Epilogue
MOUNT HAWKE, CORNWALL
MARCH 1815
NORTH WALKED INTO the drawing room, several pieces of folded paper in his right hand, an odd look on his face.
Caroline looked up from her embroidery and said, “Look at this, North. Even Miss Mary Patricia approves. I’ve managed to stitch a Nightingale bird here on the corner of your handkerchief.” She picked up the piece of fine linen and stared closely at it. “Yes, you can tell it’s a bird. I know that Nightingale men detest the thought of also being birds, but what can you do? I say flaunt it. I say learn how to warble. North? What’s wrong?”
He looked distracted. He sat down then and put his hand on her belly and began to caress her. It was an automatic gesture. He’d told her it helped him think, to solve problems. The babe obligingly kicked his palm, and North blinked and grinned.
“Hello.”
“What have you got there?”
“A letter from Boston.” He drew a deep breath. “ Remember when we discovered that my great-grandmother had had an affair with that rogue named Griffin? And then they both disappeared, my great-grandfather putting it about that she’d died, even going so far as to bury her? Then we found out that the rest of the Griffin family left Cornwall for Boston in the 1780s?”
She nodded, leaned over, kissed him, and said, “You’ve found her, haven’t you?”
“Yes. It appears that she and Griffin ran away together to Boston. My God, Caroline, I have lots and lots of family over in the Colonies. Cousins by the score. It also appears that both my great-grandmother and Griffin outlived my great-grandfather. When Griffin’s family wrote him of my great-grandfather’s death, the two of them got married and legitimized all their children.”
“She was happy.”
“It would appear that Griffin was indeed a rogue, but he fell in love with my great-grandmother and became constant. How would you like to visit Boston? The blasted war ended last fall.”
The babe kicked North’s palm again. He grinned, leaned down, and put his cheek to her belly. “He wants to go meet all his cousins,” he said.
Caroline laughed, grabbed her husband’s ear, and pulled him up. She kissed him. “I think it’s a wonderful idea. At least they’re not named Nightingale so I don’t have to stitch a lot more silly birds on handkerchiefs. Now, I have something to tell you as well, North.”
He cocked a dark eyebrow.
“Coombe is marrying Mrs. Mayhew.”
He choked, stared at her, dropped the papers on the floor, then threw his head back and laughed and laughed.
“I thought you had all the magical experiences in this family,” he said at last, “but it appears that Mrs. Mayhew has performed the greatest magic of all time.”
Author’s Note
KING MARK, IF he really did exist, was most likely buried near Fowey, in the south of Cornwall, as most legend believers claim. As for King Arthur, everyone wants to lay claim to him and insist he was as real and as powerful and as noble as Malory’s book painted him way back in the fifteenth century in his Le Morte d’Arthur. The Scots, the Welsh, the Cornish, the English, all want him to be of their soil, of their blood, of their character. All of them want him buried in a hidden cave on their land.
If by chance Arthur did live and die in Cornwall, I choose to believe it was near Tintagel, which lies only about forty miles northeast of Mount Hawke. It certainly makes a romantic setting for Camelot.
Did either of these kings really live, or were they just the stuff of legends and myths, stories to be added to, like squares of a quilt, many hands making it grow and change continually, making it more and more complex, destined to enrich the minds and dreams of generation after generation?
Mark, that duped nitwit of a king, wasn’t ever real to me. As for King Arthur, he was always more than real. Indeed, he is legend, an epic spirit. He can’t be allowed to pass into the mists of time. He will always be here with us, to inspire us, to ennoble us, to touch our souls with his special magic, to show us greatness tempered with failure, to show us grace and humilit
y in the face of devastation and loss.
As for Arthur’s sword, Excalibur, I know deep down that it exists somewhere. It’s as real as King Arthur.