Lammas Night (36 page)

“A-ha! That will be our phone call. Our good Mr. Flynn tells His Royal Highness—and H.R.H. feigns surprise and excuses himself as planned, leaving his ever-faithful but over curious aide to attend to his guests.”

They watched William disappear through the door nearest them, and very shortly, Flynn was sent to fetch Wells. Soon after that, William joined them in the parlor, worrying at the knot of his tie with a nervous gesture.

“Well, he's off to London,” the prince said, peering through the mirror with them. “Gray, are you sure we've got the right list tonight? They all seem so—normal.”

Graham could not help a grin. “I hope you weren't expecting tails and cloven hooves after all we've told you. The vicar over there would be absolutely scandalized.”

William bit back a smile as he followed Graham's gaze to a man in clerical collar talking animatedly with Dame Emma.

“Hmmm, I daresay you're right. I gather he doesn't know about Dame Emma's—ah—religious preferences?”

At Alix's muffled snicker, the prince shrugged. “Well, I didn't think so, but frankly, I wouldn't be surprised at much of anything tonight. Someone tell me again about that portly chap talking to Sir Robert.”

“Avery,” the brigadier said. “He's high up in one of the Rosicrucian orders. And don't be deceived by his looks. Beneath that teddy bear exterior is a first-rate ceremonial magician. He also wields a great deal of civic authority. I believe he plans to stand for election next year, as a matter of fact. He'll probably win, too.”

Alix brought over the prince's Garter collar and laid it around his shoulders, securing it under his epaulettes as they continued reviewing the guests. They had tried to think of a way for him to wear the Garter itself, but the formality required would have been out of keeping with the occasion. William, like the King, had a distinct aversion to lapses of protocol, especially wrongly worn orders. Even the wearing of the collar was not the usual practice outside ceremonies of the Garter, and he adjusted the pendant “George” with a distracted grimace as Alix fussed over him.

“I'm just trying to get them all straight in my mind, now that I've seen the real people instead of pictures,” William said, glancing out at the room again. “Which are the two bearded chaps again, please?”

“Conwy and Carey,” Graham replied. “The taller one is Carey. He's—”

“No, don't tell me—the Qabalist. I remember that,” William supplied.

“Very good. How about Conwy, then?”

“Ah, Welsh nationalist and practicing Druid,” William replied with a reckless smile. “And the woman next to him is Mrs. Murphy, from the Cotswolds—a witch, as I recall. How am I doing, chief?”

Graham stiffened in automatic response. He wished William had not said that.

“Other than being a bit too specific with your terminology, you'll pass;” he managed to reply.

“What do you mean? Calling her a witch?”

“No, calling me chief.” He forced himself to relax a little. “That title has a rather definite connotation for us,” he explained. “It goes with this”—he stabbed with his thumb at the black he wore—“and it describes the relationship of the rest of us to Lord Selwyn, and temporarily to me, but it doesn't describe
your
relationship to
any
of us. Even if it did, that's the last thing you'd want to intimate to our guests out there. You
must
remain aloof from any sectarianism, William. Your brother is Defender of the Faith.”

“Do you really think I could forget that?” William muttered, much taken aback.

“I'm sorry.” Graham sighed. “I didn't mean to be short. It was an automatic reaction to protect you.”

A short but awkward silence fell upon them, followed by William's visible regathering of his composure.

“Well, let's get on with it, then,” he said bravely. “Are you ready?”

With a shrug and what he hoped was his most confident smile, Graham extended his hand, which William clasped.

“I think I'd almost rather face a firing squad—and might, before this is all over—but, yes, I'm ready. I'd say, ‘Give 'em hell,' but under the circumstances, I fear that might be in poor taste.”

That brought a smile back to William's lips along with a nod of agreement as he released Graham's hand.

“I dare say, you're probably right, but I'll do the best I can. Stand by, then, and wish me luck.”

William left them with a briskness to his step that gave lie to the apprehension he felt. He waited until he was clear of the room before giving in to the nervous impulse to clasp the George on his collar like a protective talisman, wishing Gray had not made the allusion to hell. As long as he did not freeze up, the rest of the evening should go as smoothly as the first part. He kept reminding himself of that as he paused outside the door that led back to his guests. Peering through the peephole set at eye level, he could see that they were almost ready for him.

The footmen were withdrawing with their trays. At the far end of the room, Michael had replaced one of the equerries previously on duty and was now assisting with the placement of chairs in a double semicircle, facing a larger chair whose resemblance to a throne was not at all coincidental. When the chairs were arranged and the last of the servants had withdrawn, saving Michael and Flynn, Michael closed the double doors and took up a post with his back to the doorknobs. William knew that another of Gray's men was guarding the other side of the doors to forestall interruptions and that Denton prowled the halls. The guests were still milling quietly, unaware that anything had changed.

The stage was set, wanting only William's signal for the play to begin. Before, he had keyed his formal remarks to his guests along the lines of congratulations for jobs well done; he would begin the same way tonight. With his hand on the doorknob, William leaned his forehead briefly against the door and prayed for guidance, wondering whether the God of his childhood would listen in such a cause. Then he gave the knob a turn. Through the peephole, he saw Flynn draw himself to attention in acknowledgment of the royal signal.

“Ladies and gentlemen, His Royal Highness The Duke of Clarence, KG,” the man's voice announced with all the precision of a proper herald.

The door opened, and William stepped through. Eleven pairs of eyes turned to him as he entered, eleven heads bowing in respect as he paused before his chair. Insanely, he found himself wondering whether Flynn, the extra equerry, might be lured into royal service. Good aides were so hard to find, especially in wartime, and he could use another.

He forced himself to put the thought out of mind as he scanned the faces, giving them one of his most disarming smiles.

“A formal good evening to you, one and all, ladies and gentlemen,” he said genially, sitting and gesturing for them to take their seats. “Please make yourselves comfortable. We have come now to what could be construed as the official part of our evening, though I hope to avert any stuffiness which the word ‘official' might suggest. This will be akin to what I believe the American president calls his ‘fireside chats.'”

They chuckled a little in response to that, settling into the chairs amid some good-natured murmuring and side chatter as William watched the battle lines take shape. Sir Robert, his Masonic brother, was in the front at the far left, with Dame Emma, the vicar, the Rosicrucian, and the two greybeards ranged across the row from left to right. Behind them, at dead center, Gray's stubborn Major Collier seemed to be a line of demarcation between two ceremonial magicians, male and female, and a man and woman of the Wicca. What seemed odd to William was that the polarizations had been almost entirely unconscious on the parts of the participants. No one yet seemed to have drawn the proper conclusion.

“Well, then,” he said easily when he had their attention again, “I'm sure you are all aware of at least one of the reasons I've asked you here this evening. All of you, in your various ways, have been contributing greatly to the war effort, whether it is through your actual military service or that of your loved ones, your civic support, or your volunteer work on the home front—making things easier for our Forces when they come home. While it is not in my power to make official recognition of these contributions, I wanted you to know that on a private level, your efforts have not gone unnoticed or unappreciated. England needs the support of all her people in these troubled times, in all the myriad ways in which they can assist, however small. And so, from the bottom of my heart, I wish to thank you for what you have done.”

As he watched them drink in his praise and mentally preen themselves, he paused to draw a deep breath, leaning his elbows on the chair arms and making a steeple of his fingertips. So far, they still suspected nothing. It was going to be fascinating to see how much more he could tell them before they caught on.

“There are other aspects of the war effort which I wish to discuss with you this evening, however, and chief among them is the ever-increasing threat of invasion,” he continued. “As no one can fail to be aware, what Mr. Churchill has dubbed the Battle of Britain has already begun. Every day, Fighter Command repels increasingly vicious bombing attacks on our shipping and in our forward coastal areas, at a terrible cost to men and machines. In addition, I am informed that two days ago, Adolf Hitler issued a document known as Directive No. 16 in which he has the audacity to set his official timetable for the invasion of Britain. I say he must be stopped, just as Napoleon and the Spanish Armada were stopped.”

They were definitely listening now, unsure whether to be more horrified by the news of Hitler's intentions or appalled by the implication some of them thought they read regarding the previously thwarted invasions. Alix, in her previous approaches to all of them, had given each the background on the Armada and Napoleonic victories and their parallels with the present situation. A few cast furtive glances at their neighbors, but only one or two seemed to show that they had made the connection, and even those guests were unsure.

“Now, before I go on, allow me to assure you that my own involvement in what I am about to say is of only recent occurrence and at a very low level compared to all of you,” William said carefully, watching their expressions. “As the King's brother, I am well aware of the delicacy of my position and its historical vulnerability. You will understand this statement more fully when I tell you that I have been made aware of each of your various—ah—esoteric interests. Indeed, that is the second reason you have been asked here tonight.”

A deathly stillness suddenly descended on the room, the upturned faces stiffening to tight-drawn masks, some of the eyes blazing in mute outrage, flicking toward the doors. William paused only for breath, fearful that if he stopped, he might not be able to regain his momentum.

“Now, before anyone becomes unduly alarmed, allow me to reassure you, on my personal word of honor, that so far as I am concerned, nothing said in this room tonight will go outside these doors—
including
these other aspects of your private identities. In that regard, suffice it to say that I am told you represent a cross-section of the faiths and philosophies of Britain and that all of your services and skills are needed jointly if we are to survive these days ahead. That includes Freemasons like myself and Sir Robert there—who, incidentally, knew nothing beforehand of my intentions for this evening—Rosicrucians, Gnostic Christians, Qabalists, Druids, ceremonial magicians of various persuasions and orientations, and even witches—who, I'm told, are not the same as devil worshipers or satanists, for those of you who may still be thinking in medieval terms. I leave it to each of you to decide who is who, if you don't already know, though I suspect all of you know far more than you let on.”

He scanned them evenly, still holding them with his eyes. “You have different ways of looking at things, ways of doing things, ways of causing things—and don't look so shocked that I'm aware of this, Robert,” he interjected, glancing sharply at his Masonic colleague in the first row, “—but in this instance, we all have a common goal: that is the stopping of Hitler.

“Now, as some of you know, some things are already being done along more conventional lines,” he continued in a milder vein. “In addition to the expected military preparations, the King has declared several national days of prayer—and there will be more, I assure you. The Catholic bishops ended a week of special prayer just last Sunday. The World Evangelical Alliance urges all of us to pray at noon. All of these are good things. I should like to suggest, however, that some of your methods may be even more effective than military activity or common prayer. Unfortunately, though I am reliably informed that all of you have been approached and asked to do whatever you do in concert with others, most of you apparently have found what you consider to be good and prudent reasons to decline. I should like to know why.”

Consternation finally rumbled audibly among his listeners, ending as Carey, the Qabalist, slowly stood.

“Sir, with respect, you place us in a very difficult position. All of us have sworn oaths which—”

“Which, in addition to requiring secrecy, also demand responsible use of whatever influence one may gain by the practice of one's particular discipline. Am I correct?” William asked pointedly, though he did not pause to give Carey time to reply. “Without being inappropriately specific, I can tell you that my Masonic oaths were so slanted. Does a Qabalist have a lesser duty? Is the working of the paths of the tree of life, the seeking of alchemical purity, a lesser quest than that of the perfect ashlar?”

With raised eyebrows, Carey gave a slight inclination of his head and sat down to whispered comments. Collier, who had been looking increasingly uneasy, shot to his feet.

“Sir, I must protest. I do not pretend to understand Your Royal Highness's involvement in all of this. I am not certain I want to know, for reasons which you have already hinted. But if you have been approached by the same sources who approached me, I must tell you that there were, indeed, good reasons why we could not agree to what was proposed. Frankly, sir, I am appalled to hear a prince of the blood speaking in this manner.”