see the miracles we perform moving water around in the Netherlands.”

Tom still looked doubtful, so De Lott changed tack, moving from speculation to persuasion: “Did you know they found pewter ingots in the Thames from the Roman era stamped with the Christian symbol chi rho? If you can still read the markings on pewter from before Arthur’s time, I don’t know why you couldn’t find a steel sword etched with his name. Start in the old mountain kingdom of Powys.”

Tom picked up his glass and then put it back down absently without taking a drink. “I don’t know,” he said. “You could spend your whole life mucking around in freezing cold water.”

“Perhaps your assistant here could be of some help.” Turning to Laura, he asked, “Do you have any ideas, Miss Hartman? Ever have any visions of a gleaming sword buried in the mud?”

Laura had set down her glass on a side table, after just the smallest sip. She reached for the glass but didn’t pick it up, just rubbed its stem as if trying to remove a smudge. She looked up at De Lott and simply shook her head.

“She does have a dream of a Celtic cross, tall and round like a lamp-post,” said Tom. “I wonder if that could be somewhere in Wales.” Laura glared at Tom, but he pretended not to notice. “Really, Laura, maybe Mr. De Lott could help you with this. Do you see any lakes in the scene with the Celtic cross?”

Laura shook her head. “It’s in a churchyard,” she said dully, “right in front of the church.”

“What color is it?” asked Mr. Mirden, seeming to forget his place by the door and coming to stand in the center of the room.

“Reddish,” said Laura, “Like the Pennsylvania plumstone we have back home.”

“Interesting,” said Mirden. “There are only a few Celtic crosses of red sandstone. Dupplin Cross up in Scotland. But it’s only about six feet tall. Could be Gosforth, one of the tallest of the high crosses. Up in the Lake District.”

“Dupplin. Gosforth. Or Monasterboice. Or Kildalton,” said De Lott sardonically. “There are Celtic high crosses all over Scotland and Ireland.”

“Yes, but they’re nearly all square, not round. Gosforth is just about the only red sandstone cross—”

“Really, Lionel,” interrupted De Lott, “Haven’t you heard the expression, ‘A little learning is a dangerous thing’? I’ve seen Celtic high crosses everywhere from the Inner Hebrides to Brittany.”

Mirden started to answer, but De Lott continued: “Lionel, why don’t you go find a glass and pour yourself some sherry?”

Mirden pressed his lips together, gave a slight bow, and left the room.

“Please excuse my assistant. Sometimes I think he spends too much time with his nose in his books and not enough time around people. Quite a knowledgeable fellow, of course. But he can get an idée fixe and won’t let go of it. Really, I’d hate to have my poor pedantic friend send you off on a ‘wild Gosforth chase.’” De Lott laughed at his own joke and poured himself another glass of sherry. He carried the decanter over to Tom and Laura, but they both shook their head no.

Sitting back down, the Dutchman leaned back in his chair, stretching his feet toward the fire. “Now, Miss Hartman, I’d like to hear some more about these dreams of yours. Maybe there’s another one I can help you with.”

Laura looked in Mr. De Lott’s direction, but not into his face. “Oh, just a few others,” she said. “A reclining king. A country church.”

“A reclining king. A country church,” De Lott repeated. “That’s a bit vague, isn’t it? Could be just about anywhere in England. Anywhere in the world for that matter.”

“Yes, it really is vague,” agreed Laura. “That’s why I wish Tom wouldn’t bring it up.” Tom had become fascinated by the fire again and didn’t seem to have anything else to say. Finally Laura stood up and extended her hand. “Thank you so much for your time, Mr. De Lott,” she said. “We have a bus to catch up in Hitchin, so we really should be going now.”

De Lott and Tom both stood up as well, and Laura began walking toward the front door without waiting to be shown the way.

“Say, I have an idea,” said De Lott. “Why don’t I have Lionel bring the car around and we can drive you back to Hitchin? It’s a Bentley Mark V. I think you’ll enjoy the ride.”

Tom smiled and started to say something, but Laura spoke first: “Oh, that is such a kind offer, Mr. De Lott. But we really couldn’t impose. Besides, we want to walk down and see Preston. I’ve heard it’s such a lovely little village. We can catch a cab from there.”

“As you wish,” said Mr. De Lott with a graceful bow. Mr. Mirden appeared from somewhere, gave Tom and Laura their coats and opened the front door for them. After they shook hands and said their goodbyes, Tom had to walk fast to keep up with Laura, who was headed back down the driveway with a lively step. She seemed miffed about something, and Tom wasn’t sure if he should say anything or wait for her to talk.

“Who says Preston is a lovely little village? I’ve never heard of it before.”

“All these little English villages are lovely,” said Laura, looking straight ahead. “The ones that don’t have a factory or an aerodrome nearby.”

“What’s wrong with a ride in a Bentley Mark V?” Tom asked. “I could have saved cab fare.”

“Oh, Tom, how could you?” said Laura, still walking stiffly and briskly, with her arms swinging.

Tom decided that his first idea of letting Laura talk first was the better one. “How could I do what?” he asked.

Still walking at parade-march pace, Laura looked over at Tom with an expression somewhere between disgust and disappointment. “How could you talk about my dreams like that? Especially to someone like him. Don’t you know that’s private? Now I wish I had sent you away last week at the King’s Arms.”

Tom sped up and walked backwards in front of Laura, so he could look into her face. “That’s just it,” he tried to explain. “Mr. Williams was so helpful explaining your dream about Maurice. I remember how delighted you were. I was thinking maybe this guy De Lott could be helpful too.”

“So that was your idea of help?” said Laura, finally slowing down her pace. They had reached the end of the driveway and she turned right toward the little village of Preston. “Really, Tom, you can’t tell the difference between Mr. Williams and Mr. De Lott?”

The two of them continued walking down the lane. There were little stone farmhouses and timbered cottages on both sides of the road, and every front yard seemed to have a flower garden more impeccably arranged than the last one. The sun was still shining, making it hard for someone who was trying to sustain a bad mood. Tom did sense a difference between the two older men, but he didn’t say anything. He thought if he waited a moment, Laura would articulate it better than he could.

“Mr. Williams was trying to help,” said Laura, fulfilling Tom’s expectation. “He had only my interests in mind. Mr. De Lott’s questions were more like an interrogation. He has no one’s interest in mind but his own.” Laura paused to let this sink in, and then added: “I thought it was infuriating how he treated poor Mr. Mirden.”

“Well,” said Tom, “I think they have sharper class distinctions over here.”

“He’s supposed to be his assistant, not his butler!” said Laura.

“That’s a good point,” said Tom, as they walked the lane more slowly. “How come you never bring me a glass of sherry?”

Laura looked over at Tom with a stony glare, and he made a mental note not to try humor the next time she was angry with him.

“I thought that was interesting advice about looking for Excalibur,” said Tom, not quite sure why he was defending someone he didn’t find too likeable either.

“Why is it,” asked Laura, “that De Lott doesn’t mind the idea of you dredging every lake in Wales, but he wants to save you the terrible trouble of riding a train up to Gosforth?”

“Yes, I’ll admit that was odd,” said Tom. “He wouldn’t let poor Lionel get a word in edgewise. The more he kept telling us what a waste of time it would be, the more I felt like making a visit up there.”

Laura looked at Tom and smiled for the first time since they had left De Lott’s estate. “That’s exactly what I was thinking!” she said.

“Maybe for our next field trip, we should go on a ‘wild Gosforth chase.’”

Laura smiled wider. “I quite agree,” she said. “But for now,” she added, “Let’s have a look around Preston. I hear it’s a lovely little village.” She quickened her pace again, and Tom had to lengthen his strides to keep up.