Nicole Jordan (22 page)

Max nodded, puzzled by the baronet’s cryptic statement but willing to play along.

He accompanied Caro from the room, restraining his curiosity as she led him deep within the castle, then down into the depths of the dungeons.

She used a massive key to unlock a sturdy oaken door and ushered him into a dark, musty storage room. After lighting a lamp, she unlocked an even more massive door and shut it firmly behind them before guiding him along a widish passage that sloped gently downward.

The air smelled damp and cool here, tinged with a tang of salt from the sea. Several minutes later, the passage ended in a cave whose floor was covered with dark, rippling water.

“An underground lake?” Max asked.

“Yes,” Caro said, making for the first of three rowboats that were tied up at a short wooden dock. “There are intersecting tunnels here that connect a number of sea caves.”

Glancing around him, Max studied this cave. In the lamplight that reflected off the rock, he could see strangely shaped deposits and growths that clung to the sides, glittering with minerals, while ghostly icicles dripped down from the ceiling. The result of springs and seepage of rainwater over countless centuries, he suspected, viewing the sliding liquid gleam of moisture in several places.

The black fissures in the walls were doubtless the tunnels Caro had mentioned—narrow passages that led off in different directions, linking a labyrinth of caves.

Caro secured the lamp in the prow of the rowboat, then waited for Max to settle in before joining him.

“I am sorry,” she apologized, “but you will have to wear a blindfold.”

“Is there really need for such secrecy?”

“You will understand in a short while, I promise. But Max, before we go, you must swear on your honor that you will never, ever reveal what you are about to see.”

Her expression was as grave as he had ever seen it.

“I swear,” he said solemnly, letting her bind his eyes with a kerchief.

She rowed for a long time while Max sat patiently, unseeing. Finally she stopped and stowed the oars. The air smelled fresher here and seemed to echo with a peculiar hollowness. He could hear water lapping gently at the rock walls, along with a faint whisper of distant waves washing against the island’s shoreline.

“You may remove your blindfold now,” Caro said quietly.

Max readily complied. They were floating on a vast lake, he saw, in the middle of a great, natural cavern. The flame of the oil lamp barely pierced the darkness of the vaulted chamber that was the size of a cathedral.

His pulse quickened with awe as he beheld the magnificence. Fantastic shapes and figures surrounded them. Enormous pillars and arches rose from the lake and melded with stalactites that vanished in the dimness of the high, curved ceiling.

Even in the diffused light, the incredible formations shimmered with color, from translucent to pure crystalline white, to gray mottled with delicate hues of red and yellow.

“Impressive,” he murmured, hearing a hint of reverence in his voice.

“We aren’t there yet.”

Taking up the oars again, Caro rowed toward the far side of the cavern, which was seamed with shadowy clefts and recesses.

The water of the lake rippled like black satin, but Max’s gaze riveted on the dramatic spectacle surrounding him as the golden lamplight shifted and skated around the cavern in an eerie dance.

After a while he realized that Caro was heading toward a particular crevice, for he detected a faint gleam of light ahead. The passage she found was barely wide enough for the little boat to slip through, and curved several times.

At the far end, the glow grew brighter, but when they emerged from the tunnel, the sudden dazzle caught Max by surprise. Torches blazed along the walls, brilliant as day.

This was a much smaller cave, more the size of Caro’s grotto, but it held a hushed stillness, like that of a private chapel…or a temple.

And like a temple, it held what looked to be a shrine.

The water ended at a rock ledge. Some twenty feet back, a short flight of roughly hewn steps led up to an altar exquisitely fashioned of gold and silver. A massive sword was framed there—a magnificent weapon with a blade of steel and a golden hilt encrusted in jewels.

Max caught his breath as if he’d been struck in the throat. Light glittered off the precious stones, but it wasn’t just the richness of the sword that rendered him spellbound. There was an aura about it that seemed remarkably powerful, perhaps even mystical.

“This was what Sir Gawain meant by a sacred trust,” he said, his voice uneven.

“Yes.”

She tied the rowboat up at the ledge and climbed out, then stood aside to allow Max to precede her. He slowly mounted the steps to get a closer look at the sword.

For a moment as the torch flames flickered and burned all around them, the world faded away. Max felt enveloped by a strange sensation. A sense of calm, of peace, yet filled with an unmistakable energy.

“My God,” he murmured.

“You feel it, too,” Caro said, not needing a reply.

“What is this place…this weapon?”

“It is legend in the flesh.”

“Legend?”

“What do you know of King Arthur?”

“The mythical Arthur of Malory and Milton?”

“He was no myth, Max. He was very real. And this was his sword, Excalibur.”

Stunned, fascinated, Max glanced around the cave, only to bring his gaze back to stare at the sword once more. “How did it come to be here?”

“It is rather a long story. Perhaps you would prefer to sit down.”

On either side of the altar, slabs of granite formed natural rock benches. Caro led him to the one on the right, where Max could view the sword as she spoke.

“According to legend, Excalibur was forged by an elf smith on Avalon and given to King Arthur by the Lady of the Lake.”

“In the versions I remember reading,” Max commented, “the sword disappeared. As he lay dying, Arthur made his knight return it to the Lady.”

“Yes. He bade Sir Bedivere throw it in the water.”

“But the sword was spared?”

“Yes. And brought here by Arthur’s exiled knights and followers, including the first Sir Gawain.”

Frowning, Max studied Caro. She was entirely serious, he realized. “Sir Gawain was reputed to be Arthur’s best and most loyal knight, but the narratives contend that he was killed.”

“He was badly wounded, but he didn’t die. Instead he came here to convalesce. Even then Cyrene was a haven for outcasts,” Caro continued in a soft voice. “Sir Gawain and a score of other knights who had served at Arthur’s Round Table settled here, but with a larger purpose in mind. Their own crusade, if you will.”

Her voice dropped even lower. “They formed an order, Max. The Guardians of the Sword. Their intent was to carry on Arthur’s noble ideals—championing right and using their might for good. They became a secret society of protectors.”

Gooseflesh shivered along Max’s skin at the vision Caro had painted for him. He hesitated a long moment before he responded. “If there is any truth at all to that tale, it would have been more than a thousand years ago. You’re saying the sword has been here all that time?”

“It was hidden during the reign of the Moors and Cyrene’s subsequent rule by Spain. But yes, it has been right here.”

“And the Guardians?”

“During that dark period of our history, the order almost vanished from memory, but it was revived during England’s civil wars.”

“Why?”

“Initially to aid Royalists persecuted by Cromwell’s rule. The Guardians helped countless victims escape to the New World, and gave shelter here on Cyrene to numerous other outcasts. But after the wars ended, they saw the necessity of continuing their cause.
Someone
had to defend the vulnerable, the helpless, the wrongfully oppressed. So they arranged to make Cyrene a permanent British possession. The Guardians were actually responsible for securing the island for Britain with the Treaty of Utrecht.”

Max’s brows drew together as he tried to absorb the enormity of what Caro was telling him. “And the connection to the Foreign Office?”

“That came years later. It was only a few decades ago that they formalized their status with the British government and became a secret arm of the Foreign Office. Since then, the Guardians have been used to meet any number of grave challenges, particularly those spawned by the French Revolution and the fight against Napoleon. They rescued countless
aristos
from the guillotine—in fact, my father was one of the main leaders then. He was killed several years ago during a mission, saving one of our agents from Napoleon’s cutthroats.”

Her voice fell to a whisper. “No one could know the truth about my father’s death, or his life, for that matter.”

“Why did it need to be kept such a secret?”

“Because our effectiveness would be severely impaired if our existence became common knowledge, so we’ve worked hard at keeping our activities clandestine.”

“And Sir Gawain runs the order now? I gather he’s a descendant of the original Sir Gawain?”

“Yes,” Caro replied to both questions. “Leadership of the Guardians was passed down through the descendant families of the original knights. Our Sir Gawain is in charge of the current order—deciding what missions to accept and which of our agents to send out.”

“How does he even know when a mission is warranted?”

“Sometimes a request for help comes from the British government. Sometimes from private citizens in numerous countries across Europe. Our members are constantly on the watch for ways to intervene. Sir Gawain weighs the merit of each case against the risks.”

For the first time since he’d entered the cave, Max’s lips curved in a smile. “Your friends don’t strike me as being afraid to take risks. My initial impression was of a band of bold adventurers, of rebels.”

“We don’t mind danger, true. Certainly we value courage. And we don’t always hold with rules. But we also want at least a chance of success. As Guardians, it is our sworn duty to shield and protect, but we’ve no desire to simply become martyrs. It would be foolish to champion every single cause, however just or worthy, if it only led to our deaths. Our order would shortly end if all of us were killed.”

At that comment, Max found himself wondering just who belonged to the Guardians. “How large is the order now?”

“A dozen or so active members actually live on Cyrene, but more than fifty others are scattered all over England and Europe, positioned at the highest levels of society and government. We even have a few Americans. We also have two French officers who are double agents on Napoleon’s staff—and who, by falsifying reports, have helped to keep the French navy from trying to invade Cyrene for the past two decades. Traditionally a son from each ruling family in each generation serves the order, but daughters can serve as well. And our members have various backgrounds—exiles, adventurers, former victims of persecution…. Sometimes prominent families send their disreputable sons here for redemption.”

A sudden thought struck Max. “Such as Christopher Thorne?”

Caro smiled. “Such as Thorne. After one particularly infamous episode during Thorne’s university days, his ducal father became so incensed that he begged Sir Gawain to take on the task of reforming Thorne.”

“I gather it worked to some degree?”

“More or less. Thorne is one of our best agents.”

“And Alex Ryder?”

“Ryder was a hired mercenary who proved himself several years ago. No one is more effective at operating in the shadows than he.”

“What about Santos Verra?”

“He was an unusually cunning smuggler who gave the Guardians some invaluable assistance, so he was invited to join.”

Max shook his head in amazement. “You said daughters can serve as well as sons? That’s how you came to be a Guardian?”

“Yes. I took my father’s place after his death. I’m one of the few female members.”

“I noticed you had no trouble boarding the schooner tonight.”

“Because I trained for this role for much of my life. With no son to carry on his work, my father raised me to succeed him.”

“It seems a vast undertaking, not to mention expensive.”

“Missions indeed are often expensive. We need fast ships, horses, weapons, money for bribes and ransoms…occasionally we hire local guides and mercenaries. But we are very well financed. Our funds come from several sources. A treasure in gold recovered from a sunken Spanish galleon. The British government. Grateful beneficiaries of our services; those who can afford to pay usually offer a reward. And sometimes we receive private donations from wealthy citizens who simply hear tales of our feats and want to support our cause. In some places in Europe, the whispers about our secret organization have become legend.”

Rising from the stone bench, Max moved over to inspect the sword once more. Perhaps the weapon wasn’t actually enchanted, but it certainly was aweinspiring. And unmistakably it possessed an otherworldly feel about it.

Moreover, Max mused, even if there was no truth to the tales of its mythical creation, a relic such as this would have served to unite Arthur’s remaining knights, given them a cause to rally around.

Sir Gawain had called it a sacred trust. As a descendant of the original knights, he would have been charged with keeping Excalibur safe. Or perhaps the sword itself offered a measure of protection for its guardians. Max remembered Caro mentioning several strange events in the island’s history.

“You told me once that a Moorish invasion of Cyrene was defeated by a great storm and a French assault by fog. Do your legends claim the sword had any influence?”

“We like to think so. Since Excalibur was brought here, Cyrene has been invincible.”

Giving in to temptation, he reached out to run the tip of a finger over the jeweled pommel. The rubies caught the blazing reflection of torchlight but seemed to burn with their own fire as well.

“I suppose you don’t show this sword to just anyone.”

“No. Only to sworn members of the Guardians to complete our rites of initiation. But we knew you would be unlikely to join us unless you saw the import of what we do.”