again. ‘Regardless of how we got here, the dire situation can’t be ignored any longer.’
‘It’s not your problem to worry about, Morgana, I can handle it.’ Arthur said in his best ‘head of the family’ voice.
Morgana snorted. ‘Don’t try that tone with me, boy. You’re not too old for a box on the ears.’
‘You’d have to kneel by her chair so she can reach,’ Tristan muttered causing Arthur to cough loudly to try and cover his sudden burst of laughter.
‘Tristan Ludworth, I’ll thank you to try and remember some of the manners I taught you,’ Morgana snapped before turning away from the hot blush scalding Tristan’s cheeks. Gaze fixed firmly on Arthur, she continued. ‘The way I see it, you have very few choices, none of them particularly palatable.’ She held up one slender hand, fingers gnarled with age. ‘One, you can see if the National Trust will take this place off your hands. If we’re lucky, they’ll allow us to occupy a small part of it and open the rest up to the public.’
Arthur frowned at her rather unkind portrayal of the charity. ‘They do a fantastic job, but I’m not quite ready to hand over the reins to someone else. I’m already seriously considering opening some parts of the castle to the public, but I want it to be on our terms and absolutely under my control.’
Morgana pursed her lips. ‘Option two, you find some filthy rich foreigner to take the place lock, stock and—’
‘No!’ The triplets shouted her suggestion down in unison.
‘There must be another way…’ Iggy said.
‘Can’t we sell a few bits off?’ Tristan asked.
Arthur raised a brow. ‘Like what?’
His brother shrugged. ‘I don’t know, but the place is stuffed full of paintings, furniture and the like. Some of it must be worth something.’
Arthur shook his head. ‘There’s an old archive record somewhere, but I wouldn’t know where to start with it.’
‘If the three of you would let me finish,’ Morgana said, her voice sharp, ‘My third suggestion is to get an expert in to take a full survey of the contents of the castle. As well as being obsessed with all that Arthurian nonsense, the ninth baronet was friends with a very artistic set of friends. I believe several of them gifted him with works of art to thank him for his hospitality.’
Thomas Ludworth, Arthur’s several times great-grandfather had become obsessed with a theory that rather than the traditional Cornish and Somerset connections, the legendary King Arthur had in fact been a Northern warlord and Camland Castle the seat of the court of Camelot. The majority of his peers had openly laughed at the idea, but there was a stack of research and papers Thomas had collated in the library which he’d sworn proved his theory. He’d even gone so far as to name his children after characters connected to the legend, a tradition the family had adopted to that day. As part of his obsession, he’d collected every bit of tat he could lay his hands on with even the most dubious connection to Arthur and Camelot. The walls were littered with rusting swords, battle axes and the like, and the family chapel held no fewer than three cups on the altar alleged to be the holy grail. He’d even gone so far as to commission the huge round table which dominated the centre of the great hall.
It kept the locals amused and gave the area a bit of a tourist boost, so Arthur didn’t see any real harm in it, but he’d never given the theory any serious credence. ‘I suppose it would be useful to get a survey done, for insurance purposes if nothing else.’
‘And if you did decide to do some public open days, you could get this expert to curate the best of the Arthurian stuff into a proper exhibition. That’d be something to draw the crowds in,’ Tristan said, sounding more excited than Arthur would’ve expected.
‘It might work,’ he mused. ‘If we could get someone in quickly, we may even be able to put it together in time for the summer.’ He would have to do some serious research, find out what some of the famous estates like Blenheim Palace and Highclere Castle charged for admission, and what sort of thing they offered the tourists who flocked there. The Arthurian connection gave Camland an eye-catching hook—regardless of how spurious it was.
‘I could try and do something with the gardens,’ Iggy said, eyes alight. ‘A few themed walks to connect to the legend. There’s that gorgeous glade in the woods we could suggest it was the meeting place for Lancelot and Guinevere; a more testing one out to the lake we could call the Excalibur trail.’
‘With a great big rock somewhere along the way you’ll claim is where King Arthur pulled the sword from the stone, no doubt,’ Arthur said, half-joking.
‘Yes! Exactly.’ When she saw the doubt on his face, Iggy leaned forward. ‘Come on, Arthur, in for a penny in for a pound. If we’re going to go down, it might as well be in a blaze of tasteless glory!’
*
‘Are you sure we’re not deluding ourselves with this?’ Arthur asked Tristan as they surveyed a dusty collection of paintings in the long gallery. It was hard to imagine anyone looking twice at the gloomy-looking, mostly brown images lining the walls. Years of dirt and neglect made it almost impossible to make out the subject of most of them.
Tristan shrugged. ‘We might be, but it’s got to be worth a shot. If we can show the bank and the other creditors a viable business plan it might take a bit of the heat off you, at least for a little while. And as Iggy said, if we’re going down let’s go down fighting. We can call it Arthur’s Last Stand,’ he said with a wink.
‘You and me on the drive wielding broadswords at the bailiffs? Lord, can you imagine it?’
‘Morgana wouldn’t need a weapon, she’s already a battle-axe.’ They both laughed, then glanced around guiltily. Their aunt had a habit of appearing at the most inconvenient of times, a bit like the witch some of the children from the village suspected her of being.
Only once they were sure the coast was clear did Tristan speak again. ‘Look, worst-case scenario we’re going to lose this place, so it won’t do any harm to know what all this stuff is worth—separate the tat from the treasure, you know?’
Arthur nodded. He did know. He also had a sinking feeling in his stomach that there was more tat than treasure to be found hanging on the walls and littering the dusty surfaces of old bits of furniture. He took a breath. One thing he’d promised himself when he’d inherited the place was that he would face whatever came head on. No hiding behind dreams of a miracle, no banking on a deal that would never come off.
He’d loved his father, would always be fond of the fantastic memories his spirit of adventure had created for the three of them. But Arthur couldn’t afford to be like him. Much as the responsibilities of his position might weigh on his shoulders and keep him tossing and turning in the middle of the night, he couldn’t afford to show it. He was Baronet Ludworth and the people around him were depending on him. Not just his nearest and dearest, not even the direct employees who worked in the castle. If Arthur failed, it would cost the entire community.
He set his jaw. Failure just wasn’t a bloody option, was it?
‘Lucie, darling, time to wake
