Lammas Night (21 page)

“Hardly standard issue, that,” William said in a low voice, jutting his chin toward Graham's holster as he pulled on Denton's duffle coat and covered his bright hair with its hood. “You're not expecting trouble, are you?”

Graham shrugged into his own coat and moved with William toward the door.

“No, but we'll be ready if there is,” he said. “Shall we?”

“Go.”

Graham's commandeered staff car was soon purring north along the Tavistock Road, its shielded headlights thrusting only narrow slits of light into the moonless night. The rain cut their visibility further, but Graham knew the road and was able to make good time. As they neared the turnoff toward Milton Combe, he glanced at the silent silhouette beside him. William had spoken hardly two words since they left Plymouth—common enough behavior when they were working on an assignment but a little unexpected under the circumstances.

“It's a little like the old days, isn't it?” Graham said after a few more seconds. “May I ask what you're thinking about?”

In the dim glow of the instrument panel, he could see the flash of William's tentative smile.

“That's the stupidest thing you've ever asked me. I've been sitting here scaring myself, of course.”

“Scaring yourself? Whatever for?”

“What do you think? I thought I'd try to prepare a little for tonight, so I made the mistake of reading up on Drake and his legends. I suppose you know that his ghost is said to drive a black coach along this road, pulled by headless black horses?”

Graham had to chuckle. “Ah, yes, that legend. Let's see. He supposedly was condemned to this rather pointless fate because he consorted with the devil to build quick additions to the abbey where we're going—the abbey he ruthlessly stole from the poor monks who had built it. The fact that the abbey had been secularized long before and that Drake bought it from the previous owner is rarely mentioned. Three days it was supposed to have taken, wasn't it? And headless hounds follow the coach?”

William snorted. “We must have read the same book.” He paused. “Seriously, Gray, what else should I know about tonight? I'm the first to admit that I may not have realized what I was getting myself into. Don't get me wrong. I trust you, and I'm not trying to back out. And you've made enough of an impression on me that I don't suppose I really believe Drake consorted with the devil, but I—don't want to make a fool of myself or put you at risk.”

“Your timing is impeccable,” Graham replied, slowing for the turn toward Milton Combe. “I was about to broach the subject myself. Incidentally, you can stop worrying about the headless horses and hounds. We just turned off the Tavistock Road.”

“How reassuring you are. I was hoping you'd tell me there's no such thing.”

“Ah, but what fun would
that
be?”

As William's head swiveled to stare at him, Graham restrained a smile and peered more intently into the rain to negotiate another tricky set of curves, though he kept the prince in his side vision. So far, their tone had been light, but Graham was glad to note a sober undercurrent as well. Even after giving permission for William to attend, a faint fear had lingered that the prince might not take the night's work seriously. His reaction so far was reassuring.

“Quite frankly, the most important thing for you to remember is to do exactly as you're told and not interfere,” Graham finally said. “Whatever you may see or hear or even feel, you must stay where I tell you to and say and do nothing. Is there any question in your mind what that means?”

He heard William's soft intake of breath.

“Now I
am
nervous. I thought you said it would be like a—a hypnotic regression. Why do I have the distinct impression that something else may happen?”

“I won't lie to you,” Graham said. “Something else
may
. I doubt you'll be aware of it if it does, but if you are, do nothing. I mean that, William,” he added as he sensed a beginning protest. “Let the others handle it. They know how, and you don't.”

“But—”

“Please don't argue with me, William. The others still have some misgivings about you even being present, but they've deferred to my judgment. I'd like to have you there, but don't make me regret my decision.”

“Very well.”

Graham glanced aside sharply before easing through another turn, then allowed himself a sigh.

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean that as harshly as it may have sounded. I'm under a little strain myself tonight.”

“You don't have to apologize,” came the low-voiced response. “I've intruded myself on this operation. I should have enough sense to shut up and follow orders. I've got out of the habit lately.”

“You're doing fine.”

“I'm not doing fine—I'm a nervous wreck. And every time I think about it more, I scare myself worse. Why couldn't there have been a moon tonight?”

Graham had to smile despite William's obvious apprehension.

“I suppose I ought to explain about lunar cycles,” he said. “It has to do with mimicry.”

“Mimicry?”

“Yes, just like in astrology:
As above, so below
. The idea in this case is to begin new endeavors when the moon is waxing, as it is tonight: to harness that propensity to grow, to increase in brightness, and to apply it to the matter at hand.”

“But the moon doesn't really grow,” William protested. “The earth's shadow gets smaller.”

“Of course—and we know that now. But our ancestors didn't up until a few hundred years ago, and our racial memory still regards the moon as growing and shrinking, regardless of what astronomers tell us.” He glanced aside at William. “It's the symbolism that's important, Will. Everything that you'll see tonight is tied in with symbols which key the mind to move in certain directions. That's what ritual is all about. You've seen it work in church or in your Masonic lodge.”

“I suppose that makes sense when you put it that way,” William agreed, though his tone was still a little doubtful.

Graham chuckled again, though not unkindly. William was actually taking this far better than he'd dared to hope.

“Just keep your eyes and your mind open and you may be amazed at what you learn,” he said. “In any case, what can you expect tonight? Let's see. For one thing, I'll not formally introduce you to anyone. They all know who you are, of course, and you may well recognize some of them, but they would like to retain the illusion of anonymity as much as possible. I'm sure you understand. Working in front of an outsider is a very big step for all of us. If it weren't for the unique nature of what we're doing tonight, you simply wouldn't have been allowed at all.”

“I understand that, and I'm grateful.”

“Good, because quite frankly, it's all on me, since I'll be the primary—ah—operative tonight. By the way, I'm not being deliberately evasive when I hesitate over a word like that. I'm simply trying not to confuse you any more than you already are, or will be. I'll try to answer specific questions on the way back.”

He heard William's controlled sigh, obviously little reassured, and then a weak “Thank you.” They were within a mile of the abbey gate now, and Graham realized he was going to have to hurry if he hoped to finish his briefing before they arrived.

“It's not quite as solemn as all that,” he said gently. “It
is
serious business, though. Let's see. Once we get there, certain—ah—preparations will already have been made that needn't concern you. Basically, they have to do with—let's call it a psychic cleansing of the room, like the censing and sprinkling with holy water that one sees in a church, and with approximately the same effect.”

“I can't see that?”

“Afraid not—for the same reason you wouldn't allow an outsider to witness a high-grade Masonic ritual unless he'd been properly prepared. There's nothing ominous involved; it simply isn't done. That part has nothing to do with what I'll be doing, anyway. The purpose is to neutralize any random influences which might intrude on Drake. He's our only real target for tonight.”

“That makes sense, I suppose,” William said. “What will
you
be doing, then, that I'm allowed to see?”

“Well, I told you it was like a hypnotic regression, but it's sometimes also called scrying. After everyone is settled, I'll sit in Drake's chair, in his drawing room, and try to look back on him in a blackened mirror.”

“Not a crystal ball?” William asked, a trace of humor returning to his voice.

“Ah, then you've heard of scrying.” Graham smiled. “No, the mirror is better in this case. I'll use a candle as a focus for going into a kind of trance, but my eyes may stay open, and I may speak. That's perfectly normal if it happens, so don't be alarmed.”

“
Normal
, he says!”

Graham had to force himself not to laugh, William sounded so apprehensive.

“I assure you, it is. I've arranged for you to be sitting behind and slightly to one side of me so you can watch my face in the mirror. That's really far less ominous than it sounds, since most of what happens will be going on in my mind, anyway.”

“Then you don't think there'll be much to see?”

“Not with your eyes, but—”

He found himself about to go into a discourse on psychic senses and bit off the rest of his statement with a shake of his head. He was not sure whether William was ready to handle something like that or not, but William took the speculation out of his hands.

“But what?” the prince asked. “Are you implying some kind of mental perception? From me?”

“It's—possible,” Graham conceded, fearing that the possibility was quite real. “You're of the old line, as we call it—the royal and sacred lineage of England—and your ancestors trod the ancient ways until quite recently. But there's no way to predict ahead of time, just as I don't know for certain how I'll react. Until and unless something happens, there's just no way to know. In any case, it isn't something to be frightened of,” he added, reaching under the seat to pull out a black-knit Balaclava helmet, which he handed off to the prince. “You'll want to put this on now and pull it well down over your face. Don't take it off until we're safely upstairs. We don't want you recognized.”

As William obeyed, they turned right and stopped beneath an arched stone gatehouse, deep in shadow. When Graham lowered the window, a darker shadow materialized beside the driver's door, and a dim red light was shone in both their faces. He felt William stiffen next to him at the soft, deadly snick of a rifle being cocked farther back in the darkness.

“Colonel John Graham,” he said in a low voice.

The light was switched off.

“Pass, sir. The rest of your party are all here.”

As Graham drove on, riding the brakes as he eased the car down a shallow hill, he could hear the rustle of the prince turning to glance back at the receding gate. Of the sentry, there was now no sign.

“One of yours?” William asked.

“Not in the sense we've been talking about,” Graham said with a low chuckle. “He works for me, though. I'll bet you didn't know that this is a top-secret meeting of some of my deep-cover agents tonight, did you? It's true, by the way. Did you also know that Sir Francis Walsingham, the founder of the British Secret Service, is said to have used witches as his first information-gathering network?”

The prince's muffled “humph” was still a little nervous but no longer disbelieving as they pulled around the last long curve and into the yard by the west entrance.

A battle-dressed soldier with a black-smeared face met them just inside the darkened entryway with rifle readied, but he slipped past them to take up a post outside as soon as he recognized Graham. Briskly, Graham led his charge down the corridor and into an oak-lined stairwell, guiding him up by the light of a single candle on the first landing.

Another candle, shielded in red glass, glowed by a door at the end of a long gallery leading back in the direction they had come. As they approached it, a dark shape in RAF uniform detached itself from the shadows and fused into the form of Richard. Graham, one hand on the prince's elbow, felt his start of surprise as Geoffrey silently appeared on his other side.

“You can take off the mask now,” Graham said, shucking his coat and weapon and exchanging them for a long black robe that Geoffrey laid over his arm. “And I believe you already know these two gentlemen. Richard, have we got a spare robe for our guest? I think he'll feel more comfortable if he looks like everybody else.”

As the two younger men helped William from his coat, Graham withdrew a few yards and donned his own robe, though unlike William, he did not retain his clothing underneath. Since the room in which they would work was unheated and unheatable, the robe was sturdy wool, but more important, it did not bind or constrict; comfort was critical. The cut was also enough like a conventional monk's robe or choir surplice to be reassuringly familiar to their apprehensive royal visitor.

Graham set his boots and socks aside, flinching a little at the first shock of cold wood against bare feet, then rejoined the others as Richard was knotting a black cincture around the prince's waist. William's face was very white above the black of the monk's cowl, but he made a halfhearted attempt at a smile as he looked up at Graham.

“I shouldn't want to be misunderstood when I say I've got cold feet,” he whispered, “but is there some esoteric reason for this of which I'm not aware?”

Graham glanced at the royal feet, then back at William.

“It's akin to taking off one's shoes on holy ground. Does that make you uncomfortable?”

“No, just cold.”

Graham smiled. “Good. Just to reassure you, I think they've put a cushion down for your feet. If you're ready, then …”