CHAPTER TWO

 

 

 

'Come! Follow me,' requested Brangain, with a small, entreating gesture of her hand. 'I will tell you all I can.'

‘Just one sec.’ Sydney escaped out of sight to grab her satchel and slip her knife back in her boot. Wedding party or not, she was glad she had brought all her relic hunting gear. It looked like there was some serious hunting to do, and she had already encountered one unwanted menace…

Brangain led them off down the corridor. They trampled over a lush scarlet carpet, and hurried past stone flagged walls, hung with an impressive collection of 16th Century Flemish tapestries, arrayed with dancing nymphs, club-wielding hunters and frightened deer. Sydney shared with Nigel one of her whimsical, knowing looks, which only he understood properly. In a light-hearted way, she was saying 'what's with this woman?' - but, at the same time, Nigel could tell Sydney trusted Brangain.

As much as he was keen to discover more, however, Nigel himself was not so sure what to make of their eccentric tour guide. Hanging back a little, apparently out of earshot, he whispered: 'Don't you think she is taking the whole costumed guide thing a little too seriously? I mean that accent is about as convincingly Irish as Dick van Dyke's chimney sweep in Mary Poppins was Cockney! And nobody had been called Brangain since the 6th Century…’

Sydney, still relaxed, merely raised her eyebrows as Brangain swiveled sharply back to face them. ‘Oops,’ thought Nigel, and shuffled behind Sydney’s shoulder, just in case things were about to get nasty.

Brangrain, however, did not look angry, and fixed Nigel with a calm, penetrating gaze: 'I will answer all your questions in good time. My name, as you guessed, is an ancient Irish one, and I'm proud of it. As for my right to take being a guide seriously, my family knew this castle when it stood proudly on the rocky cliffs of the Emerald Isle, above the Atlantic breakers . My people travelled with it here, nearly a century ago, almost as part of its stone foundations, and now I share generations of knowledge with those who care to listen.'

The levelheaded intensity of this speech, delivered in the otherwise tranquil, ancient castle corridor, sent an unexpected frisson of icy dread shooting down Nigel's spine; it left Sydney feeling oddly unsettled but more and more curious. Instinctively placing a protective hand upon Nigel's arm, she said: 'I'm sorry. We didn't mean to be rude. We're just curious, that's all.'

Sydney trailed off as a terrible awareness washed across the old woman's face. Brangain motioned again with her hand, this time urgently. ‘Come! We are not alone…come!’

She started up the corridor at a rapid pace, her long skirts swaying silently, leaving Sydney and Nigel jogging to catch up. Nigel grimaced at Sydney, still slightly disgruntled - what were they doing running from unknown menaces on their wedding trip? - but this time he dared not vocalise his objections. He just hoped it wasn't any of the angry, bearded hunters in the tapestries that had scared the ‘old dear’ – after the painted menace in the bedroom, it would be too much of a freaky coincidence!

Sydney, also, was now genuinely uneasy: she couldn't help wondering if a glimpse of the shady-looking François had startled the old lady, and deterred her for sharing her secrets. But why had she not discerned his presence - surely Sydney Fox’s razor-sharp senses were keener than those of an elderly tour guide?

Leaving the lushly decorated hotel part of the castle, the dark grey, granite walls were unclad except for displays of mounted spears, swords and shields, and the odd freestanding suit of armour. The roof was lower and looming, the windows just narrow slits that rose to a point. Little daylight filtered in, and their moving shadows were cast in the glow of lambent candlelight. It was evident to the relic hunters that they had entered the large, square tower, the oldest-looking part of the castle.

Just past a point where two smaller tunnels peeled off the main corridor, Brangrain finally stopped and turned to them, her lips pressed into a faint smile: ‘We are alone again,' she breathed.

‘If I may be so bold,’ inquired Nigel, 'who exactly did you think was following us?’

'It was another of the tour guides,’ she replied flippantly. 'We each guard our trade secrets very closely.'

Nigel shrugged. Fair enough, he thought, trying to convince himself. Some academics were just as possessive their knowledge. He felt slightly reassured when Sydney slipped her hand into his; he squeezed it.

‘So,’ said Sydney, persuing a particularly impressive crossed display of six mediaeval swords. ‘What have you to tell us? And what was it you wanted me to find?'

This time, Brangrain beckoned them close. Her face hovered just inches below theirs, displaying papery-looking skin so white that it seemed to verge on the translucent. Her voice was grainy, hushed. 'You've guessed rightly about the cross outside. It once marked the grave of the legendary lovers, Tristan and Iseult, Prince of Cornwall and Princess of Ireland.'

‘I knew it!' said Nigel, suddenly very animated. 'The stone is Cornish, though. Legend has it that the pair died in Brittany, but their bodies were returned by King Mark of Cornwall to his own domain. How did the stone end up in Ireland - before it came here, I mean?'

'The lovers were buried outside a chapel on Lyonesse, the birthplace of Tristan, a Cornish isle beyond the land's end. That ethereal place,’ continued Brangain wistfully, 'and all that remained of the lovers, was lost to the waves six centuries after they died. The cross, however, was saved by Queen Tara, a descendant of Iseult’s sister, to show the world that her foremother’s misdemeanours had been forgiven, if not forgotten. She brought it to the grounds of her castle - this castle!’

‘That explains it,' said Nigel. He regarded Sydney, standing with her arms folded, listening intently: the fire in her eyes told him her interest had not diminished.

'How do you know all of this?' she asked.

'You will learn,' Brangain replied hastily, a single finger raised. 'But, I entreat you, first you must hunt! The cross was not the only relic of Tristan and Isuelt that Tara saved and brought to this castle. Now I ask you to seek the truth I am sworn never to utter, but that I want the world to know. According to the legend, Tristan and Iseult fell in love when they both drank from a magic goblet. This was not true! They loved each other purely, and fell in love as only true lovers do - through coming to realise that they had found the other half of their soul! Despite everything they were forced to do later, they were true to each other. The proof of this lies here, in the old part of the castle, hidden in its most sacred heart…’

The old woman's voice trailed off, as fear slithered once again across her aging countenance. 'I have said too much,' she husked. ‘I must go… please, take care! There will be dangers!’

‘What dangers?’ inquired Nigel, now slightly exasperated. ‘I thought this was just a peaceful tour of the castle!’

No answer came. Moving swiftly as a deer, Brangrain slipped behind Sydney, sidestepped a suit of armour, and disappeared soundlessly up a dark, side passage.

'Wait! Aren't you going to tell us anything more?' Nigel darted to the corner of the walkway and looked hopefully after her, but Brangain was nowhere to be seen.

'She moves bloody quickly for a senior citizen,’ he muttered. 'It's all a bit much! Promising to show us the castle, and then shooting off, so we have to do all the work. I suppose it must be time for her tea break!'

'I guess,' said Sydney, non-committed. 'But you want to find this thing, right?' She knew even as she asked this, that it was a rhetorical question.

'Of course I do,' said Nigel, glancing once more after Braingain. 'Where do you think she meant by a sacred place? The chapel?'

'It's the obvious place to start,' said Sydney. 'Let's see if we can find it. Which way first?'

'How about that spiral staircase?' suggested Nigel, pointing to a narrow, twisting stairwell at the end of the corridor.

'Why not?' smiled Sydney. She motioned with her head: 'Let's go!'

They climbed down the narrow flight first, arriving at its bottom in a foursquare, vaulted undercroft. It was quite empty, and there were no initial signs of any hidden compartments.

'The relic, if it’s still in the castle, is going to have to be concealed in something solid.' Sydney pointed her torch into the gloomy nooks and crannies of the basement. 'It will be inside the stones themselves, or a piece of furniture. Otherwise the builders would have discovered it when they moved everything in the 1920s… hold on, what's this?'

Sydney traced her foot over the outline of a heavy stone trapdoor embedded in the floor at the corner of the room. In the middle, a single iron ring was all that indicated that it ever opened at all. She passed the light to Nigel, who held it at her shoulder as she gave it a strenuous tug. Nothing happened. Nigel popped the torch in a niche in the wall and, sliding his arms around her waist, added his strength to hers. After several minutes of pulling, and much puffing and noisy effort, it came up abruptly, sending them flying backwards in a heap.

Sydney landed on top of Nigel, the back-thrust of her elbow impacting somewhere soft and squidgy between his legs.

'Oooops!' Sydney hissed through her teeth in sympathy as she shifted off him quickly. Nigel moaned piteously, as she grabbed the torch and flashed it on him. 'Nige? Are you okay?’

‘Fine…fine.’ Nigel’s voice was strained as he clutched his injured manhood. 'I’m in an immense amount of pain, but I'll be fine in a moment. I just hope this won't spoil my performance on our wedding night…’

‘Sorry,' grimaced Sydney, looping an arm around his shoulders and brushing back his hair consolingly. 'Better?'

‘Mmmmmm.’ His discomfort began to dissipate as he revelled in the sensation of her fingers, which stimulated tingling tendrils of soothing pleasure, flittering down the back of his neck. ‘Much better…’

He paused as his bliss took stronger possession of his senses than his pain. ‘There, um, might be other parts that need a quick massage in a minute?'

Sydney slapped his back playfully and jumped to her feet as Nigel sighed inwardly with vanquished desire, wishing he’d pretended his agony was prolonged. 'Later… we've got work to do, remember?'

Even in the dim light, Syd could see him pout up at her. 'It is our wedding party…’ he pleaded.

‘Tristan and Iseult? A hidden mediaeval relic? Come on, Nige… it will be worth taking a bit of time out to find it.’

‘I suppose so,’ he conceded, gingerly clambering up and thinking serious, professional and sobering thoughts. ‘Let's see what's down the pit.’

They both peered down cautiously as Sydney shone the torch into the dark, cavernous space. There was no sign of any descending staircase or ladder; an eerie white light flickered ominously upon the remains of rusting chains and shackles that dangled limply from the wall.

'This must be the dungeon,' murmured Sydney.

Nigel inhaled sharply, silently. For a second - just for a second - a roguish face leered at him and out of the darkness. Ginger facial hair flashed in the torch light, a glimmering axe swung. Nigel blinked once, hard. Then it was gone.

A glance at Sydney's calm face was all it took to confirm she had seen nothing. 'I'm losing it,' thought Nigel desperately. ‘Or else…’

'Let's not go down there,’ he whispered with a shudder. ‘There is nothing sacred in that godforsaken place…argh!’

Nigel, already jumpy, leapt a good few inches in the air as Sydney sprang to her feet, and hurtled towards the spiral staircase.

‘What is it?’ he squeaked.

‘I heard somebody!'

Sydney was already at the top of the steps and, spying a boot disappearing around the bend at the end of the corridor, gave chase. The flee-er was too swift, though, and the options too great. The castle contained hundreds of creaking doors and twisting stairwells and passages. Before she had the chance to gain on them, the shadowy figure had disappeared up one of the many corridors. She heard a door slam, but she knew not which one.

'Did you see them?’ demanded Nigel, gaining on her as she stalled at the corner.

'Yeah, sort of,' sighed Sydney, tucking back away her knife, which she had drawn in readiness. 'I didn't get a good look, but I think I know who it might be. I'm not sure you’re going to want to hear this, though. ‘She knew it was time to tell Nigel her suspicions that the voyeur was, once again, François - and of her earlier encounter with her rival and former lover.

Nigel turned a shade paler. 'Oh God,' he muttered. 'If you don't think I'm going to want to hear it, I'm definitely not going to want to.’

Sydney's heart sank. She'd wanted to be the one to break the news to Nigel about François - did he already suspect? Her fears were allayed, however, when Nigel added with a cringe: 'Please don't tell me you saw a giant man with a bushy beard and an axe…’

‘Uh…no,’ said Sydney guilelessly. 'Why? Who did you see?'

Nigel drooped his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. 'Oh, God - maybe I'm still suffering the after-effects of the bachelor party! It was that portrait in the bedroom: the one of the beaded warrior. I swear, when we arrived, he was looking into the scene in his portrait and then, when I was reading, his eyes were piercing straight through me!’

'Oh, Nigel! Paintings often play that trick.’ Sydney shook her head in amused relief. 'It was probably a deliberate device of the artist.'

'I know, I know… but then, just before you heard the footsteps on the stairs, I swear I saw him again - leering up at me from the basement….nnnng!’ Nigel shaded his eyes in frustrated embarrassment. 'I’m never going to let alcohol addle my mind like that again!'

'Hey,' said Sydney kindly. 'Maybe you did see something - a mirage, a trick with mirrors… or maybe something more inexplicable. I'm not so sure I don't believe in ghosts!’

Nigel blanched further still. 'You don't really think it was a ghost… do you?’

‘I didn't see anyone in the dungeon, Nige, so I can't tell you,’ shrugged Sydney. ‘But that sure as hell wasn't who I think I saw on the stairs.’

She paused, taking a deep breath as he regarded her earnestly: he was still completely oblivious to her former lover’s presence in the castle. ‘The guy on the stairs was probably François,’ she confessed. ‘It was him I was talking to in the bathroom. I was going to tell you, but…’

‘François! In the bathroom!' spluttered Nigel. 'How the hell did he get in there? Or out again?'

'He never quite got in,' admitted Sydney, rolling her eyes. 'But it wasn't through want of trying! I sent him packing, but I don't think he's quite left yet. Don't worry, next time I see him, it will be him, rather than my words I'll be mincing. I won't let it spoil things…’

Nigel stood for a moment, raising his fingers comtemplatively to his bottom lip, as he digested the information; then his countenance melted into a genuinely mirthful giggle.

'I'm glad you can see the funny side!’ said Sydney, somewhat abashed. ‘I didn't laugh when I saw that pest…’

'Sorry, Syd,’ smirked Nigel, betwixt his laughter. ‘It's just that it's, oh, so typical! I know you didn't ask him, but it's just so perfectly, um, you! Even at your wedding, you’re instantly plunged into a wild goose chase relic hunt, and one of your old boyfriends is here to try and scupper everything! This might not be a traditional white wedding, but it certainly will be a proper Sydney Fox wedding!’

Sydney, by this time, had certainly seen the funny side - and remembered another reason that Nigel was the man she loved. She gently dropped her forehead to his, lifting her hands to cup his face.

'I love you, Nigel Bailey,' she whispered, suppressing his laughter with a brief, moist kiss. 'Any other man would have overreacted, and been hideously jealous… I knew you'd understand!'

He held her close against him, his arms tight around her. Sydney joyfully savoured the accelerating beat of his heart, and the inevitable way his lips were drawn back to hers, capturing them slowly, arousing a sensual pleasure that flooded her senses like liquid velvet. Yup, out of all her conquests, she was definitely marrying the best kisser…

'You know I'll never be jealous anymore,' murmured Nigel, finally pulling away. ‘I trust you with my heart, as well as my life.’

Sydney hugged him tight, resting her chin on his shoulder. 'Thanks for being the one, Nigel... the only one. Thanks for waiting all those years it took me to realise!’ The last words tripped from her tongue with an ironical humour.

'It took no time at all!’ Nigel's warm breath pleasantly caressed the nape of her neck. ‘Now we've been 'together’ and 'together' longer than we were 'together' and 'apart', if you know what I mean. I still think it's a miracle I got this far at all.'

'Now you're being an idiot!' retorted Sydney, snapping her mind back to their present business. She unravelled herself from his embrace. 'We'd better get a move on. If that was François, we don't know what he has heard - if he gets his hands on a relic, we certainly won't see either of them for dust! Let's find this relic, and then I suppose we should go greet the guests sometime before midnight…’

'Good plan,' affirmed Nigel with a nod. 'Okay, down the spiral staircase drew a blank. Let's try up.'

'Fine,' said Sydney, and started off back to the stairwell.

…………………………………………….

The next room they reached up the winding steps was accessed through a grand, round-arched door, its surrounding stonework embellished with zigzag patterns. It opened to reveal a vast, airy chamber, larger and taller than a good-sized detached house. Mottled light filtered from small, high, stained-glass windows and glittering candle lamps, the largest conglomeration of which were suspended from the ceiling on a circular candelabra, wrought in iron. Ragged flags hung from the ceiling, fraying edges and fading colours belying a once radiant glory. Amongst them, Nigel discerned the green, white and orange tricolor of Ireland, and the striking white upon black cross of the ancient kingdom of Cornwall.

At one end of the room was a high, wooden balcony, resembling a mediaeval minstrels’ gallery, populated with several suits of armour. It was not accessible from the floor, where Sydney and Nigel now stood, only through a single door in the wall at its rear. Below it was a raised dais; upon this, adorned with a simple wooden cross and white cloth, was an altar.

'The chapel!’ Nigel grinned impetuously.

'Yeah,’ said Sydney, her voice betraying a hint of uncertainty, as she cast her eyes over the vast interior and up to the gallery, with its inanimate metal occupants at the far end. 'It looks that way. The relic, if it is here, is going to be hidden in something like the altar, something that wouldn't have been dismantled.'

'This certainly seems old enough,' said Nigel, peering closely at a crude, stone font, located by the entrance. 'I wonder if there are any concealed, coded locks, or hidden compartments?'

'There could be,' replied Sydney, still uneasy. Her gut twinged as the tiniest of movement from the balcony caught her eye. Sydney looked up: nobody was there, just the shadows of the flags, wafting in the draft, and three suits of armour.

Sensing no immediate danger, at least from anything in the environs of the font, Sydney left Nigel to investigate and cautiously made her way to the middle of the room, scanning the historical artifacts that surrounded her and which appeared to come from all over the world. A pair of Indian forearm swords hung beside a Zulu skin shield, above which were displayed six Mongolian curved sabres arranged to resemble the spokes of a wheel. A long back riding crop with a creamy, ivory handle, carved in the image of an Egyptian cat, particularly caught her eye. Momentarily abandoning her main mission, she slipped it out of its holster: could it be authentic?

A brief squint at the finely-honed handiwork told her it was a late 18th-century French imitation – interesting, and fairly old, but not 'real.'

She exhaled slowly, grasping the whip handle in her palm. Something wasn't right about this place, she could tell, although she couldn't yet put her finger on it…

Shutting her eyes, Sydney cleared her mind of complexities and clutter, and focused upon her niggling doubt.

As the truth struck her, her eyes flew open. ‘I've got it! The chapel in a 12th century castle would never be this big! This amount of space would have been needed for meeting, feasting and sleeping - this is the Great Hall!'

Nigel looked up from the font where he was kneeling, frowning slightly ‘Of course - I should have thought of that! The alter and this font must have been moved here from elsewhere - not that I can see anything remarkable about it. And I was wondering about all this armour. Its hardly very holy, is it?’ His gaze drifted around the room admiringly. ‘My God, Syd! Look at that!’

Nigel jumped up and headed for what he had spotted: a finely crafted, long bladed, mediaeval broad sword, hung high on the opposite wall below the balcony. Its silver blade shimmered in a rainbow spectrum of colours, catching the light of the tinted windows. 'It’s beautiful,' mused Nigel, stretching out his arm to reach the weapon even though he was still several metres away.

Sydney turned to follow him but her instincts lurched again, and her focus flew back to the gallery. She gasped: rather than three, there was now four suits of armour. What's more, the figure on the end was both holding an axe, and edging, unsteadily forward! Sydney's mind worked in a flash - the toppling axe was headed for a rope, the rope which secured the metal candelabra from one side, and which was currently suspended above the head of…

‘Nigel!'

Sydney flung herself forward, under the plummeting metal monster, and propelled them both clear with the sheer momentum of her body. She landed heavily on top of her fiancé, her legs astride of his stomach and her hair thrown forward, drowning him in her silky locks as she knocked the wind from him completely. The candelabra impacted on the floor with an explosive crash, missing their toes by inches.

Sydney propped herself up, one hand on Nigel’s shoulder, and swept back her hair with a swift, fluid motion.

‘Are you okay?'

Nigel's face had turned a deep shade of beetroot purple. Devoid of the puff to speak, he gave an affirmative nod.

The English accented retort cut jarringly through the air: 'Good God! I knew it! I just knew it!'

Sydney and Nigel both looked up towards the entrance from the staircase to see none other than Preston Bailey, and an absurd looking elderly man, dressed as a mediaeval jester. The latter was wearing a three-pronged fabric hat in a particularly bawdy and synthetic shade of lime green, from which dangled some yellow, plastic bells.

They were both staring, their eyes bulging, at tomorrow's bride straddling the groom in a particular compromising position, still grasping the curling, French whip. 'I just knew it,' repeated Preston, his surprise transforming into a snigger. 'I see the lovely Sydney does cater to your peculiar ' tastes’, Podge…’

'Shut up, Preston!’ snapped Sydney, throwing down the riding crop, and pointing to the fallen candelabra. ‘Look at that! Either this place has got some serious ‘health and safety’ problems, or somebody is trying to kill us.’

The jester was now goggling at the heavy, fallen candle-holder in disbelief. 'Well, I'll be damned,' he drawled, in a strong Texan accent. 'How the heck did that happen? You two shouldn't really have been here without a guide, you know?'

'We had a guide,' wheezed Nigel, staggering to his feet. ‘She deserted us!'

'She?' questioned the jester. 'You must mean Vera. She is our only female tour guide. I didn't think she was on the rotor for today - she is a zany old thing. She loves dressing up and playacting all mysterious, telling ghost stories. Maybe the suit of armour was one of her practical jokes gone horribly wrong…’

'If it was, I'm not laughing!’ Nigel was still rather pink in the face. ‘I hate to say it, but I agree with Sydney - somebody could be trying to bump us off!'

'I'd better call the manager,' said the jester, now looking far from jovial. 'In the meantime, it would probably be safest if we all left this part of the castle.’

‘Maybe that would be best.' Sydney, after the initial shock of the moment, had decided that they should keep complaints of attempted murder to themselves - no point jeopardising a hunt unnecessarily! She shot Nigel an inappropriately contented little smile; unfortunately, Preston read its meaning nearly as quickly and clearly as his brother did.

'Ah ha,' he thought. 'Those two are after something interesting. And Sydney's telling Podge that they'll be back to finish the hunt as soon as possible. I wonder what it is they're after?’

'Let's go then,' said Nigel, who had regained his composure and received Sydney's message, loud and clear.

'Syd,' he whispered as they followed the jester and his brother from the room. 'Do you really think François was trying to kill us…me?’

'No,' she replied, quiet but sure. 'The thought never even crossed my mind. I've got a feeling that maybe it had something more to do with your bearded friend. That suit of armour appeared out of nowhere… and they both had axes. It can't be just a nasty coincidence.'

Nigel’s brow furrowed with doubt. 'Surely François is the obvious suspect…?’

‘You've got to trust me on this one, Nige…’

Before Nigel could vocalise his reservations further, Sydney had rushed forward to inquire of the guide: 'Excuse me, do you know anything about the portrait in the honeymoon suite? The one of two Knights in battle?'

'Eh? Oh, I know the one. The owners of this castle over the year have always become obsessed with rumours of the connection with Tristan and Iseult. That painting is actually quite new, by the 19th century English artist John William Waterhouse, and it portrays the battle between Tristan and Morholt…’

‘Of course!' jutted in Nigel, suddenly enthusiastic. 'Morholt was an evil Prince of Ireland, who tyrannised and enslaved the Cornish people. Tristan challenged him to one-to-one contact on a remote island and, after days of battle, he mortally wounded the Irishman with a single blow to the head with his sword. It cleaved Morholt’s helmet in two and a section of Tristan's blade embedded itself in his victim's skull!'

‘You know your stuff, young fellow!' The guide was impressed.

Preston was less enamoured. 'Please, don't encourage him! The tragic thing is, I think he’s always believed most of this rubbish really happened… Nigel, shouldn't you stop wittering on about nothing and go and greet your guests?’

'Shut up Preston! It isn't rubbish. You know fair well that most of these myths have their foundation in reality. No doubt you want to get rid of Syd and I so you can search for the relic yourself, not that you could find it… oh, what's the use?' Preston was favouring his brother with a particularly patronising, sympathetic smile - and deliberately keeping out of kicking range of Sydney.

'I thought nothing of the kind!’ sneered Preston. Catching a killer stare from the ‘bride,’ he hastily changed the subject. ‘Anyway, I’m supposed to pass on a message that Karen has gone to pick up the other bridesmaid from the airport. What was her name? Claudine? Tell you what - she can't be any prettier than Karen. That is one attractive woman!’

‘Her name’s Claudia,' said Nigel stroppily, as they crossed over into the slightly more modern part of the house, with the tapestries. 'And she's very pretty too, but you won’t have any more chance with her that you will with Karen. Claudia’s taste in men has been dubious over the years but, if memory recalls, she likes them to at least have a backbone!’

'Now, look here Podge…' began Preston as Nigel halted defiantly outside the door of the honeymoon suite. Fortunately, the rest of his retort was swamped out of hearing by Sydney's loud and gushing thanks to the guide.

The jester shuffled away, and Nigel and Preston glared and mumbled at each other. They both opened their mouths to argue again, but Nigel got in first:

‘And, before you ask: no! You can't be best man! Joel will get here and, if he doesn't, there are plenty of other candidates…’

'Don't you worry,’ responded Preston airily. ‘I have no desire to get too involved in this wedding party. I don't know what went on back in that chapel, but I’ve already met a psychopathic Frenchman who seems to have it in for you!’

Sydney, who was just unlocking the door, froze: ‘You saw François?'

‘Yes I did! He tried to rob me of the rings - of course, he assumed I was carrying them, and then made it perfectly clear that his intentions towards Nigel were nothing less than murderous. Poor Karen was terrified - I don't know what would have happened if I hadn't been there to protect her!’

Nigel, although he didn't quite believe his brother's version of events, looked worried: ‘Syd - hadn't we better make sure he's gone? He can haunt Preston all he likes, but Karen and Claudia? And the other guests?'

Sydney flung the door open, groaning internally and wondering why things were never easy. ‘I’ll take care of it - everything will be just fine! François’ bark is definitely worse than his bite.’ She turned to the elder brother. 'Preston - why don't you go down to the lobby, have a drink and wait for Claudia and Karen to get back. Just in case they need, err, protecting. Besides, I doubt the concierge will be able to cope with all Claudia’s luggage - he'll need a hand!’

With that, she grabbed Nigel by the shirt sleeve and yanked him into the bedroom, breaking the deadlock in the glowering contest he was then sharing with his brother. ‘I’ve got other plans for you, Nigel… see you later, Preston.'

The door slammed in Preston Bailey’s face, leaving him feeling lonely and strangely bereft, shuffling his feet awkwardly on an imitation Louis XIV rug.

The sound of laughter filtered through the closed portal, followed by the joyful, agonising creaking of a mattress as two bodies landed heavily on the bed.

'Why did Nigel always get all the luck?' he lamented silently. Not only was ‘Podge’ marrying the world's most beautiful woman, he was on the verge of finding another priceless relic – one connected to an enrapturing legend that, like so much, their father had chosen to share with his younger rather than his elder son. As ever, he, Preston, did not even know what was up for grabs yet!

‘Ah well,’ he muttered. 'At least nobody is trying to kill me.’ He turned on his heels and trotted off down stairs, in search of attractive blondes in need of chivalry and good, old English charm.

 

Continue to chapter 3