Lammas Night (65 page)

“God bless, sir,” Graham said more formally, stepping back a pace to render precise salute to the prince more than to the man.

Then William smiled and walked briskly toward the guard of honor, Flynn falling into place behind him, pausing to take the officer's salute before moving more slowly between their two lines in inspection. As was his wont, he paused occasionally to speak to one or another of the men, exercising that special charm that had always been so much his trademark. Graham was reminded of at least a dozen other leave-takings and tried to convince himself that this one was no different from any of them as William concluded his inspection and headed down the quay.

But as Graham watched William and his party board the motor launch, the Duke of Clarence's personal standard being broken as the prince himself stepped aboard, he was startled to find Ellis at his elbow. The old man wore a service uniform under his British Warm, with a pair of field glasses slung around his neck, but he shook his head when Graham would have spoken, drawing himself to respectful attention as the two of them watched William's launch punch its way through the swells toward the waiting Sunderland. When it was nearly there, Ellis sighed and took off the field glasses, resting them on the car's window frame between him and Graham.

“As I promised you, the crew are all volunteers,” Ellis said quietly, though his voice sounded strained. “Each one is of the old faith—families whose names you'd recognize. They feel privileged to be accompanying His Royal Highness on this flight.”

Graham stared at the field glasses for a few seconds, not fathoming the reason Ellis was offering them—or why he was even here—then snatched them and jammed them to his eyes, suddenly afraid he knew exactly why. The launch was still a dozen yards from the flying boat, so he had an unobstructed view of the doorway and the officers waiting there to greet the prince. He recognized Geoffrey first, by his red hair, and then his son.

“Richard!” he breathed. “My God, no!”

As he lowered the glasses, sick with shock and anger, he saw that the old man's hands were clenched white-knuckled around the top of the window frame. Abruptly, it hit him that the brigadier's grief could be no less than his own despite the disciplined expression he wore for the benefit of anyone who chanced to look at them. Even were it not for William, both Richard and Geoffrey were beloved grandsons.

The realization deflated his own horror, and he could only take stunned example from the brigadier's outward calm, numbly schooling his own expression to one of only ordinary interest.

“I have to ask why, Wesley,” he murmured, when he had found his voice again, though he knew at least part of the answer already. The conversation he had with Richard before the Lammas working came back to haunt him.

“
I love him, too
,” Richard had said. And Graham had asked him to serve the prince as he himself had always tried to do.

“They would have it no other way,
Din
,” Ellis said in a very low voice, using Graham's magical name to underline the gravity of what he was saying. “I tried to talk them out of it, but they insisted. Richard understood the link between you and William. He was concerned that the link might not be direct enough between you and—the device—so he volunteered to be the pilot. He's your son and a part of you. It will be his hands on the controls when the boat starts climbing over Wales.”

“But
I'm
responsible, not—You should have told me!” Graham whispered fiercely. “He doesn't have to do this. And Geoffrey—why
Geoffrey
?”

“I didn't tell you because they made me promise not to,” Ellis replied. “And Geoffrey goes where Richard goes. You know that. They've been that way since childhood.”

“That isn't a reason to die!”

“Perhaps you're right.” Ellis sighed. “As for the ultimate why—well, I suppose we just hadn't reckoned on the impression our prince made on the young ones. You know how you had to argue with Michael and finally forbid him to be a part of this. Well, Richard and Geoffrey felt just as strongly, but they were determined not to give you the chance to tell them what they should or should not do. They were afraid that anyone else chosen for the duty might bungle it—might not prove suitable escort for the sacred king.”

The sacred king
.

As Graham's throat constricted in new grief, his eyes darted to the launch again. It was drawing under the wing of the Sunderland, but he could see William clearly even without the glasses. The prince stood in the stern, watching the flying boat's rigger secure the line one of the ratings had thrown from the bow of the motor launch. He waved a greeting as Richard crouched down in the doorway and tossed off a smiling salute.

Graham watched as the launch was drawn close, raising the glasses to his eyes again as William and then the others climbed aboard and disappeared inside. The luggage was passed up, and then William was back in the doorway with Richard and Geoffrey, bending to peer out from under the wing and raise a hand in last farewell. Graham could see the sunlight gleaming on his hair, and Richard's merry grin, Geoffrey's wave.

Then they withdrew, the door was secured, and the launch headed back to the quay as the Sunderland's engines began to kick over, first the outboard and then the inboard. Graham gave the glasses back to Ellis, but he did not take his eyes from the flying boat as she slipped her moorings and began taxiing slowly away from the quay, out into the roads.

She wallowed there in the long swells, warming her engines for several minutes. Then she was moving slowly forward again, faster, faster, rising up on her step until, with a plume of water streaming off the hull, she came unstuck and seemed to leap skyward, beginning to climb. It was the same perfect takeoff Graham had seen so many times before, with Richard's unmistakable touch at the controls as the boat circled the station and climbed high in the sky, her Aldis lamp flashing
“Ta-Ta”
from one of the dorsal gun hatches before she banked to head northwest.

As the plane disappeared from sight, even with the glasses, the sun went in, and the rain began to fall in earnest. Suddenly, Graham felt very cold.

He spent what was left of the afternoon in his office, reading and rereading intelligence reports whose details he was later unable to remember and which did not matter, anyway, since they told nothing of an invasion halted. He fought to keep his mind from the morning and the stunned, numb return from Calshot.

The brigadier had ridden back with him and stayed the afternoon, ostensibly to assist in a special report Graham had in progress. Michael and Denton were in and out, both of them quite aware of what was going on.

But by dusk, Graham could stand their solicitude no longer, well meaning though it was. He had to get out, away from the clattering teletypes and cipher machines in the next room, whose every new spurt of printing could be bringing the news he both dreaded and longed to hear.

He had Denton drop him off near Deptford, at the high embankment beside the Royal Naval College at Greenwich. Watching the moon rise and listening to the sirens and the thump of bombs and the urgent chatter of the batteries seeking out the bombers, he tried not to think about that other plane or the men who flew her.

Collar turned against the damp and chill, he waited on the same observation platform where, not very long ago, a royal duke had offered him a flat black jeweler's box with a star inside. He closed his eyes to shut out the dockside fires across the river that now blotted out the light of any star, not wanting to remember, but he remembered all too well. He walked some, but he always came back.

The last time, just after midnight, two uniformed figures were waiting for him, one of them smoking a pipe. Denton had a duffle coat for Graham and insisted he put it on before he would leave them alone. After Graham buttoned up the coat, he glanced at the silent brigadier. Ellis was gazing down at the river, elbows leaned wearily on the railing, puffing on his pipe. Cautiously, Graham joined him at the rail, following his stare to the water below.

“You'll find something in the left-hand pocket of that coat,” Ellis said, not looking up. “He wanted you to have it, but not until—now. You'll understand when you see what it is.”

Chilled, Graham hesitated for just an instant, staring at the smoke curling from the brigadier's pipe, then eased his hand into the deep patch pocket and felt fine linen knotted loosely around something hard and flat, perhaps a little larger than a two-shilling piece. The wrapping was one of William's monogrammed handkerchiefs, he saw, as he drew his hand out into the light, the royal cypher stitched in one corner.

He stepped back from the rail to undo it, fearful of losing whatever was inside. A handsome chain slithered from one of the folds first, cold across the back of his hand, and then he cupped the object in his palm. He stuffed the handkerchief back in his pocket as he tilted his hand to get a better look.

At first, he thought it was one of the link pieces from William's Garter collar, for it was about the right size, with what appeared to be an enameled Garter around the outer edge. Then he realized that it was silver, not gold, and that the center was not the expected red rose. As he canted it toward the firelight and brought it closer, he caught his breath, and his hand began to shake.

It would have aroused no special notice by anyone except himself. The piece was a traditional silver clan badge of the Graham family crest, winged falcon preying on a stork in the center. He had one very like it at home in a drawer somewhere, done as a cap brooch. What made this one unique was that the strap and buckle design around the edge had been filled in with blue enamel. The Graham motto shone bright silver against the Garter blue, the words suddenly taking on a meaning they never had before:
Ne oublie—“Do not forget.”

He closed it in his hand, his eyes closing, too, against the glare of the fires across the river and the silhouette of Ellis standing at his elbow. Afraid even to try to speak, he pressed his balled fist against his lips and could only think of William's hands encircling his own, as the Garter encircled the Graham crest—protecting, cherishing, binding, though all of this would be only in memory from now on, at least in this life.

After a few seconds, he opened his eyes and looked at his hand again, though he did not open it. Now he held William's memory and honor in his hand just as William had held his. It was a precious, sacred trust.

“I—only now realized who gave you the Saint George medal you wear around your neck,” he whispered, almost afraid to look at Ellis. “It was
your
victim, wasn't it?”

The brigadier nodded, but he did not speak. When it became clear he was not going to, Graham shook out the kinks in the chain and slipped it over his head. He pressed the badge briefly to his lips in renewed homage before clasping it in his hand again like a protective talisman, remembering how his prince had clutched the Great George of his Garter collar in a room at Laurelgrove. He knew Ellis remembered it, too, as he glanced aside at the old man—and he knew there was one more question he had to ask.

“You have something else to tell me, don't you?” he said softly.

Ellis nodded and pulled some folded papers from an inner pocket with infinite care. Suddenly, even the sounds of war seemed to recede as he opened the first one.

“I have—several items you should be aware of,” Ellis said. “Shall I read them to you?”

Graham forced himself to nod.

“This first one ran on nearly all the wire services. It will be in tomorrow's papers,” Ellis continued, pausing to swallow with difficulty. “The headline is ‘Duke of Clarence Dies in Crash Flying to Wales.'”

Graham closed his eyes and bowed his head, the badge biting into his clenched palm as the brigadier began to read haltingly in the light of moon and fires.

“‘The Admiralty regret to announce that H.R.H. Captain The Duke of Clarence, K.G., was killed on active service yesterday afternoon when a Sunderland flying boat crashed in South Wales. His Royal Highness was proceeding to Wales on an inspection tour. All the crew of the flying boat also lost their lives. This tragic news was announced by the Admiralty early last evening.”

As the brigadier paused to swallow audibly again, Graham could see William's face behind his closed eyelids, smiling in the sunlight as Graham last had seen him, Richard and Geoffrey to either side. He tried to hold their images as Ellis resumed reading.

“‘The duke, youngest brother of the King, had celebrated his thirty-fifth birthday only two months ago and had distinguished himself in various prewar operations connected with naval intelligence, for which he was made a Knight of St. Michael and St. George. He had become a Knight of the Garter in 1921 and had been created Duke of Clarence only in 1937, shortly before the tragic death of his fiancée, the Princess Caroline-Marie, and as part of His Majesty's coronation honours.'”

The brigadier paused to draw breath. “It goes on to list more of his specific achievements. Then: ‘Those of the Duke of Clarence's party were also killed with him: his secretary and aide, Lieutenant James Flynn, RNVR, appointed to that post only a few weeks ago; and his valet of nearly twenty years, Chief Petty Officer Donald Griffin. The crew of the Sunderland included two grandsons of a hero of the Great War: Flight Lieutenant Richard Graham, RAF, captain of the flying boat, son of Colonel Sir John Cathal Graham, V.C., K.C.M.G., and Flight Lieutenant Geoffrey Ellis, RAF, second pilot, both of them grandsons of Brigadier General Sir Wesley Ellis, K.C.B. Also killed were …'”

Ellis went on to read the names of the rest of the crew—eight young men from some of the oldest and most respected families in the country. Graham was shaking his head as Ellis finished reading, too stunned even to cry. He had known it must end this way as he watched the flying boat disappear into the overcast this morning, but the stark reality of the words that the whole world soon would read seemed somehow part of a very bad dream.