Chapter 30
"Is that a threat?..." Cross demanded, bristling with indignation. "Bear in mind... I am an officer of this tribunal, charged with enforcing our policy of identification and elimination of risk through...."
Derek held up his hand to stem the flow, shook his head, and snorted with amusement. "I'm not threatening you... nor anyone present.... I'm as much stuck by the irony of this situation as you are!"
"What situation?..." Loxley Millard leapt in before Cross had the chance to use four words when one might do.
"As you all know, the Legacy was founded by my ancestor... Myrddin Emrys... otherwise known as 'Merlin'... a very far-sighted individual." Derek smiled to himself, wishing he was as confident as he hoped to appear. "Exactly how far-sighted I'll try to explain. But before I do... there's something I want from the vaults.... I'd like the Legacy Gospel."
"What trick is this?" Cross asked. "Never take a Rayne at face value," his suspicions whispered. "Merlin went mad, too, if I recall," he said aloud.
"Indeed... so they say," Derek replied, "...and apparently recovered as well."
His wrinkled brow creased by a frown, Loxley Millard once more interrupted. "Why would you want the Gospel?... Our friend... Monsieur le Vicomte... and his predecessors... have spent years on the translation of the Gospel and the Charter it contains. I assure you... nothing has escaped their scrutiny.... I would be very loath to risk any damage that moving it... or exposing it to the atmosphere might cause. It's worth to the Legacy is incalculable.... It's our founding document.... Even if it wasn't, the only thing that can compare is in the British Museum."
The French nobleman rose to his feet to explain, "The Gospel is the 'Gospel of St. Matthew', which has been stylistically dated to the eighth century CE. Some ascribe the work to Billfrith 'the Anchorite', who flourished around 740.... That is a possibility, but, personally, I'm doubtful.... I've studied Billfrith in depth... and it's just not him."
"Excuse me," Clare spoke up. "Has the work been dated by Carbon-14?"
"For a long time, we couldn't," de Foix responded. "The test would have destroyed too much of the velum, but of late we've tried with the newer techniques, which take much, much less. Unfortunately, our results have been indefinite.... In fact, the dates have been widely divergent.... Everything from about 250 CE plus or minus fifty years... to 1000 CE... probably due to various forms of contamination."
"Or Merlin's magic," Cross said with sarcasm.
"Indeed," Derek drily commented.
"Anyway... Sir James is right," de Foix continued, as he stole a look at Derek's face... and read the importance that the precept attached to having this artifact brought to the chamber. "The manuscript has been closely studied... for many generations. I wrote a treatise myself on the likelihood of it originating from the scriptorium at St. Michael's Mount... and the possibility that the Legacy Charter is the original charter, inserted into a later work. I doubt that it has anything more to reveal."
"There are always secrets...," Derek cautioned... enigmatically.
"Still...," said the vicomte, "I don't see the harm in bringing it up. Perhaps, Derek's 'Sight' can tell us something we've overlooked."
"I've never seen it.... I'd like the opportunity," Clare seconded.
"You may be disappointed, my dear," Loxley Millard replied as he glanced at the woman to his right. "It's rather a plain book... the illuminations are relatively simple... the cover is merely silver... no jewels or feminine frippery... only a brass Legacy crest and engraving of Celtic knots, animals, and such."
"Why do you want this... artifact?" Cross demanded. Open hostility tainted his voice.
"Please... humor me," Derek asked quietly. "I want to swear an oath... that my testimony is the truth... and nothing but the truth."
"OK... fine," Cross agreed, turning to the vast bookcase at the far end of the room. "I'm sure there's a Bible in there somewhere."
"No!" Derek insisted. "It must be the Gospel.... Another won't do."
"Oh... for God's sake, man.... Get him his damned book.... He knows how to handle an ancient artifact.... I taught him," Sloan growled. "What harm can it do?... And besides...." He glanced meaningfully in the direction of the Ruling Council's president. "We owe him!"
"Do it!" Loxley Millard instructed. He did not like to be reminded of old debts... debts that could not be denied nor repaid... nor revealed.
Knowing that some secret to which he was not privy had passed between the two men, Cross reluctantly left the room with the Sergeant-at-Arms and Justin de Foix.
"Have some tea," Fr. Thomas suggested to Derek as the room broke into small, quite conversations. "It'll relax you.... Come on... sit until they get back... and tell Sloan and me what happened, how you got here, and what makes you think the book is anything more than what it seems."
Derek smiled at the old man as he tiredly sank into Sloan's chair. He sensed the suspicious curiosity with which the entire room regarded him... and the reluctance which would keep them all at bay for a while. "I woke up.... Carter drove me... and a little bird told me," he informed the priest. "Please... leave it at that for now.... I need my focus for what's to come."
The crow's feet around Fr. Thomas' eyes crinkled in puzzlement. Then, recalling the tiny falcon outside Derek's window, he frowned and patted his young friend's hand, and prayed his madness wasn't returning.
< < + > >
Twenty Minutes Later...
Two uniformed security officers assisted the Sergeant-at-Arms in carefully carrying the hermetically sealed glass case, which contained the Gospel, resting upon its velvet cushion.
Cross shook his head, tutting as he resumed his seat. He watched Derek rise and cross to the treasure. "Humoring madmen," he muttered, "when we have more important matters to be settled."
"Thank you... for your indulgence, Sir James," Derek said, watching the men gently set the case on the polished table.
As de Foix cracked open the back panel, a hiss of escaping air sounded from the breached seal. He then pulled several pairs of white, cotton gloves from his jacket pocket and slipped on a pair before sliding the book from its protective shelter. Created with the purpose of being displayed and read from before a congregation of hundreds, the gospel was nearly two feet square and six inches thick, filled with illuminated, velum pages.
Derek glanced down at the dull, silver cover, embossed with the crest of the Legacy. He placed his hand over the book... but did not touch it... closed his eyes, and drank in the history that flooded through him.
Glancing round the room, he saw bewilderment on most faces. He plucked a glove from the table, slipped it on, then placed his hand upon the tarnished cover. "I swear on this holy book that the testimony I give is the truth... so help me Gott."
Sloan noticed that his friend had not sworn that his testimony would be the "whole truth". Searching Derek's face, he was certain that omission had not been accidental. Smoke and mirrors again, he thought. Remember, my friend, Faith hath need of the whole truth.
< < + > >
Derek was tired.... Fatigue seemed to throb along his veins like blood. So many pieces... thoughts... memories... still had found no place in the jigsaw puzzle of his brain. It was all happening at breakneck speed.... Only twenty-four hours ago, he had still been a vacant mind in a puppet's body... but he had no time... no time to catch up... no time to ponder. He had to finish this quickly.... Afghanistan... and Nick Boyle... waited. He hitched his hip onto the edge of the table and waited until he was certain he had everyone's attention.
"Where to begin?" He hung his head, closed his eyes, and silently prayed. "Please, God." In his dream, Merlin had said, "You have learned what you need to know, though you know it not." Although Derek's mind and body were functioning, he still felt like that puppet he'd been but a few hours before. He sought the stillness of his center, opened himself, and waited. "Trust me," he heard a voice say from deep within. "You will know what to say.... Just speak."
After a moment, Derek looked up once more and gazed around the silent room. All eyes were fixed on him. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to bore you with a brief lecture of the history of the Legacy... and its real relationship to the Luna Foundation."
He cast an eye towards Fr. Thomas and de Foix, raised a quizzical eyebrow, and received barely perceptible nods of agreement. He sensed that they understood and would sanction whatever disclosures were necessary.
"As you may recall," he began, "Merlin knew of the ancient Legacy... of its downfall during Rome's final days of greatness. Therefore, when Arthur became king and the Round Table was established to fight earthly injustice and evil, Merlin revived the Legacy as the table's spiritual 'companion-in-arms'... to fight the forces of Darkness." The precept paused for a sip of his water, then continued, "Ultimately, as it often does, the world went mad once more.... 'Camelot'... the real 'Camelot' died.... Merlin saw his dreams shattered.... Arthur... the Round Table... all gone....
"He understood how vital it was to keep the Legacy alive, so that it could continue its perpetual fight against the Darkside. He also saw human weakness... and its consequences... and was determined to somehow prevent another shattering."
"This history lesson is fascinating, but it gets precisely where?" Cross snapped.
"Patience...," Derek chastised him. "Soon I'll get to the part you're interested in... the money."
Cross pursed his lips in suppressed rage, but remained silent.
"Another organization... a silent partner to the Legacy... was established.... Merlin's heirs used their 'Sight' to make wise investments across the known world... along with smart political moves... all the while building up the funds... increasing the 'Trust's' worth."
Sloan watched his friend closely. He could tell by the brownishness in the eyes, the tautness in his neck that Derek was hiding real anxiety behind his calm facade. Where the hell is he taking us, the older man wondered.
Derek slid from the table and began to pace back and forth, a habit left from his days as a professor. "Merlin knew he had to build in safeguards... a balance of power.... He had to keep control of those funds away from the Ruling Council of the Legacy, while at the same time providing for the Legacy's endeavors and future.... Within this twin society, we've always been aware of the unwritten rules... the need to keep everyone, including each other, at arm's length.... Those instructions have been passed down through the generations."
Cross snorted. "Rayne... you have twins on the brain.... Parallel universes... twin worlds... twin selves... now twin Legacies. When is this farce going to end?"
Derek ignored the Scotsman's bitter outburst. He turned to face the tribunal. "I believe the charter stipulates this and that if the Legacy tries to challenge the actions of the 'Trust's' chairman... if that's what you wish to call my 'position'... then all funding would cease until the Legacy withdrew their challenge... or the matter was proven."
Cross was on his feet, leaning over the table. "You believe!" he snarled. "De Foix... does the Legacy Charter say anything at all about this?... Does it even so much as imply the existence of another organization?"
"No," Justin honestly replied, never taking his eyes from Derek's face.
"Then I take it that Dr. Rayne has been entertaining us with a fairy tale... a fantasy... and that he has no proof... no proof whatsoever... of these preposterous allegations.... We all know that his father, Winston Rayne, established the Luna Foundation to protect his own assets from taxation... to provide this society with some minor funding... and as a side benefit to shield from media scrutiny his own activities as a Legacy precept... and that's that."
"Minor funding?" Sloan allowed a tone of astonishment to creep into his voice. "It wasn't minor in your opening statement, Cross.... You said that the loss of Luna Foundation funds would cripple the Legacy."
Ignoring the sniping, Derek responded with as much certainty as he could. "The proof will be in the charter."
Cross turned to face the vicomte. "You're our historical expert.... Have you ever heard of another charter?... Have you seen it?... Is there any indication that so much as a page is missing from the Legacy's Charter?... Can you offer Rayne any support whatsoever?"
De Foix shook his head. He knew the truth of what Derek was saying, but had to confess.... "No.... I have to admit that in all my studies of the history the Legacy... I've never come across such a document... nor have I come across a reference to such a document."
"Then where is this so called 'charter'?" Cross demanded of Derek. "No doubt in the vaults of the San Francisco House!... I don't blame you for this farce, Dr. Rayne...," the Scotsman said condescendingly, as he shot a withering look in Sloan's direction. "I'm sure your allies... in a vain attempt to protect their own interests... fabricated this story and fed it to you. In your current mental state, you probably believed every word of it!"
To Derek, Cross' speech was little more than a background murmur. He stared down, blank faced, at the book before him.
Recognizing that his friend was experiencing a vision, Sloan raised his hand to still any comment from the table. He rose and stood, patiently waiting, beside Derek. When he saw the eyelids flutter, animation returning, he was ready to offer support, if needed. He reached a hand towards his friend's elbow, but did not touch. "You OK?" he gently asked.
"Yes... I'm fine." The Dutch accent was thicker, its tone mesmeric. "It's strange... something I've seen every day... but of which I've never seen the significance."
He glanced around the table. Before their place, each person had a Legacy notebook... just like Sloan's... larger than a journal, but with the same embossed, leather cover. "Look at the design on your binders. It's a copy of the one on this gospel... older in style than the one commonly used," he said, pointing to a brilliantly gilded and painted crest that hung above the room's large fireplace.... "Look closely.... Do you see?... It's a double sword... not merely embossing. One shadows the other along the left edge.... One supports the other. For almost as long as the Legacy has existed, so has its sister. The other secret society founded by Merlin... known of late as the Luna Foundation... known in its previous incarnation as the Wayfarers' Trust... and known by a dozen names before that... but always overlapping the Legacy... always shadowing the Legacy... for a reason....
"Fr. Thomas... do you have any holy water?"
The priest had been watching his friend, engrossed in his story. He shook his head and brought himself back to the current moment. "Holy water.... My son... what self-respecting member of the Legacy would ever be without it!" he chuckled, pulling a small, silver brandy flask from his pocket.
Derek smiled.... He seemed to remember Phillip Callaghan saying much the same thing. "Will you anoint the cover of the gospel with it?" he asked.
"No!" Loxley Millard firmly interrupted... horrified. "I cannot allow that.... The book will be damaged."
"We cannot risk the defacement of such a priceless artifact," Cross barked out.
The Vicomte de Foix rose from the table to stand beside Derek. "The cover is silver... the crest brass.... If done with care, water... particularly blessed water... won't harm it... unless one or the other is evil."
The priest and other members of the Council crowded round, curious to see what rabbit Derek Rayne expected to pull from this hat. Reluctant to pour the water over the metal, Joseph glanced around and asked, "Does anyone have a cloth?"
"Here...." The Ruling Precept handed over a white, lace handkerchief, a gift that sentiment had led her to include in her handbag.
"Thank you, Clare," Derek said quietly. His gentle, but sad smile was returned in kind.
The priest carefully soaked the lace, held it for a moment, then said a quiet blessing and began to gently rub the silver cover.
Nothing happened.... The priest finished his cautious rubbing. The Council members focused on the complex Celtic engraving. Nothing more than knots and snakelike animals.
"How long do we continue with this absurd farce?" Cross complained.
"Wait!" The vicomte bent to study the design. "I'm going crazy.... I've never noticed this before.... Do you see?" he asked, using a pencil to point to certain elements of the knitwork.
The priest nodded. "Words... the design... seems to be made up of words."
"Let me see." Loxley Millard pushed forward, ready to deny, but unable to refute the evidence of this own eyes. "My God!... It's Latin... isn't it?... What does it say?"
"Derek?..." De Foix turned to the man beside him.
"You translate, Justin... please.... My Latin was always... weak."
Bracing a hand on either side of the book, de Foix leaned over and began to hesitantly read aloud. "'I... Merlinus Ambrosius... born Myrddin Emrys... kinsman to Arthur, the High King... scholar, prince, archbishop, chancellor... whom some choose to call the King's Sorcerer... whom others deign to call seer and prophet... do...." The wonder in the nobleman's voice grew. "...do ...with those brave and true Knights of the Round Table, who have survived the slaughter at Camlann.... and others....'"
Justin paused to draw a deep, emotional breath.... As an historian and scholar, to find himself presented with... this miracle.... In awe, he glanced up at Derek.... He had always liked the other man, considered him a friend and ally... but he had never understood, nor sympathized with his "fey" nature.... But if it uncovered treasures such as this.... If he was looking at Merlin's own blood....
He chuckled to himself and stole another glance at Merlin's descendant. Did he look anything like his ancestor? Was his gift of "Sight" like that of his ancestor? Something deep in his gut told him that if this had been the Great Hall at Camelot, the man beside him would have been Merlinus Ambrosius.
"Come on!..." Sloan snapped. "Get on with it."
"Patience...," de Foix soothed. "OK... where was I?... 'I... Merlin...' blah... blah... blah.... Here we are.... 'Realizing the wonders that can be achieved by a fellowship of like mind in valor, honesty, chivalry... while at the same time, having just witnessed the destruction and tragedy that avarice, lust, a thirst for power hath wrought within that same miraculous fellowship....'" He paused, then glanced glanced at Loxley Millard and gave voice to a private thought. "Quis custodiet ipsos custodies?...Who will guard the guards?..." he translated.
Returning to the book, the nobleman continued, "'...Do hereby call into conclave those whom Providence has deemed worthy... Sir Ector... Sir Bedwyr... My Lady Niniane, Abbess of the Summer Isles'... that must be the Lady of the Lake... 'Gwyfyr, Queen of the Copper Mountain'... a Pictish queen... maybe... or Guenivere herself.... 'Bor de Gawnes... Sir Caradoc of Armorica'... uhm... Brittany... 'Duke Cador of Dumnonia'... that's Cornwall... 'Sir Gustan de Foix....' Uhmmm..., " de Foix murmured. "There's a whole list of others here... more survived than legend would have it. I recognize some names... others may have had their names corrupted by Malory... or by the French and German romances."
He continued to read, "'We, the above, by our marks, do establish a new order... a successor in aspiration to the Round Table... in honor of all of our 'companions' who were lost.... I do hereby proclaim it to be the Circle of the Phoenix....' Uhmmm," de Foix pondered. "Could this be the reason Dublin House is situated in Phoenix Park... and has always been called Phoenix House?" he absently murmured.
"Justin!..." said the old priest. "Keep reading."
The old man's voice pulled the nobleman's thoughts back to the present. "Ahh... oui... pardon... mes amis. 'I do hereby proclaim it to be the Circle of the Phoenix," he repeated, "and pray that as the Phoenix rises from the ashes... so shall we... and as a circle is eternal... with neither beginning nor end... and like the Round Table... with neither head nor foot... so shall we be in eternal, equal fellowship.... Thus, with the certain protection of Divine Providence, we do hereby pledge to each other our lives, our hopes, our sacred honor.'"
"My God," Sloan whispered.
"What?" asked Joseph. Sloan's tone had been one of recognition and astonishment. "What?" he repeated.
"'...With a firm reliance on the protection of Divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our lives, our fortunes, and our sacred honor...'," Sloan replied. "It's the last line of the Declaration of Independence."
"Mon Dieu," Justin de Foix echoed. "That means Jefferson or Adams or Franklin knew of this?... or at least they knew something." He glanced down at the remainder of the text. "I want to study this... in greater detail... but I'll go to the most relevant portion.... What is pertinent at this moment.
"Or," Sloan murmured as suspicion rose, "whoever made those words appear in that design knew of Jefferson and Adams."
"'Never shall the anointed...' uhmmm... 'chosen'.... I'm sorry.... It's difficult... uhmmm... 'custodian?.. administrator?... of our Trust be challenged by the Legacy.... All assistance shall cease until such challenge is withdrawn... or the matter proven before all... Circle and Legacy alike. No force of arms... nor nature... nor any foul thing... shall be used by the Legacy against the realm of our authority.... All assistance shall cease.... Never shall the identity of any member of our fellowship, save those designated, be revealed to the Legacy.... Never shall our chosen delegates be threatened by the Legacy...." De Foix glanced round the table. "Need I go on?"
"Apparently not...," said Loxley Millard. "We'll need to study this... and our own records... to discover this 'secret' history... to fully understand all the implications.... But... as you said, de Foix... 'Who guards the guards?'... If the Legacy has been manipulated all these centuries by this 'fellowship'... are we not the victims of a conspiracy?... What became of that 'balance of power'?... What has kept Merlin's last 'creation' so pure... so benevolent?... How is a matter to be proven to a clique that hides itself?"
"It does put a new kink in things, doesn't it... Sir James?" said Fr. Thomas. "Weren't you just saying 'we of the Legacy are bound by our own rules... handed down by our founders... that have stood the test of time'?... This seems to be another set of rules handed down by that very same founder.... Seems Merlin was quite the devious fellow... or maybe wise enough to give Solomon a run for his money."
"By all means... study it... investigate...," Derek replied, eager to keep the discussion to the point. "I'm curious myself... and will within reason open the Luna Foundation's archives to de Foix and whomever he chooses to assist him. I would suggest Alex Moreau... and you, Sir James...," he said, looking toward the President of the Ruling Council. "Should you wish to retire to an active, extremely important endeavor.... However... at this moment... I take it that we now all accept the current status quo?"
Loxley Millard nodded. "I'll take it under advisement." He returned to his seat, banged his gavel, and announced, "This tribunal is suspended until this new evidence can be fully evaluated.... Dr. Rayne is free to return to Dorset or to San Francisco with his status restored. However, I must warn you... Dr. Rayne... your decisions and actions with regards to matters pertaining to Legacy affairs will be under close scrutiny. You may represent the Luna Foundation, or whatever it's called at the moment, but you need not be a precept, nor even a member of this society to fulfill those duties... and while you may continue with the title 'precept'... it will be Precept Titularis... in title only. In the near future, this Council will determine who is to be Precept of the San Francisco House. It is no one's prerogative to simply pass the title and duties on with the ring.... That is the right of this Council... and this Council alone."
Fr. Thomas, de Foix, Clare, McLean, and others gathered round Derek, shook his hand rigorously, and patted his back.
"We need to talk," said McLean. "You've got to let me run tests."
"Later, Doctor," Derek replied. "Thank you for all your efforts on my behalf... but... right now... there's no time."
Then Sloan edged in. "They'll huff and puff for a while...," he said grimly, "but they won't fold. You've bought us time to re-group... and to get you sorted out. Then we'll figure out how to get that ring back on your finger." He took his friend by the elbow and tried to steer him aside. "Another game of smoke and mirrors... Derek?... But I've got to admit this is an 'unexpected' ploy.... How in the hell did you pull it off?... Was it de Foix?" Sloan paused, still clutching Derek's elbow. He shook his head sadly, then looked directly into his friend's eyes. A part of him wanted to shout for joy and to pull the younger man into a bear hug, but... instead... he remained William Sloan... precept.... "Derek.... I swear to God." His voice was taut and quiet. "You stupid bastard.... What in the hell did you think you were doing?... You shut us all out.... Everyone who cares about you... your mother... Ingrid... me.... You played me for a goddamned fool.... Now you've got this dog-and-pony show going. Illusion is still illusion... or delusion."
"Later, William," Derek replied. "You might, at least, ask me how I am."
"Ask how you are! Would I get the truth? Have I ever gotten the truth?" Sloan asked bitterly. "That gambit won't cut with me any more.... Poor Derek... the offended friend... sulking because someone... usually me... hurt his feelings.... You use your pain... my friend... physical... emotional... whatever... as a weapon... or you hide it behind an 'I'm fine' to suit your needs of the moment.... You're too damned good at this.... Jesus!... Kincaid accuses me of being a manipulator.... I'm an amateur compared to you. Who has pulled the strings all these years?... I don't even know what's real any longer."
Derek sighed deeply and, shrugging off his friends, turned away.... It would all have to wait.... His attention was still drawn to the gospel. "Talk with Joseph and Justin for the time being. They'll explain what they can," he told Sloan over his shoulder. "I'll be leaving tomorrow." He paused to look at his watch. "Actually... I'll be leaving today."
"Back home?" Fr. Thomas asked.
Derek pulled away and stepped back to the silver covered book. A hush fell over the room.... All wondered what was to come.... What could now be expected from this heir of Myrddin Emrys... seer, prophet, prince, magician... this heir to the Round Table itself.
He gazed down at the Legacy crest.... His eyes... his aura... once more grew distant.... He felt in his pants pocket and withdrew his precept's signet, which was still entwined with Joseph's rosary. Slipping the band off the beads, he stared for a moment at the blue and gold ring, which bore the gospel's crest.
Derek Rayne then placed the ring upon the gospel's cover... upon the small knob that formed the sword's pommel. He looked up to scan the room, to gaze into each and every face. In a loud voice, devoid of accent, the precept declared, "For safekeeping."
Gasps swept round the room as the brass began to glow. Upon the ribband that bound the sword to the Legacy "L" bright words appeared... Fides Fidelibus Veritatem Vult." A small half-smile flitted across Derek's lips. With bare fingers he brushed the cover, then turned to walk from the room. As he passed his friends, he handed the old priest his rosary and muttered, "No... not home... to Afghanistan."
| PART 2: WAR |
| CONTENTS |
| E-mail: Dubricus | E-mail: Susan Lay |
