The scrape of footsteps behind her. She had no time to waste. An open archway in the far wall led to another passage, this one flanked by pairs of ancient rooms, perhaps for keeping stores, or for holding captives, or maybe even as surplus sleeping quarters. In a sense, that’s what they still were, for a number of bodies had been laid out upon the floor of each, clearly brought here in the aftermath of some terrible battle – for some were missing limbs, while others had had their skulls crushed or cleaved open, and yet others were stripped to the skin in failed attempts to treat their wounds.

  All had been treated with dignity, however, set out in neat rows with their arms down by their sides, to be mummified by time and the sterile conditions, their parchment skin pulled tight over their chins and cheekbones, exposing their teeth and giving them unsettling grins. Their hair and beards were thin and dry, their armour and clothes reduced to rust and rags, yet they were still so human that her torchlight gave them a kind of new life, a zombie army about to rise up around her, one she could have used to fight off Quentin as he arrived at the foot of the staircase behind her.

  She hurried onwards, glancing briefly into each of the rooms, looking for a weapon or at least a place to make a stand. But bringing all these men here had clearly been challenge enough without worrying about their swords and shields, and she found nothing. Only when she reached the end chamber did that change, for this had just the one body in it, though clearly a special one, stretched out as he was on a raised bed of limestone slabs, and with a robe of royal red fastened around his throat with a jewelled clasp shaped like an eagle in flight, with a delicate gold coronet around his brow and a torque around his neck, his arms folded piously over his chest so that she could see that there were rings on all his fingers except one. The floor around him was rich with treasures too, with goblets and platters, flagons and bowls, even a bronze cauldron and a spit for turning meat on, as if he were about to hold a feast for all his men. There was a couch for him to rest on, and a low table, and what looked like the materials for a tent or pavilion. The wheels and other parts of a disassembled chariot had been left leaning against the right-hand wall, along with the bridle and reins of a horse. Everywhere she ran her torch, indeed, she lit up something new and wonderful: delicately wrought oil lamps; dessicated leather boots; thick winter furs. A bowl of coins and another of brooches, and what looked to her to be some kind of board game, complete with dice and counters. The chamber was so full, indeed, that Anna had to pick her way carefully through it all to reach the man himself. He looked to be unusually tall and broad for his time, and he was dressed for war beneath his robes, though his chain-mail armour was grievously torn where someone had driven a lance straight through it, with such violence that it had surely passed out the other side too. A mortal blow indeed.

  A large oval shield decorated with a cross lay by his side, part covering a sword and a spear whose long wooden shaft looked to have been treated with tar or some other protective coating, for it showed no sign of rot or woodworm. She picked up the sword first, taking it in both hands; but it was too weighty for her to wield effectively, and so blunted by time that it had lost its cutting edge, and so rusted that it looked liable to shatter into pieces the moment it was used in anger, even assuming she could get close enough to Quentin. Besides, if this was Arthur himself, as it surely was, then this was the great Caledfwlch – Excalibur itself. Even in these dire circumstances, the historian in her revolted against such sacrilege. She set it back down and picked up the spear instead, the less storied Rhongomyniad. It was lighter than she’d expected, and seemed sturdy enough. She tested the air with a jab or two, holding it long enough for the blood from the cut in her left hand to stick to its shaft, making her wince as she tore it open again when adjusting her grip for better balance.

  It would do. It would have to.

  She turned off her torch and returned quietly to the doorway, standing just inside it, hoping that Quentin’s first sight of this place – his first sight of the man he’d sought for so much of his life, lying there right before him, surrounded by all these treasures – would distract him for the split second she was going to need. His throat would be the softest target, but it was the smallest too, easy for her to miss in the darkness, easy for him to sway back and elude. His stomach, then. She practised it in her mind, giving her first strike everything she had in order to drive the blunted iron tip through his clothes and skin, skewering it deep into his gut before going down onto her knee for a second thrust, up beneath his ribcage to his heart. She steeled herself for it, ridding herself of squeamishness or pity by reminding herself that it wasn’t just her own life at stake. She was fighting for the others too.

  Outside, she could hear Quentin moving slowly from chamber to chamber, checking that each was clear. At last, his flashlight arrived outside. He was here. She took and held a long breath. She pulled back her spear and tensed her muscles, ready to strike. But this was the last of the chambers, so that Quentin would surely be expecting her in here. Not just her, indeed. All four of them. He’d be expecting them to make some kind of stand. It would be the men he’d be most fearful of, of course, seeking to take them out with his first two shells, which might just buy her the extra fraction of a second she was going to need.

  A burst of light through the doorway. A flicker of movement. Quentin was familiarising himself with the layout, the better to plan his assault. Darkness returned. She could hear his breathing. Seconds passed, each one an age. She let out her own breath, took and held another. His torch came on suddenly again, only down low this time, slithering along the floor as he kicked it into the chamber. Then he stepped fully into view, shotgun already at his shoulder, sweeping the barrel across the chamber as he searched for threat.

  Anna didn’t hesitate. She ducked down low and charged, thrusting her spear at his gut with all her might, exactly as she’d planned, catching him perfectly just beneath the ribs. But the wooden shaft had deceived her, bowing and splintering upon first contact and then simply snapping in two. Quentin cried out and stumbled backwards, but in shock rather than from injury. He realised he was unharmed, and that Anna was here alone. He raised his gun back to his shoulder, so that she thought he was going to shoot her right there and then. But he stopped himself on realising he needed her alive for a little while yet, to find out where the others were.

  He took his shotgun in both hands, pile-driving its butt down at Anna’s forehead. She tried to duck away but it still caught her a glancing blow, sending her staggering backwards, tripping over her own feet and tumbling to the floor. She scrambled away from him across it, pushing aside the goblets and the platters, feeling with her hands for anything she might use to fight back or defend herself. But there was nothing. He clearly knew it too, for, with an almost leisurely air, he retrieved his phone from the floor and tucked it back into his waistband. Then he came after her once more, covering her with his shotgun the whole time, waiting until she’d reached the far wall and could go no further. ‘The others,’ he said. ‘Where are they?’

  ‘Go to hell,’ she said.

  He raised his gun to his shoulder, aiming it so directly at her face that she could see down the hollow tubes of both barrels. ‘Last chance,’ he said. ‘Where are they?’

  ‘Where do you think, you idiot?’ she snapped. ‘They went the other way up the staircase. Now they’re off for help.’

  ‘Try again. They’d have left footprints.’

  ‘I swept them away, you arse.’

  ‘And the blood?’

  She held up her hand to show him the cut she’d scored in her palm, scabbing a little now around the edges, yet still bleeding freely enough for him to see it trickling down her wrist to stain her cuff. ‘See?’ she said. ‘You’re done for. It’s over.’

  Uncertainty clouded his face. He frowned in an effort to remember. When he realised her story wasn’t just possible but likely, his face twisted in hatred and rage. He must have known, then, that he was doomed, that he no longer had any kind of path out of this. He still had choices, though. He could choose surrender, or mercy, or one last doomed shot at flight. But no. He opted for vengeance instead. He opted for violence. He lowered his gun briefly as he took another step forwards, placing one foot on either side of her so that he loomed above her, breathing heavily from some perverse arousal, offering her an unwanted glimpse into his true nature. He pressed his shotgun back into his shoulder to brace himself against the recoil, then he moved his index finger back from the trigger guard onto the—

  Out of the darkness he swept, rushing up behind Quentin before he’d even realised he was there. He wrapped one of his meaty huge arms around Quentin’s chest then grabbed his shotgun with his free hand, wresting the twin barrels up and away from Anna. She couldn’t see his face in the darkness, but the size of his silhouette meant that it could only be Ravi, using his massive strength to force up the shotgun until its muzzle was pressed into the underside of Quentin’s chin, even as Quentin wailed and flapped in helpless terror at what he knew was coming next.

  ‘I did promise I’d do it for you,’ murmured Ravi into his ear, so softly that Anna couldn’t even be sure of what she’d heard.

  And then he pulled the trigger.

  EPILOGUE

  They couldn’t have asked for a finer afternoon for it, the sky an almost perfect blue and yet not too hot. The forecasters had been promising it for days, but Ravi wasn’t the kind to take chances, not for an occasion as grand as this, so he’d had a huge marquee erected in the Manor’s back garden, and numerous small tables set up with starched white linen cloths for the day’s invited and uninvited guests, and a pair of long buffet tables laden with generous quantities of food and drink. And it was in there that he delivered a brisk and witty speech, donating the Badbury Bowl and the rest of the hoard to the nation, along with the twin estates of Grove Farm and Hillview Manor, in order that they could be properly excavated before being turned into one of Britain’s most spectacular heritage sites.

  ‘So we like him now, do we?’ murmured Anna to Samantha, as they applauded him off the dais – for he’d paid her top dollar for the Manor and all its grounds, simply to then pass them on to Historic England.

  ‘We do, we do,’ smiled Samantha, who’d been in buoyant spirits since the sale, especially as a settlement with her insurers had now also been agreed, enabling her to pay off all her debts and set herself up nicely for the future too.

  Wynn Grant was in an equally festive mood. He looked years younger, and not only because he’d somehow managed a shave, a haircut and a decent suit. His name had been cleared at last, his conviction certain to be expunged, and he no longer had to worry about his parole being revoked. He’d be due sizeable settlements, what was more, both for having been deprived of his inheritance and for all those years of wrongful imprisonment – though it would take a fair while yet to sort out who’d be footing those bills, whether the government, Quentin’s estate or perhaps even Orlando Wren – or Peter Moorcock, or whatever his real name was – still in hospital recovering from Quentin’s assault. Yet it was clear that it was the vindication that meant most to him. No longer being believed responsible for his brother’s death. No longer a pariah. Or not for that, anyway.

  ‘Orange juice?’ Elias asked him sceptically, when he wandered over to thank him and Anna for their part in it all.

  ‘My new leaf,’ he told them proudly.

  Elias took his glass from him, gave it a sniff. ‘Some new leaf,’ he said.

  ‘Well,’ said Wynn, with a shrug. ‘Mixers. It’s a start.’

  ***

  Ravi was in fine spirits too, standing in the corner of the marquee with a benevolent smile on his face that somehow managed to survive the stream of locals, historians and archaeologists who approached him under the guise of commending him for his generosity, only to turn the conversation to their own pet projects, and the modest funding they were so very badly in need of. Anna waited until he’d disposed of the last of these then went to add her own thanks for his generosity. He waved them aside. ‘It’s all a bit more smoke and mirrors than people think. Plenty of tax breaks for my accountants to make use of, and a ton of good PR into the bargain. Anyway, it’s only money at the end of the day. I have all I’ll ever need, and then some. It’s finding worthwhile things to spend it on that’s the challenge.’

  She looked out through the open side of the marquee towards the paddock. ‘You’ve found one here, I think.’

  ‘Yes. I believe I have.’ He fell silent a few moments, then leaned a little way towards her so that he could drop his voice down to a murmur. ‘You heard me that day, didn’t you?’ he said. ‘My last words to that arsehole.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You didn’t tell the police?’

  ‘He’d have killed me. You saved my life.’

  ‘Only after you saved mine first. Sam’s too. I’ve never seen anything half so brave as what you did in there. I’ll never forget it, believe me. If you should ever need anything… I mean it. Anything at all.’

  Pam, Dave and Anish were here from the museum to conduct the archaeological side of the day. Anna and Ravi watched as they briefed the gathered reporters and their crews on what they were and were not allowed to do, then led them out of the marquee through the paddock to the cinder-block building that Ravi had had erected to secure the mausoleum staircase. They’d get to visit and film the first few tomb chambers today, but that was it. Arthur and his entourage would remain out of bounds to the media and the wider public for a fair while longer yet.

  A rare cloud passed in front of the sun. It grew gloomy for a few moments, but only with the effect of making everything seem that much brighter once it cleared again. Someone put on music, forcing the happy chatter at the tables to grow louder to be heard above it. Staff emptied the last of their bottles into held-out glasses, while the few guests who were somehow still hungry prowled the buffet tables to snaffle what was left. A few couples even took to the floor, braving the children as they played chase around the marquee, shrieking with delight. Ravi and Anna watched it all in contented silence until finally he leaned back in towards her a little way, the better to lower his voice once more. ‘It’s soft of me to say it, I know,’ he told her. ‘But I love this country, I truly do.’

  ***

  The police had found the cauldron’s missing leaf in Quentin’s cellar – locked in a safe he’d had installed a few weeks after Caleb Grant’s death. He’d straightened it out himself, and had cleaned it lovingly, polishing the gemstones until they’d gleamed like a Hatton Gardens shop window. Little wonder he’d tried so hard to put his consortium together. Little wonder, either, that – after that effort had failed – he’d taken other steps to find the rest of the cauldron himself. Because they’d found a second large-scale map of Grove Farm down there too, even more densely marked up with GPR data, making it clear that he’d been holding back some of the juicier prospects in order to visit the fields by night and dig them up himself. They’d even found some scraps of armour, rusted weaponry and the other spoils of his various forays – but nothing to compare to the treasure he’d truly sought.

  ***

  And Elias. The wounds he’d taken from Quentin’s shotgun were mending well, for while they’d caused significant blood-loss and done extensive damage to his muscles, tendons and other soft tissues, they’d missed his spine and other vital organs. The paramedics had got to him in time too, thanks to the speed with which Samantha had raced to summon help. They’d stabilised him on the spot, then had swept him off to the Great Western Hospital to pluck out the shot and sew up his damaged blood vessels. They’d taken a split thickness graft from his right thigh to apply beneath his left buttock, and had stitched up the more diffuse puckering across his back. It had all gone as well as could be hoped, his medical team confident of his full recovery, save for some unavoidable scarring and perhaps a slight limp – for which he’d only have himself to blame, one of them had added sourly, for discharging himself while his graft still needed careful attention and regular fresh dressings.

  It was impossible for Elias to do this himself, the wounds being so awkwardly situated, so – over his half-hearted protests – Anna had moved back into his cottage. His improvement since then had been remarkable. He could walk further every day, and manage more physio. He could sit down without undue discomfort, as long as he could stretch out his left leg in front of him. He’d even started driving short distances again. But Ingatestone to Badbury was hardly a short distance, so Anna had taken the wheel today instead, with Elias in the passenger seat beside her, pushed back as far as it would go.

  Sixteen days she’d spent at his cottage now. Tomorrow would be seventeen, just like last time. He was fit enough to look after himself, assuming nothing went too badly wrong. He could cook and shop and drive himself into the local surgery for his dressings to be changed. He was already back at work, if only at his home computer, and he was growing increasingly impatient to return to his London office. She had her own life to get back to too. Her viva was coming up fast. She needed to prepare. That didn’t just mean long hours in the library, it meant a full dress rehearsal with her supervisor Terry and a friend of his who was coming down specially from Durham to York next Tuesday, both to quiz her with the kind of questions her examiners were likely to ask, and to prepare her mentally for the experience itself. And so Elias had been insisting for the past few days that she leave in the morning, once they’d fulfilled their duty here. And she’d agreed.