Lammas night Read online

  He had never met her in person, but he had studied her photographs and heard her described in detail by both Alix and Selwyn. She was short and apparently heavy set, but that was difficult to judge under her sweeping black cloak. Though a wide-brimmed hat shaded her face, the features matched her photographs. Her dress flashed brilliant sea blue through the parting of the cloak as she neared. Something in the spring of her step and her air of confidence triggered a response in Graham, and he had no doubt of her identity as he stepped into her path.

  "Mrs. Evans, I believe?"

  She stopped and looked him up and down, steady eyes appraising him in question and confirmation, then nodded and took the hand he offered.

  "I don't believe we've met before, colonel—"

  "Graham. Sir John Graham," Graham supplied. "I'm a friend of Lord and Lady Selwyn."

  As he spoke their names, he used his free hand to trace a symbol on the back of the one he held. It would not have been known to Alix or even to Selwyn, but it was known to his companion. He felt her give a slight start, quickly masked, then respond with a peculiar pressure of her thumb and a touch of her other hand. Giving him a curt little smile, she firmly withdrew her hand from his.

  "Yes, Sir John, I believe you are," she said softly, "though you are both more and less than they, I see. To what do I owe this chance meeting?"

  He returned her smile, well aware that she knew the meeting was not chance at all, then gestured toward a lesser-used path that would take them toward one of the north gates. So long as they remained in the open, they were quite safe from being overheard.

  "Shall we walk?" he replied. "I know that Lady Selwyn has already approached you on a matter of some delicacy, but perhaps she did not make herself clear. May 1 be candid?"

  "Please do."

  "Thank you. In short, I assume that she made you aware of what some of us are planning for Lanmias night. Am I correct?"

  She gave a brief nod, not looking at him directly as they moved slowly along the path.

  "You are."

  "Yet you haven't agreed to help us."

  "Nor do I intend to. Surely you're aware. Sir John, that my people do not work with other groups and traditions. We will not oppose you, and we certainly do not disagree with what you are trying to do, but we do not recognize the authority of either you or Lord and Lady Selwyn to call for this kind of direct action. We prefer to handle things in our own fashion."

  Graham sighed. Alix had warned him to expect this kind of reaction. He had hoped she was mistaken.

  "May one inquire why you believe it impossible to handle the matter in your own fashion and also in concert with others of like intent?" Graham asked.

  She smiled sweetly. "I could give you several reasons. Sir John, but I fear none of them would satisfy you. Please believe that I bear you no personal emnity and that I would never do anything to hinder you in your plans—but it is not my way, and it is not the way of my students and colleagues. You must do what you feel to be your duty, and we must do ours. There is really nothing more to be said."

  "I see."

  They had reached the Marlborough Gate, and he followed her a few steps west along Bayswater Road before accepting that it was a lost cause. She stopped when he did, pivoting to glance at him sympathetically.

  "They've given you an awesome task, haven't they. Sir John? Not that there's any way to avoid it, I suppose—someone must do it, with Lord Selwyn at sea—but I don't envy you. Alix told me a little of why they chose you."

  "She did?"

  "My dear, I've known Alix Jordan for many years," she said, touching his arm lightly. "Just because we don't agree on this particular matter doesn't change our friendship. Please greet her for me when next you see her. Good-bye."

  She clasped his hand again and smiled, then turned and walked away. He watched her for nearly a block, until the Bentley pulled up beside him and Denton reached across to open the passenger door.

  "Sir, you look like a man who's just been jilted," Denton quipped as Graham got in and pulled the door shut. When Graham did not respond, Denton returned to his driving and said no more.

  What an extraordinary woman! was all Graham could think as he reviewed their conversation. It was some minutes later before it registered that she had, indeed, refused him flatly.

  Chapter 6

  THE Hyde Park setback caused Graham to post-pone any attempt at further contacts until he could rethink his methods. Even more upsetting, he lost an agent that weekend— one of those only recently reassigned to the Rote Adler investigation. The man's control did not know precisely what happened—only that his charge finally turned up in a Frankfurt alley with his throat slit.

  Both incidents were still troubling Graham by the Monday he planned to visit William, but he tried to put them out of mind in light of the more immediate considerations regarding the prince. He spent the morning drawing up a simplified version of William's astrological chart, but by early afternoon, as he guided the Bentley into the lower ward of Windsor Castle, he was still undecided as to how much he wanted to say.

  William, at least, was in fine humor. The day was fine, so the prince had horses saddled and waiting at the Royal Mews as he had promised. Soon he and Graham were cantering easily beside the Long Walk toward Royal Lodge, laughing and enjoying the weather, the company, and the feel of fine animals beneath them. At the Copper Horse, they slowed to a walk to let the horses blow. Graham could sense the question coming before the first words were out of William's mouth.

  "So, is this the proper time and place to tell me more about my horoscope?" William asked, glancing aside at Graham as he patted his bay's neck. "No one can overhear us out here—

  though I warn you, you won't be rescued by Wells or some admiral's surgeon this time!"

  Graham allowed himself a sparse chuckle and relaxed a Uttle, withdrawing a single folded sheet from an inside pocket.

  "If I thought I'd need rescuing, do you suppose I'd have let myself be maneuvered into this position? Here. I brought you a copy of your chart."

  William grinned delightedly as Graham handed across the paper, but after only a glance at its contents, his face fell.

  "Very funny. Gray. Now translate it. You know I haven't a clue what all these numbers and odd squiggles mean."

  "Very well. Where would you like me to begin?"

  "You mean I shan't have to browbeat you for a direct answer?"

  Graham only shook his head and smiled.

  "Marvelous!" William considered for only an instant. "That day in Dover, you started to mention something about Mars and—Scorpio, I think it was. How about starting there?— unless something else is customary, of course."

  "No, that should do well enough. Let's see. There's the symbol for Mars," he said, leaning across to point it out, "and that's the house of Scorpio. Your Mars is at slightly more than twelve degrees Scorpio. As I think I mentioned before, this placement, in addition to the Scorpio moon, bodes well for success in undercover-type activities—which we know is certainly true, judging by your past performance. Mars is also squared by Mercury."

  "Squared?"

  'That simply refers to a relationship between the positions of the two planets," Graham replied, trying to keep it as simple as possible. "Mercury square Mars can be the signature of a very bright mind, which it certainly is in your case, but it also has its touchy, even irritable aspect—which can be an attribute of a Cancer sun as well. It can also be very impatient. I don't suppose that sounds like anyone you know?"

  William drew rein and stared at Graham in amazement. "You can tell all of that just from a few symbols and numbers?"

  Graham returned a sheepish smile. "I told you in Dover that it was an art."

  "I dare say. I do dare say." William was quite frankly staring. "And if the astrology is an art, one has to wonder how much of the rest goes beyond theory, too. It isn't all just counterpropaganda, is it, Gray? You really do believe in it."

  It was the perfect lead-in if
William continued to be receptive. As they walked their horses toward Great Meadow Pond, Graham briefly related what had surfaced as a result of Michael's film: the mysterious Rote Adler, who seemed to have connections with satanic lodges in Germany; the even more sinister Sturm—who might be Rote Adler himself; and Grum-baugh's suspicion that Rote Adler was Hitler's new master adept, working black magic to help win the war for the Germans. He also mentioned the murdered agent in Frankfurt. When the prince did not seem too taken aback by his matter-of-fact discussion of occult activities in Germany, Graham confided his fear that Rote Adler or Sturm or whoever was working magic in Hitler's behalf might interfere with the occult measures that were being taken in Britain to prevent an invasion.

  "Are you telling me we have people who are doing that kind of thing?" William asked incredulously.

  "Well, not in the same manner, I should hope, but—yes, there are those who are trying to stop the invasion."

  "With magic?"

  "There's ample precedent in English history," Graham hedged as they let their horses stand knee deep in the pond to drink. "Some of the people you'd least expect have been involved. One of the most solid examples has to do with Sir Francis Drake and the sinking of the Spanish Armada. Did you know that he was reputed to be a master magician?"

  William made a face. "You've been reading too much folklore, Gray. Drake was a minister's son."

  "True. However, according to legend, Drake stopped the Armada by calling a grand coven to raise a Channel storm."

  "A coven? As in witches?"

  "Not—necessarily," Graham said carefully. "Coven originally meant any group of twelve plus a leader: Charlemagne and his twelve peers, Arthur and his original twelve Knights of the Round Table—even Jesus and his disciples, for that matter. The King and his council of twelve ministers could also be said to constitute a coven in the general sense."

  "Still sounds like witches to me," William retorted with a grin. "What's a grand coven, then?"

  "Only a gathering of a number of covens," Graham said easily, "though I'll concede that in this case, they were groups of—well, let's just call them occultists. Some of them would have called themselves magicians, sorcerers, cunning folk— or witches. The point is, they were all adept at redirecting the forces of nature—using magic, if you will—and they all recognized Drake's authority to call them together to work for a common goal: to protect their country from invasion by raising a storm to wreck the invasion fleet."

  "Humph. We could use one of those now," William said with a snort. "But I still say it sounds like a delightful but improbable folk tale. God knows, England abounds in them. You don't really believe it happened that way, do you?"

  Restraining a smile, Graham glanced down at the reins threaded loosely through his gloved fingers, the ripple of muscle under the chestnut coat as his horse raised its head. William's comments had been glib, quite casual, but Graham thought he detected a note of more intense interest. He would see what happened if he offered the prince a few more tidbits to spark his speculation.

  "I don't know," he said. "Whatever you and I believe, a storm did blow up, and the Spanish fleet was scattered and wrecked. It was a decisive naval victory, as you know, and some say it hadn't only to do with Drake's seamanship. You've surely heard the famous story about him playing bowls on Plymouth Hoe with his captains when word came that the Spanish fleet had been sighted off the Lizard?"

  William nodded. "First-year naval history classes. He said something about having time to finish his game and defeat the Spanish." He raised one eyebrow. ''We were always taught that he was simply waiting for the tide to turn so he could sail."

  "Perhaps," Graham agreed. "Another interpretation would have it that he could afford to be blase because he knew measures had already been set in motion to ensure his victory by other means—and that version doesn't even necessitate refuting the theory about the tide."

  William gave a nervous chuckle. "You're implying that magic is real. Don't you think that's reaching a bit?"

  Graham managed a nonchalant shrug, but inside he was churning. William continued to sniff at the bait; time now to give him something more substantial to chew on.

  "You tell me," he returned. "What would you say if I told you that similar measures were taken to stop Napoleon from invading—that Drake's drum is said to have been heard all along the coast at the height of the French threat? Supposedly, Drake swore on his death bed that if his drum were beaten in England's hour of need, he'd come back. Some say he has. Nelson and Blake being two of the more prominent of his reincarnations. For that matter, there are men alive today who will swear that they heard ghostly drunmiing at Scapa Flow in this century when the Germans were preparing to scuttle their fleet at the end of the Great War."

  As he glanced aside, William was shaking his head.

  "This is all too incredible. It's like saying that—that King Arthur really is asleep in Avalon and that he'll come to save England when she's in need, as the legends promise. I haven't seen him lately—and God knows, we're certainly in need!"

  "Does the fact that you haven't seen him mean he isn't here?" Graham asked innocently. "Would you know him if you saw him?"

  "What?"

  "Here's something else of interest," Graham continued with a tiny grin. "Do you happen to remember what kind of engines we use in our Spitfires and Hurricanes?"

  The prince looked at him blankly.

  "They're Rolls-Royce Merlin engines, William. Defending England. Think about it."

  William stared at him in something approaching shock for several seconds, then rolled his eyes and broke into a chuckle.

  "You're too much! You nearly had nie believing you for just a minute there."

  But his mirth did not last. When Graham did not join in, William's face fell, and he glanced away in confusion, nervously backing his horse a few steps in the shallows. There was a kind of desperate apprehension in his eyes as he turned to Graham once more.

  "Come on, I'll race you to the tower!" he cried, touching spurs to his mount and taking off in a shower of spray, not waiting to hear whether Graham agreed.

  Graham held back, letting him have several seconds' head start, then followed at a more leisurely canter, though his horse wanted badly to go with the other. It was clear that William needed a chance to think.

  He watched the prince take his bay over a fence beside the op>en Forest Gate, then veer right and disappear into a copse of trees near the tower. Graham continued following at his same easy pace, going through the gate instead of over the fence, slowing to a trot and then a walk as he, too, entered the trees. A few dozen yards in, he found the prince sitting on a fallen log in a clearing, smoking a cigarette as his horse busily cropped grass. The reins were looped over the handle of the riding crop in his other hand. No hint of emotion could be read on the finely chiseled face.

  "It took you long enough," William said, flicking ash against the log as Graham drew rein.

  Graham remained in the saddle, though he let the horse drop its head to graze.

  "Call it a hunch. I thought you might need a few minutes to collect your thoughts."

  "Good hunch." William tapped the log beside him with his crop. "Sit if you wish."

  Swinging down easily, Graham pulled the reins over his horse's head and led it a little nearer the other before sitting next to William. The prince slid over to make more room, turning his attention to a mud smear on one boot and scraping at it idly with the end of his crop. He would not look at Graham.

  They sat that way for several minutes—William smoking, Graham waiting, neither of them speaking. Graham let himself drift with the silence for a while—the bird and insect sounds, the soft snuffling of the horses searching for greenery among the leaves, the whisper of William's breathing beside him— but though he kept hoping William would be the one to resume conversation, he soon realized that was not to be. William had outwaited him too many times in the past when some sensitive topic waited to be discuss
ed.

  With a sigh, Graham flipped a leaf across William's boot with the end of his crop, trying a tentative smile as Wilham glanced his way.

  "This place has quite an interesting magical history; did you know that?"

  William snorted: an expression of somewhat uncertain bravado.

  "So we're back to that, are we? All right, I'll play along.

  They say that some of my royal ancestors are supposed to haunt various parts of the castle. I suppose you believe that, too."

  "I couldn't say," Graham replied, ignoring the implied challenge. "Actually, I was referring to this part of the paric. They say that when calamity threatens England or the Royal Family, Heme leads the wild hunt through these woods astride a fire-breathing black horse. He wears a stag-skull helmet with the antlers still attached, deerskin clothes, and red-eyed hounds run with him. Some say he pursues a mystical white stag. That's also been seen around these parts from time to time, though the old oak it used to fancy was destroyed almost a century ago."

  "I've read about Heme," William said uneasily. "He's just another ghost. They say he was warden of the forest to Henry VIII—"

  "And that he committed suicide after being accused of witchcraft," Graham finished smoothly. "Actually, he probably goes back to Cemunnos, the Celtic god of the underworld, or perhaps Odin, who rode the wind on eight-legged Sleipnir—remember your Norse mythology? There may also be connections with other ancient gods of forests and hunts and the sun."

  William sighed and glanced away, troubled, finally dropping his cigarette and grinding it out with a booted heel. When he raised his eyes to Graham again, he looked scared.

  "Gray, I—Christ, I feel silly asking this, but somehow I— you're not a—a warlock, are you?"

  "The word would be witch for either sex," Graham said carefully, "but as Shakespeare said, 'What's in a name?' That particular one has picked up all kinds of negative associations over the years. Try another."

  "A—a magician, then," William whispered after a stunned pause.

  "Better, but still smacking of chariatanism to some. How about 'occultist'? That takes in a lot of territory without being overly judgmental."