The Other Exodus, page 1
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
THE OTHER EXODUS
J Stewart-Kearns
Copyright © 2015 J Stewart-Kearns
All rights reserved.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance
to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental
To my husband for his love and support
CHAPTER ONE
“GOOD TO MEET you and welcome to Number 5.”
Taft’s handshake emanated confidence, authority and energetic engagement with his environment as he swept Bailey over to the conference suite through open double doors. Bailey checked his nondescript tie in the mirrored cabinets before sitting opposite the Commander at the large cherry wood table. He unbuttoned his jacket letting out a small sigh of relief, thinking that he really must hit the gym before this jacket needed replacing with a bigger one.
The Commander cleared his throat, opened a buff coloured file whilst simultaneously passing a duplicate over to Bailey. Commander Taft tapped the table in a staccato type rhythm; his immaculate black uniform lending an air of gravitas that Bailey was beginning to find unnerving.
Bailey looked directly at Taft’s well-proportioned features and beyond to the cloudless skyline elegantly punctuated with new, postmodern glass and concrete office blocks.
Through the tinted window behind the Commander’s chair he noted that despite the bustle of weekday city life outside, nothing could be heard in the conference room save for occasional quiet movements in the outer office where the Commander’s PA resided. Bailey began to relax and decided to get straight to the point, meeting the serious gaze of the Commander head on.
“The Archbishop hasn’t told me very much, Commander, except that I’m expected to gather information pertaining to missing artefacts. His Grace thinks I could do a bit of cultural immersion, low level stuff as I understand it, under the guise of researching for a book on the island. I’m to be seconded to Number 5 for the next six weeks … maybe longer. I’m to liaise at all times with your office. That’s all I’ve been told, sir.”
Commander Taft relaxed his stern gaze and nodded at the folders sitting unopened on the cherry wood table.
“Let’s have a look at what we have here,” he half smiled. “I think you’ll find this assignment more than a little interesting, feeding as it does into your speciality. Celtic History isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir,” Bailey responded, visibly brightening at this revelation.
Commander Taft explained. “You’re right, it’s low level intelligence gathering for the moment. We can’t forward the investigation until this aspect is thoroughly covered and we simply don’t have the staff with the right sort of academic background to be able to meet this particular challenge. Essentially, that’s why you’ve been roped in Robert. Archbishop Odo reckons you can aid our enquiries considerably. Enquiries, I might add, that concern both temporal and spiritual. We provide the temporal, you and the good Archbishop provide the spiritual.”
Robert Bailey gave a brief nod. He understood the logistics. What he needed to understand was the brief, the remit.
Commander Taft unbuttoned his pristine jacket, placing it on the back of the stiffly padded bronze leather chair. His gleaming white shirt contrasted sharply with Bailey’s rather faded blue cotton that, on closer examination, looked in need of a good iron and the replacement of a button or two. Commander Taft didn’t blink.
He prided himself on his good manners. Bailey reminded him a little of himself twenty-five years ago: all brain and no sartorial sense. To get to his position you needed both. Twenty-five years in military intelligence had created a steep learning curve.
He opened the buff-coloured folder, indicating, with an amused look on his handsome, regular features, that Bailey should do the same.
CHAPTER TWO
BAILEY DECIDED TO take the scenic route.
The A55 was more direct, he conceded, and, according to the satnav, he could be there in four to five hours depending on the traffic. Yet the A5, ancient highway that the Romans had marched upon almost two thousand years ago would, he thought, feed his nostalgia for the world of Celtic legends, passing as it did through the ancient heartlands of Owen Glendower: silent, awesome Snowdonia, the epic landscape of the Berwyn Mountains. It was the old road. The ancient time-travelled route to Ynys Mon – Anglesey, Tudor heartland, Druids.
His Mercedes A Class was reliably discreet, solid yet not flash, classy yet affordable and Bailey felt confident that dressed in his faded Gap jeans, sporting a well-loved Musto sweater and Nike trainers that had seen better days, he would pass for any average saesneg heading to the island seeking peace, tranquillity and inspiration.
Commander Taft had told him to stop off at The Bridge Hotel at some point, insisting that there would be someone there who could help with the task at hand. Bailey was unconvinced, slightly reluctant even, but orders were orders, he grumbled to himself. He felt confident that he could manage alone. Hadn’t he always managed alone? A background in foster homes followed by an unexpected scholarship to Westbury Park where he’d excelled academically had led to a magical five years at Cambridge. Somehow, after an interview for a job he had no recollection of applying for, he’d been recruited into the office of the Archbishop upon graduation. And there he’d stayed. He was used to being alone.
Self-sufficient, agreeable, still smarting years on from the love of his life leaving him for the prospect of a glittering career via the Met ‘fast track’, as she called it. Bailey determined not to leave himself open to any more rejection in his life. He had his books. He had his work. He had his daily routines that kept him grounded. Apart from the Archbishop and a handful of colleagues at the ancient cathedral library, he trusted no one. No one. And that suited him just fine.
Bailey saw the sign for The Bridge Hotel just as the satnav indicated a right turn coming up. It was quiet; there was little sound except for the distant twittering of small birds calling out to each other. A gentle tinkling and bubbling announced the tumbling of water in a narrow stream across which a small link bridge was set, precariously swinging in the summer breeze. He was energised.
Drinking in the glorious sweep of verdant hills surrounding the hotel, he noted a narrow track stretching upwards toward the distant mound, seat of an ancient stronghold that once dominated the landscape as far as the eye could see. A solitary bird flew overhead, tracking his movements, circling overhead then hovering over the car as he negotiated the small car park attached to the hotel, before shooting up, high in the sky, in the direction of the ancient stronghold a mile or two in the distance.
The evening stretched ahead with the promise of dinner, a shower, a good night’s sleep and a walk tomorrow, early morning, to this ancient site he’d wanted to visit since his Cambridge days: The Castle of Dinas Bran. He’d read everything there was on the castle and its history. How it was shrouded in legends and named for the son of Llyr, Shakespeare’s Lear no less.
Lear had fathered several sons and daughters but the greatest of all his offspring was the mighty warrior Bran: Warrior King, Arch Druid, and poet. Husband, so legend had it, of the daughter of Joseph of Arimathea.
There was another legend, said to have proof of veracity in a manuscript held at Windsor, that after the death of Anna, Joseph of Arimathea’s daughter, when Bran was in his fifties he had remarried a young woman linked to the decimated Iceni tribe, wiped out in the genocide inflicted by the Romans in the first century. That manuscript was impossible to locate he’d been told, though he continued to search in his archives for any reference to it.
Known as Bran the Blessed, the same legend asserted that the great warrior eventually became an initiated Arch Druid. It was the legendary Bran who, according to old stories, ancient lore, kept Britannia safe. He was buried on the White Hill where, subsequently, the White Tower, the Tower of London, was built.
The name Bran was Brythonic, Welsh for Raven or Crow. Legend also said that Bran, in the form of the ravens and crows, guarded these islands. Whilst they remained, whilst Bran remained, the kingdom would be safe.
The windswept Castle Dinas Bran, known as Crow or Raven Castle to the locals, was now in ruins. Named for the mighty Bran who had seamlessly welded together both druid legacy and early Christianity in what eventually became the Celtic Church in the first century.
Bailey was intrigued by the stories of the first century AD.
In the past ten years, more and more fragments of court-lists, manuscripts, archaeological finds, and genealogical scrolls had surfaced from ancient abbeys on the continent. He had heard that there were scrolls yet to be curated that had been taken from Glastonbury to Windsor during the Reformation. A reference to one of these documents had surfaced while he was at Cambridge, yet despite his best efforts, not even the Archbishop of Canterbury could gain access to it. It was a matter that continued to haunt his thoughts in quiet moments.
He was reminded of a private collection auctioned off for death duties in recent times that had delivered some intriguing new information awaiting corroboration on the exodus from Glastonbury to Anglesey by early Celts. He was convinced there was a link. He was convinced that if he could just find the missing pieces of the puzzle, he could re-write early Celtic History and document the melding of the Druid heritage with the early Celtic Church.
He knew that there were other stories, other legends, linking Bran with strange, other worldly powers, but he shrugged those ideas to one side as he entered the welcoming reception area of The Bridge Hotel.
A large lounge bar area took up almost half of the ground level. Grey, worn flagstones, smooth with the patina of age, covered the floor. A magnificent inglenook took up the length of one wall while above his head old oak beams criss-crossed the cream painted ceiling. The place appeared to be empty apart from a huge, bald-headed man who looked to be in his late 50’s, shouting to someone out of Bailey’s line of sight.
“The coach party has been delayed. Bloody traffic!”
The sound of a cockney accent this deep in the heart of Wales came as a surprise to Bailey and he couldn’t contain his amazement as he blurted out in his brusque, well-modulated voice, “I’ve a reservation. Robert Bailey. I’ve travelled down from Canterbury.”
The landlord palmed his cell phone while wiping his huge hands on the striped cloth thrown casually, like a miniature Roman toga, over his right shoulder.
“Afternoon, sir, and welcome to Wales. Oh and yes, Commander’s been in touch and I’ve been told to brief you on developments.”
Bailey dropped his overnight bag on the stone floor and stood bemused, his face a picture of incomprehension.
‘‘The Commander’s been in touch with me, Robert. Or shall I call you Rob?”
Steve Waterman, 57, six foot three, square, muscular, lopsidedly grinning from ear to ear, shook Bailey’s hand, warmly adding, “It’s a beautiful spot, though not without its own challenges. One of which is lack of customers in the winter months. We get by … just.” He added, with a wry frown, “Come, sit.” Waterman shooed Bailey onto a handy bar stool.
“Commander Taft’s been in touch?” Bailey repeated.
Steve Waterman straightened his broad shoulders. “You’ve received the general briefing I take it?”
Bailey nodded, eyeing up the frothy amber liquid Waterman pumped into a clear sparkling pint glass. “Yes, as clear as mud quite frankly. Seems I’m to dig around and find out as much as I can about the missing artefact recovered from Lake Gwynfor. My Archbishop reckons it’s on its way back to the island – but you know all this, don’t you?” Bailey sighed. He took a grateful mouthful of the beer and raised his eyebrows questioningly.
“Old Dog.” Waterman pointed a pudgy finger at the brass nameplate on the bar pump. “One of our heritage beers. Very popular too,” he grinned. “I expect you’ll want something to eat,” Waterman enquired solicitously, making no move to organise a menu but cheerfully rattling on about his previous life, impervious to Bailey’s stunned silence.
Bailey decided to go with the flow. This Waterman character was interesting, in an odd sort of way, Bailey thought. There was something about him that could be trusted. He was warm, that was the word, Bailey realised. The guy had warmth and decency bred into his very bones. Bailey relaxed. He had no plans until the morning so he settled himself comfortably onto the black leather-covered bar stool, its brass nails gleaming in the reflected light from a small log fire in the stone inglenook opposite.
“So, you were in the Met?” Bailey asked, wondering if he should mention Ceris. Wasn’t she now flying high in the London office? He was tempted to just ask but, cautious as ever, he held his tongue.
“25 years, man and boy,” Waterman grinned, setting up another two pints of Old Dog from the polished brass beer pump gleaming on the glossy bar. “I was in Special Services for the last ten years,” he explained, taking a frothy sip. “Ended up on assignment at Number 5 for the majority of that time. Which is where I got to know Commander Taft. Did you know he was ex military?”
Bailey didn’t. Yet he wasn’t surprised. There was something all knowing about the Commander, just as there was something all knowing about the Archbishop. Each, in their different ways, masters of their game. Bailey was intrigued.
“So, what led you from London to here?” he asked bluntly.
Waterman shrugged his vast shoulders. “Let’s just say I’d outstayed my welcome down south. Commander Taft offered me a place on his new team at Number 5. Started off with surveillance operations then went deep cover for a big enquiry into missing paintings. National Trust properties were being targeted throughout the North West, works of art stolen to order and the monies raised used to fund dissident groups. There were cells all over the region, head-quartered in a tiny hamlet in the Berwyn hills. The whole shooting match, we discovered, was being run by a minor royal very upset with his bit of the Privy Purse being reduced year on year. Reckoned he was entitled. It all got hushed up.
“Replicas of the stolen art works were commissioned and if you visit any of the properties in the region that is what you will see. The originals, I’m afraid, are long gone.”
Bailey shook his head in disbelief. “So you’re telling me he, they, got away with stealing valuable works of art?”
“Well, yes and no.” Waterman rubbed his grizzly chin thoughtfully. “Yes, in that the main perpetrator was never convicted, and yes, in that the art works were never recovered. But no, in that our minor royal is currently persona non grata. He’s also under surveillance. We’re working on a link between himself, a Cabinet member and a cabal that’s been masterminding thefts of ancient artefacts for the last few years. Targeted stuff. 1st to 19th Century being the most popular time frame they now appear to be interested in. Very eclectic! There’s more to it, Bailey.”
Waterman narrowed his small grey-flecked eyes as he glanced above Bailey’s head to a framed print hanging on the panelled wall behind him. It was an old sepia reproduction of the ancient hill towering over the Bridge Hotel. The hill on which the original stronghold and subsequent castle of Dinas Bran had sat for almost two thousand years.
