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  Freya was gratified to see that Pascal was visibly bolstered by her reassurances. But she was under no illusion. It was clear that he didn’t trust her and seemed to think he could turn her contribution on and off like a tap as it suited him. She needed to revise her own strategy for this situation. What was in this ultimately for her? Being his well-paid doormat was not enough, of that she was sure. There was too much at stake.

  She waited to see what would come next. It wasn’t long before he surfaced a quite different concern.

  ‘I don’t get it, Freya. We know that Christianity is a busted flush. I have always seen it as yesterday’s make-believe religion that no one buys anymore. I remember Stephanie once at a party ridiculing the Church of Rome as a bloated bejewelled pastiche of former imperial power. She could be so witty and scathing, do you recall? But in the Funery Chapel at Arundel – something was there. Something very powerful. And I was its target. I don’t doubt that if I had stayed it would have absorbed me. Not ripped me asunder, not killed me. No, rather swallowed me in its ghastly pity. It wasn’t dead, Freya, it was very much alive!’

  She saw now what the problem was. Notwithstanding his self-confidence and vicious streak, Pascal was having a moment of doubt and fear. He was frit. She felt rage flux inside her at his self-absorption. Pascal hadn’t known hunger like she had as a child, in the late forties, during the chaotic collapse of the Kuomintang. She recalled her parents’ desperate switching of allegiance as the Communists closed in. Miraculously her father had carried off the bluff, denouncing his friends as collaborators. Nor had Pascal been raped and buggered repeatedly from the age of ten. She thought of a later episode, months of terror during the Cultural Revolution, when her family’s Kuomintang past was exposed and her father and mother had been abruptly executed. By then, in her late twenties, she had gone on the run in the countryside, surviving by surrendering her snatch for the next meal or shelter at night. She had been lucky to survive.

  No wonder she found it hard to tolerate Pascal’s weakness, she thought. This petit-bourgeois side to Pascal invited her spite and rightly so. And she knew where he got it from - that splenetic drip of bile, Evrard. She hated the man. He had destroyed her beloved friend, the charismatic and mercurial Stephanie. A surge of loyalty towards Stephanie’s memory rushed through Freya. Her duty now was to rescue Pascal for her friend’s sake. Pascal had Stephanie’s genes, her strength and – now she saw it all too clearly – her vulnerability. But most importantly he had her potential. She took a deep breath. She would have to be Lady Macbeth to his hesitation. She would not let his weakness prevail.

  ‘It is simple enough Pascal. The dominant force in the universe – our force – is entropic. It finds its energy and strength from breaking things up, from splitting things apart. The destructive urge is the ultimate creative force. It is the fuel that you and I crave. It alone can satisfy and sate us. Only from death and pain can new creation form. Think of it. The scream of the foetus as it rips its way out of the womb! The rage of Lucifer cast out of Heaven as he devises the mental marvel of Hell! Without destruction there would be no energy to drive the expansion of the universe, the centrifugal propulsion that drives us forwards. This is our spirit, Pascal, as we stretch out, through the rent in the fabric of the universe, to touch those inhabitants of the dark matter who can become our allies. We both know the Other One is one of those dwellers in the parallel universes. You know physicists these days calculate that there are as many as twelve universes? This is not only good magic, Pascal, it is sound science. You must understand how special this moment is, how privileged you are. It is an epoch-making opportunity. That is why you must take up your crown and lead your people - your tuath.’

  She realised that her voice had dropped almost to a whisper. She waited. When he spoke Pascal’s voice sounded wistful, like it came from a very distant place.

  ‘You sound just like her, Freya. So like her. Do you realise that? That is just how she used to talk to me, when we were alone and looking at the stars. She was the only one who really understood me, Freya, who really loved me for what I am.’

  Freya had never seen him like this, so full of self-pity. It reminded her of Stephanie when she was in a particularly low mood. But he was no woman. She had to boost him further.

  ‘Yes, I know that, Pascal. You forget I was there as you grew up. I saw it with my own eyes. I understand you far more than you give me credit for. And I love you for what you could be – what you will be very soon. You must find courage Pascal. The ultimate prize is only on offer to the brave man. As that English poet, Milton, says - “Awake, arise or be forever fallen”. This is your moment, Pascal.’

  ‘I know that. I am not stupid.’

  Pascal’s natural impatience and arrogance was reasserting itself, to her relief. Freya at once recognised the change as an encouraging sign.

  ‘Of course. I am sorry. I am simply articulating it for my purposes, Pascal. So I can see it clearly,’ she prompted, giving his vanity another prop.

  Pascal spoke again.

  ‘And you haven’t answered my question. The Christian thing – the Christ presence or whatever it was. It had power. How can that be?’

  She had not scotched his demon yet, she recognised.

  ‘Listen to me, Pascal. The forces of so-called good are anti-entropic. It is extraordinary but they can marshal enough energy to temporarily resist the inexorable flow of entropy. And when they do, then yes, it can have real power and strength. But you need to remember, Pascal, that it is short-lived. All the Christ force can do is blossom up and expire rapidly, like those tragic creatures that live and die in less than a day. You know, like the mayfly? We can easily overwhelm it and time is on our side - as are the forces of the universe. All it takes is the courage to look the Christian Entity in the eye and deny it. Denounce it to its face! Then it will shrivel up and die, unable to live. Unless people believe in it, it will - like a chimera - simply disappear into nothing.’

  His head was nodding softly but his vulnerability was palpable. Intuitively, in that instant, she knew that he craved more than words. He needed mothering! Alarm bells rang in her head. She didn’t do this sort of thing. She needed Pascal to be strong and bad and sexy. But recognising that needs must, Freya did something that, for her, was most unusual. She opened her arms and let him come to her. He fell into her embrace and she felt his tears wet her neck. She wanted to run but held her discipline. It was nauseating really. Then, moments later, to her own astonishment she realised that she too was crying. Crying for the children she never had, for the five abortions she had endured. For the last abortion – the one that had wrecked her chances of ever again carrying a child. The surge of revulsion she had felt towards the suave doctor, who had assured her that all would be well and then had botched the job, returned as though the intervening years counted for nothing. She could see again the look on his face when she had landed on his doorstep demanding redress, seeking an explanation. His face had been contemptuous, full of smug arrogance and utterly indifferent towards her.

  After a minute or so engulfed by these memories, Freya’s self-awareness returned and she realised that she was still embracing Pascal. What was she doing? Disgusted, she recoiled slightly, involuntarily. She couldn’t handle this sort of closeness. It terrified her. She sensed Pascal’s reaction and knew that she must recoup the situation, fast. He must not feel rejected. Then the iron discipline that her mother taught her reasserted itself and she knew what was necessary. The female force needed to mutate from mother to whore. Sentimentality must make way for the simpler, safer territory of lust. Sex was more her metier. She moved her hand down between his legs.

  Chapter 18

  Buedon, France, 23 October 2014

  Robert woke to the sensation of something cold and metallic against his temple. Caution told him to move very slowly and as he raised his head the sensation followed his movement like a shadow.

  ‘Be very careful, Mr Grainger, this is a Smith & Wes
son and I know how to use it.’

  The voice was low and quiet but Robert recognised Pip’s intonation.

  ‘Now I want you - very, very gently - to pull back the duvet and get out on the floor.’

  Robert did as he was ordered and stood there naked, feeling a helpless fool. He realised then that there was another man standing in the doorway of the tent, holding a shotgun. Tara was still asleep on the bed.

  ‘Now get dressed slowly and don’t try anything.’

  The friendly smile of yesterday had been replaced by a stern frown. Pip kept the gun pointing firmly at Robert as he dressed.

  ‘All right, now wake her up and we do the same routine. You two have some questions to answer.’

  Five minutes later Tara and Robert were frogmarched up through the grounds to the house and into the kitchen. Janet was there and looked at them coldly. Three other men were in the room, two of them carrying handguns.

  ‘We don’t like harbouring murderers. We know who you are,’ Janet stated baldly, getting directly to the point.

  ‘We are not murderers....’ started Robert but one of the men grabbed him roughly and pushed him towards a chair.

  ‘Asseyez vous, maintenant,’ he shouted and turning to Tara he waved his gun. ‘Vous aussi, toute suite.’

  They sat down at the long wooden kitchen table.

  ‘Now keep still, no sudden movements and keep your hands on the table. You have some explaining to do.’ Pip barked at them.

  ‘I don’t know what you...’ Robert began but the man beside him whacked him across the mouth. He tasted blood on his lips but couldn’t wipe it away as two of the men pulled his arms back, tying them behind the chair. He felt the rivulet trickle down his chin. He wriggled but they had done a good job. There was little slack in the ropes.

  ‘These men are locals,’ explained Janet. ‘News travels fast. You were spotted along the canal bank yesterday by a relative of a farmer down the road and followed here. We know you are Robert Grainger and Tara Ruane and that the police are looking for you for the murder of the Duc d’Arz yesterday. First though, you talk to us and I will translate as necessary. Tell us why you visited the Duc and why you killed him. And don’t bullshit us. You don’t exactly look surprised to hear he is dead.’

  Robert looked at Tara who just nodded. Robert told their story. They had visited the Duc, by appointment, to discuss an artefact and had made a further appointment to see him later that day. He was alive when they left but had seen the body fall from the window as they left the town by the riverside road. They hadn’t killed him. Janet translated the responses into French, sentence by sentence.

  At this point the unarmed man, who was well-dressed but little more than a youth flung himself on Robert, grabbing his throat.

  ‘You bastard, you killed him. Mon cher père ! You liar! Je vais vous tuer!’

  ‘Woah, steady on, monsieur, we need him to talk!’ Pip moved in fast to pull the young man back. The lad stood beside Robert, his chest heaving in anger, his face creased in distress.

  ‘You need to know who you are dealing with,’ Pip spat out. ‘This is Alain Bihan-Malmanche. As of yesterday he became the Prince Étranger when you killed his father, Julien.’

  Suddenly Robert saw it. Although taller and better looking than his father, the family resemblance was there in the startling brown eyes and sallow skin.

  ‘Prince Étranger?’ inquired Robert.

  One of the Frenchmen took a step forward and spoke in hesitant English.

  ‘Oui, it means Foreign Prince. It is the traditional appellation of the Duc d’Arz. It recalls the family’s ancestry from the Kings of Brittany and as Princes of the Holy Roman Empire.’

  The man turned towards the youth and bowed slightly at the neck ‘Votre altesse,’ he said.

  Robert began to understand what all this meant. These men owed a feudal allegiance to the lad. They intended to find out what had happened and administer their own justice. That’s why no one was especially keen to call the police. He looked across at Janet, who was watching him keenly, and realised for the first time that Janet and Pip must be in a dilemma as well. They might well want to accommodate the local traditions of their neighbours but not to the extent of being accomplices to murder. Robert turned to face the young man, his chair wobbling in the process.

  ‘Tell him that I offer my profound condolences on the death of his father. Think about it – if we had killed his father we would have stolen the Shield of Vercingetorix, but we don’t have it. But we do know who killed the Duc and that person tried to kill us two days ago at Mont Saint-Michel. We are not the hunters, we are the hunted. But we can help him find his father’s killer if we all work together.’

  When Janet finished translating his words, there were hurried exchanges in French between the Duc’s men. The mention of Mont Saint-Michel had surprised them. Finally one of the Frenchmen asked Janet if she had a computer. She disappeared and then returned with her laptop, placing it on the table.

  ‘We are wireless, so we can look at it here.’

  She fired it up and the man started searching the web. Within a few minutes they were watching the Mont Saint-Michel footage.

  Pip exclaimed, ‘Bloody hell, who would have thought it. It is them I reckon. Look! Freeze that frame – ignore the hair – it is her!’

  The youth, calmer now but still suspicious, turned to Robert and asked, in broken English.

  ‘Who you say is killer then?’

  ‘You mean to say, who are the killers.’

  The voice came from behind and they all jumped around, startled.

  Chapter 19

  Machecoul, France, 24 October 2014

  Pascal watched Freya, up ahead, chatting to the guide. He owed a huge debt to this small, remarkable Chinese woman and even experienced a ripple of affection for her. After the psychic encounter with his mother he felt like a new man. Freya had transformed in his arms into the embodiment of his mother. Not that Freya had changed physically – he knew that she hadn’t. But somehow Stephanie had occupied the medium’s body and reached him. The emotional intensity was just as he remembered it. And the sex had been special too, just like in the old days when he was a boy. The cocaine rush had fuelled the experience for him and carried him through to a cathartic climax. The experience had been so intense that he left Freya immediately afterwards, needing to be alone with the memory of Stephanie.

  Today he felt like a new man, recharged and energised, all doubt gone. Freya was taking him on a guided tour of the Castle at Machecoul. They were lucky for it was a warm and balmy day and the romance of the impassive and derelict ruined fortress had gripped him. It was as though someone had decided to wipe it off the face of the earth, leaving only thick, crumbling, overgrown walls. Now nature had reclaimed it as its own. They were fortunate too in their guide who needed little encouragement before launching into another graphic account of the atrocities that had taken place within its walls.

  Freya was in her element. Earlier she had looked embarrassed, almost puzzled, when Pascal had gratefully mentioned yesterday’s events. Perhaps she too was taken by surprise, he thought, by the arrival of Stephanie’s spirit. It was an odd ménage a trois, no doubt about it. He had experienced sex with his mother through her best friend’s body. He chuckled at the absurdity of it. Anyhow he didn’t press the point with Freya. It wasn’t in his nature to be grateful to anyone for long. But it meant he had found a new use for her.

  He should trust Freya more, he reflected. She deserved it. But the trouble was she could be so adamant about things -unwaveringly single-minded and assertive. She tended to forget that her role was to be subordinate. And, just like Kirsten, she could be exhausting. But yesterday, without a doubt, Freya had earned her keep comprehensively. He needed a female like that near him and Kirsten was becoming unreliable.

  His girlfriend had disappeared back to Europe after he had forced her to have sex with him and Freya in Leitrim. She had not turned up in Brussels, as p
lanned, and had bailed out of attending the climate change conference. Instead she had gone to Berlin to stay with a girlfriend and visit an Arts Festival. At first Pascal wasn’t bothered. A bit of time apart was often a good idea. But after two weeks and not a word from her he had dispatched Erik to find her and pull her into Plan B – a scheme to ensure Tara Ruane’s compliance. If Kirsten wanted into his inner circle this was her chance to prove her mettle. He was looking forward to meeting her at the hunting lodge at Esse. If she disappointed him he would have ample excuse to give her a good beating, the insolent bitch.

  The melancholic magic of the bleak, isolated ruins put him in the right frame of mind to be decisive. He was walking after all where a great man had once lived, following in his footsteps. Catching up with Freya, he detached her from the guide.

  ‘Freya, I have been thinking. You are right, Ruane is the best suited to be my Queen at Samhain. She is a Seer and I plan to use her to activate the Triskell if all goes to plan.’

  He could see from Freya’s face that she was pleased.

  ‘But I will tell Kirsten – not you! I don’t need another spat between you two.’

  Freya cackled her strange, high-pitched laugh. If a chicken could laugh, that is what it would sound like, he thought.

  ‘And I have made another decision,’ he said lowering his voice. ‘I will sacrifice the child publicly and bind my followers to me through the act of joining in a blood offering. An homage to Gilles de Rais if you like. Not exactly matching him, but a start!’

  They both laughed at the black humour. She grasped his hands.

  ‘I am confident you are making the right choices, Pascal. This is your moment – seize it! It is so inspiring! Only yesterday I felt the Samhain plan lacked focus. But no longer. This will be perfect!’

  ‘Good. Can you rework the detail and choreography in time?’

  ‘Of course, leave it to me.’