The Secret of Excalibur

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The little church watched over the village of San Maggiori as it had every sunset for seven centuries. The dusty road up from the village was steep and winding, but the local faithful were proud enough of their place of worship and its long history not to complain about the trek. At least, not too frequently.

Father Lorenzo Cardella was the most proud of the church. He knew pride was technically a sin, but this place belonged to God, and surely even the Creator would allow Himself a moment to appreciate it. Modest in appearance and size, it had for all that withstood weather and wars, invaders and insurgents, since the days of the Holy Roman Empire. God, the priest mused, clearly liked it enough to keep around.

He took a last moment to appreciate the splendour of the setting sun before turning to the church’s time-scoured oak doors. He was about to lock them when he heard the slithering crunch of a vehicle coming round the road’s final hairpin. A large black SUV pulled itself through the turn, tyres scrabbling for traction even with four-wheel drive.

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