The words hung between them like a portent. What did Davies want to know? He had thought about that question himself, even before Blundell had died in the yard of Kennixton Farm at St Fagan’s.
Owain Blundell had worked for the Assembly and before that for the Welsh Office, and with his knowledge of how things worked in the labyrinth of political machinery in Wales, he had been as well placed as any to help Davies. He hadn’t been unique in that though. There were many others who knew as much, and some who knew more. The problem for Davies was; the more they knew the more they were likely to be the target of his investigation rather than an ally. He had known Blundell was clean and that made him reliable, but what had made him unique was that he was both clean and already aware of the continuing interweaving of past and present, the reality of things the vast majority of the world had abandoned or never known. Davies didn’t have to explain, to cajole, to convince Blundell of the reality of what he was telling him and asking him to do. And now Owain was dead.
Davies felt a twinge of guilt for dragging Blundell into the firing line but only a twinge. Anger was his dominant emotion. Anger that what looked like his best lead had gone and anger that he was now forced into a line of action that could be infinitely more dangerous for him and less direct. It wasn’t as if Blundell had gone into the business unsighted. He had clearly been aware of some of the more arcane dangers when he arranged the meeting with Davies.
Kennixton farm had stood on the Gower for four hundred and fifty years before being brought to the folk museum at St Fagans on the outskirts of Cardiff. The museum had repainted the walls in the bright protective red under instruction from an antiquarian who happened, also, to be a druid. He had also very firmly recommended the planting of a Rowan in the garden. He hadn’t mentioned it to the museum staff, but this aided the locking of the spell he had rewoven as the house was reconstructed and painted. He had ensured that the carved figures inside the doorway were properly aligned and reblessed with mistletoe and birch before he left.
Owain had no doubt hoped these measures and the past mystical connections of the building would secure him from spiritual attack. Well, thought Davies, it was true no supernatural harm had ended his life. That had clearly been the physical work of man. A blow that had left Owain physically dead whatever his spiritual condition. Dead before he could tell Davies in person the results of his ferreting in the banality of the paperwork, that he had believed revealed so much.
What Blundell had managed to do before he died, was to conceal in thefarmhouse a flash drive holding thousands of documents culled during his work for Davies. In there, Davies believed, was the key to unlocking the conspiracy. How to use it was, so far, beyond him. The papers were unencrypted and perfectly readable but, as far as Davies and his team could tell, their meaning was far from clear. They appeared to be a collection of the normal documentation of government business. If there was a theme, a thread running through them Davies could grasp the end that would unravel it. The only solid confirmation of what Davies had had inklings of from the beginning, was one document, an internal memo between officials, suggesting the overarching involvement of the Goleudigion in something of extreme importance to the Government.
Davies, despite the nature of his day to day work amongst things living, dead and in between that were not generally acknowledged to exist, had considered the existence of the Goleudigion as a myth. There was something so silly about the idea of them that led rational minds to dismiss them, and at the same time, if they were more than a lingering fantasy they were almost too sinister to contemplate. The thought that they were real was so fantastic that he had no idea of how to start the enquiry through normal channels, even if such things existed within his remit. How could he trust anyone in the established order, if the thing had lasted throughout the years hidden in secret from even those tasked with investigating mysteries? Paranoia was the problem. But if they were real, it wasn’t paranoia, it was prudence.
Hence this meeting with Pendragon. He had put out tentative feelers to see if Pendragon would meet him with the aim of a temporary truce and alliance for their mutual benefit. Pendragon could of course be one of them himself, but the general tenor of what he was, suggested that was unlikely. He didn’t fit the profile of the membership in as far as it was known.
Given the widespread belief in the existence of an organisation bearing that name, in English, at least on the Internet, it was surprising that the profile on the books of the department was so thin. The vast majority of the Internet material, Davies put it at ninety nine percent at least, was the maunderings of neo Nazi fantasists and of deranged conspiracy theorists. As he had read some of that material he had laughed and wondered what the authors would make of the truth of his work if they heard of it. Probably dismiss it as fantasy, as he dismissed, with more justification, their nasty little anti-Semitic ramblings.
Pendragon sat waiting. Davies hadn’t really come to a conclusion about what to say to Pendragon even now, as he sat before him in the dark collections room in the National Museum. There were some things in which you had to rely on instinct in the moment, and he hadn’t known how he would feel until he sat here. He had said the word to provoke a reaction on which to judge the next stage. He hadn’t expected histrionics but he had half expected a sarcastic dismissal. If Pendragon were one of them, a simple way of deflecting Davies would be to mock him about believing in such silly myths. On the other hand if Pendragon knew nothing except the myth, he would not spare Davies’ blushes for believing in such popular hokum. His actual reaction suggested there was more to the matter of the Goleudigion in Pendragon’s view than simple myth. Davies hadn’t come this far to simply back away. He looked Pendragon in the eye as best he could given that the light was shining in his, Davies’ face.
‘I always thought they were a myth. It seems I may have been wrong. I want to know if your side of the hill thinks they are real.’
Pendragon had obviously had enough time in the moments in which Davies had made his decision. He answered without hesitation.
‘I thought you would know more than me. They are more on your side of the fence than mine you know.’
‘So they are real?’
‘Oh certainly.’ Pendragon paused and must have caught a hint of the scepticism in Davies’ face. ‘Not the New World Order drivel on the internet. Not the fantasy Zionist conspiracies of pathetic right wing fantasists.’ He explained. ‘But the real order? They are still very much alive’
‘And what is the “real order”?’
‘Good question.’ Pendragon said. ‘You’ve obviously read all the basic material? Done the standard research?’
‘I’m not sure there is any standard research on them.’
‘Oh be serious. You’ve read all about the groups known as Illuminati in the normal historical circles. You’ll have read enough of the gibberish on the net to discount that and no doubt you will have searched your own organisation’s records.’ He paused and Davies got the impression of a smile in the shadows. ‘How thin were they?’
Davies nodded in recognition of the accusation. They had been very basic indeed compared to the accounts of other secret societies and mystical groups. There had been the barest acknowledgement that the historical Illuminati had been active in Wales and fewer references still to a group going under the name Goleudigion. The records skated over their practices and hinted that they were a harmless and slightly deluded sub branch of Freemasons. The organisation’s hierarchy regarded Freemasons quite favourably, as at worst harmless, and at best a good thing for the binding of society under charitable intentions. Davies had no feeling about Freemasonry one way or the other. They weren’t the Templars of common mythology and they seemed to him to be a useful outlet for a desire for philanthropic deeds by stealth. However, whatever the common misgivings about them, they were hardly a very secret, secret society. Their halls were clearly marked and it wasn’t that difficult to join.
The sheer sparseness of detail about the Goleudigion however, had made him dig deeper, and the deeper he had dug the less benign that group appeared. But real leads to their current activities were very hard to come by. They had no halls on the high street, no charitable dances, no pictures of officers of the group in the papers. They lived far deeper in the shadows and appeared a lot less approachable than Freemasons.
‘You seem to know more about their working than I do. How can they cover their existence even from us?’
‘You know about Iorwerth ap Rhys?’ Pendragon asked.
‘He was our commander for the middle of the nineteenth century.’
‘He was. He was also a high ranking member of the Goleudigion. That’s when your organisation and mine fell out.’ He paused for a moment. ‘I always thought someone would have noticed how that split came just as the Blue Books were published and draw their conclusions. I suppose there was too much distraction and not all of it accidental. I underestimated the power of the Goleudigion.’
‘So tell me: who are the real Goleudigion, how do they fit into the Illuminati and what are they doing now?’