Camping at a ruined abbey at the end of the summer holidays, six teenage archaeologists find themselves witness to a violent haunting and discover a secret crypt below the abbey. The discoveries they make set them on an epic quest across the country. In a race against an unhinged academic and armed with only their honour, knowledge and swordsmanship the group will have to trust one another and work together, as reality and mythology merge and the quest for an artefact of legend becomes a fight for survival.

Inspired by both the celebrated and lesser known Arthurian legends, The Mystery of St. Arondight's blends well-researched history with a thrilling tale of adventure and friendship for a group of mismatched teen archaeologists.

The Mystery of St. Arondight's is available in print or on Kindle. You can read the first two Chapters for FREE below,  or you can read about some of the facts and fictions of Arthurian Legends written by the author.
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King Arthur Legend of the Sword!
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"Think Indiana Jones meets King Arthur and you have a good idea of the pace and excellent storytelling you'll find in this book"
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Prologue

England: Sixth Century AD
 
He woke with a start, sweat drenched and trembling in the unnatural darkness of the leather tent. For moments he lay still, his fingers clamped around the edges of the bed frame, forcing his breathing to slow trying to recall how he came to be here. Wherever here was. Eventually he uncurled his fingers, protesting with arthritic cramp, from the bed and with a groan sat up. His gaze fell upon his sword, laid out beside his armour. He shuddered, there was something sinister about the unsheathed blade.

His night had been fraught by terrible dreams, scenes of blood and loss. The collapse of his kingdom, the death of his knights, the end of chivalry and, as so long ago predicted, his own demise at the hands of his youngest nephew. The nephew whose treachery formed the catalyst for the wars that had shattered the realm and had already cost the lives of some of the greatest and most loyal champions of his court. Of this and more the aged man had fretted and dreamed until the earliest hour of dawn.

It was then, as the sky began to pale, that a spectre appeared to his frenzied mind. In a period of half wakefulness he witnessed the dead returning as most loyal Sir Gawain entered his tent. Entranced by the presence of the friend he thought dead the elderly king welcomed him with open arms. But his loyal knight would come no closer.

When the apparition spoke it was with Gawain’s thick Welsh accent and odd dialect, seemingly more pronounced in death than they had been in life, and the old king struggled to make out the words.

‘Mine honoured liege, by God’s will thy most loyal knight cometh hence, withs’t most grievous warning. For’st in the morrow’s battle shalt thee be slain by Mordred, whom shalt in turn be slain by thou. Stay thy battle for but thirty days, and Sir Lancelot shall be returne’d to thy side. Thus united shalt thee together slayeth vile Mordred and reclaim this realm.’ His council given, the presence that had once been Sir Gawain vanished into the morning mist leaving the weary king once more bereft and alone.

For a while he lay still and quiet, watching his breath puff clouds in the icy air. A cold day, or the remnant of his wraithlike visitation? For where the dead walked cold must surely follow. Perhaps there was a chance he could dissuade his nephew from fighting this day. Rising slowly, groaning with age and weariness he averted his eyes from the sword as he dressed.

At the grand age of seventy he was far too old for the looming battle. This morning he felt the dull ache of every previous wound, and an unusual tightness in the pit of his stomach. This would be his first battle without Gawain, and one of the few without Lancelot’s presence. Although, he reflected ruefully, last time they met Lancelot had been his enemy and a victorious enemy at that.

With a heavy sigh he turned finally facing his sword which lay gleaming in the half light. He raised a liver-spotted hand towards the weapon feeling a tremble in his fingers that had nothing to do with age. Afraid, he snatched his hand back as if burned and scratched distractedly at his beard, now more white than dashing blonde. The night’s terror would not leave him; nor the deep sense of foreboding implanted by his unearthly visitor’s words. For when the dead spoke one should always listen. Sir Gawain’s advice offered him a chance that Merlin’s prophecy never had. The battle must not take place today.

‘My liege?’ There came a rustling at the flaps of the heavy tent.

‘Enter Bedivere.’ How he hated that his voice creaked with age now. Where was that virile young man with no fear who had smashed the heathen Saxons at Badon? The young man who was unafraid of the sword he wielded? Shaking his head, he turned slowly as a knight, almost as ancient as himself, stepped awkwardly through the tent flaps. ‘How moves my traitorous nephew?’

Sir Bedivere shuffled awkwardly. His king appeared far more tired and ill this morning than previously; a battle, if it happened, would surely finish him. ‘Mordred draws his battle lines my lord, as do we.’ The grizzled knight replied dutifully.

‘Ahh.’ The king glanced nervously at his sword. ‘To have the impatience and energy of youth. We must sue for peace.’

‘My lord?’ Bedivere was taken aback. It was of utmost import that the kingdom was taken back, and sooner rather than later. The Saxons, learning of the discord within the kingdom were mustering on the coast, ready to take advantage of the ruin wrought by the battles of the past year. ‘My lord we must fight this day’

‘No, we wait stay our advance.’ The king turned to face Bedivere, glancing briefly at the floor before he spoke again. ‘Gawain has this morn counselled my doom should I do battle this day.’

Bedivere sighed, an old man with delusions was the last thing the army needed now. To hold off battle would be folly. He tried once more. ‘My lord...’

‘I know, I know, Bedivere you do well to question my actions but Gawain did always favour peace and Sir Lancelot is yet thirty days ride away....’

‘Lancelot!’ Bedievere exclaimed, enraged that the king should once more gift the disgraced and exiled knight with his title. ‘That traitor, the corruption that destroyed the realm? Mark me sire, if the churl does ride it will be to Mordred’s side with intent to claim the queen legally should you perish.’

‘Bedivere,’ the aged king’s tone was benevolent, ‘Sir Lancelot is not, nor ever was, a traitor.’

‘With all due respect sire, he was discovered in the queen’s apartments, and she in a state of undress.’
​
The king waved his comments away turning his rheumy gaze once more to the sword that occupied his thoughts but Bedivere carried on. ‘You sentenced her to death yourself on charge of adultery, and he carried her away.’

‘I commanded it of him!’ The king thundered. ‘You think I would murder my queen? Yes, Lancelot was oft in her rooms, they went riding together, walking together, sat in the gardens together. Never was there any impropriety. True enough, he does love her; but Lancelot has honour, more so than most. He is not a man to break his vows.’

‘You went to war against him, my liege.’ Bedivere tried.

‘At the insistence of a distraught Gawain following the death of his brother by Lancelot’s sword, as he rescued my lady queen from the stake. It brought Gawain only his death.’ The king replied sadly, tracing his finger purposefully along the glittering blade. ‘Nothing would make me happier this day than the sight of Sir Lancelot’s blue blade once more at my side’

‘My lord, with Excalibur how can you be defeated. With her you have never lost a battle. Her power is legend throughout the land.’

‘And yet it is she I fear more than death.’ The king replied softly, feeling the metal warm to his touch and the blade’s presence pulse through his fingers like a heartbeat. Like a living being that would overwhelm him. For many years he had left her, a trophy in the great hall overlooking the Round Table. Not since Badon had he needed her, and never, never, had he wielded her without the steadfast presence of Sir Lancelot to his right.

​Even when they were enemies, Lancelot had refused to draw a blade against the king and Exalibur had remained encased, trapped in her ill-fitting scabbard, the real one long since lost. It was Gawain with his mighty battle axe had challenged Lancelot and by Lancelot’s hand had met his death.

The old king squeezed his eyes shut, it did no good to dwell on the past. Faithful Bedivere was still attempting to convince him that the battle could be won.

‘Bedievere, enough.’ The king groaned wearily, there was a rustle at the tent flaps and the Lady Guinevere stepped inside, her hands clasped demurely before her.

‘Forgive me my lord,’ she said softly, ‘I was unaware you were in council. I came to assist with your armour as requested.’

‘Have we news from France?’ Demanded Arthur.

‘Nothing further, but that Lancelot...Sir Lancelot is on his way.’ Guinevere replied softly but Bedievere caught the catch in her voice as she spoke the traitor knight’s name. ‘He will come husband,’ she continued reassuringly, ‘Sir Lancelot’s first loyalty is always to you.’

Bedievere snorted, unable to keep his contempt for the woman hidden, he intended to speak to the king on the matter again, but there came an eruption of sound outside the tent. The clattering of armour and men’s voices raised in fear and excitement. ‘What is this?’ he muttered to himself moving to look outside as a squire darted into the king's presence without leave.

‘My liege the battle is begun!’ The boy cried breathlessly and clearly frightened.

‘How?’ The king challenged, indicating that Guinevere should assist with his breast plate.

‘A snake my lord, bit one of the men, another drew his sword to slay it. Mordred must have seen the blade flash in the sun. He charged.’

Arthur sighed heavily as his armour was finally strapped into place. ‘Bring my horse.’ He ordered. ‘And Bedivere,’ the king continued almost as an afterthought, ‘should this battle indeed be my last, ensure that Excalibur is lost alongside her king.’

Bedivere, the faithful knight, obeyed instantly, sweeping out of the tent alongside the squire leaving Arthur alone with his wife. Wordlessly the king reached for his sword, feeling her strength surge up his withered old arm as he closed his gloved hand on her fine hilt. Lowering the blade he wrapped his arms around Guinevere and kissed her gently.

‘Pray for me, my love,’ he asked, stepping away for the last time, ‘and pray God, Lancelot rides fast, else this day shall be my end.’ Arthur tightened his grip on the sword and sighed heavily. ‘My dearest lady, should I fall, see to it that Bedivere keeps his word on Excalibur. You know the place?’

Guinevere raised her dark eyes slowly meeting her lord’s intense gaze. ‘Honoured husband,’ she stammered, ‘if you should fall I swear that your famed blade shall be lost, her name but an awed whisper in the legends of this land. Her resting place protected for eternity by the greatest, the most loyal, and the one entombed, surrounded by water of such fathoms deep that none may ever see her light again.’ Her voice was soft as she repeated her instructions, learned by heart on her wedding day so many years ago.

​With a sad smile Arthur, the once heroic king of the united Britons, looked one last time upon the pale face of his beloved lady, and strode briskly from his tent. An old man with his head held high.

On the verge of weeping Guinevere followed her husband out into the cold light of day, watching with a heavy heart as he raised the magnificent sword above his head, braying a lusty battle cry. The bright rays of sunlight flashed on Excalibur’s blade, and to Guinevere, awaiting with dread the outcome of the battle and return of her love, it seemed that for a moment Arthur wielded a sword of flame.
ⓒ S. M. Porter 2016
​This work remains the property of S. M. Porter and is subject to copyright law.