Lammas night

by Katherine Kurtz

  Michael—slender and sandy-haired and just about the same age as his own son. Michael—cold and hurting, numbed limbs flailing in the icy waters of the Channel, chilled in heart as well as body by the company of corpses floating near him, though some stirred feebly Michael—

  Squinting in the glare of a searchlight, Michael raised'an arm yet again and prayed that they had spotted him—and that an E-boat or submarine would not. His voice was hoarse from earlier screaming, but he managed a few harsh croaks as he let go of the spar to which he had been clinging and waved his arms again, splashing for all he was worth. This time he was sure they had seen.

  His leg throbbed even more than his arm as they hauled him aboard; he had nearly crushed it against a capsized lifeboat earlier when he tried to free a man who was tangled in debris. The man had drowned, anyway. He did not think the leg was broken, but it hurt incredibly as they brought him aboard and wrapped him in blankets and the cold began to recede. Hours seemed to pass before someone came to look at his injuries.

  They rebandaged his arm and pronounced his leg probably unbroken, but the pain of both had him almost gasping by now, all the worse for having been held at bay by sheer force of will during the hours in the water. Though he had begun shaking so badly that he nearly bit his tongue, he tried to refiise the painkiller they offered, for he feared to sleep and perhaps have them take away the precious pouch on his belt. He hoped the water had not ruined the contents.

  He never felt the needle in his arm—only the si0w, drowsy, blessed warmth of morphine creeping over the pain and muffling everything. He dreamed just before he went under, and the dream momentarily shifted into nightmare.

  Dark shapes robed in black—masks covering eyes—a black-clothed arm descending, bright blade flashing—and blood welhng up, spurting, spraying, spattering—

  The nightmare caught Graham by surprise, for he had not even been certain it was Michael he was brushing with his Sight. Just as he tried to pull back from what had been a hazy connection at best, he found himself hurtling along the Second Road and, with a jolt, being dropped into awareness of an altogether different place. It had been triggered by Michael's nightmare, but no trace of Michael intruded here.

  Suddenly, he seemed to be hovering outside a dark semicircle of men in cowled black robes—though he sensed instinctively that these were no benign monks or even white magicians. Beyond an oddly shifting shimmer of not-quitelight, he could barely make out high ceilings, and red, black, and white banners, the folds stirring in unfelt breezes by the light of torches set along the walls. Fat black candles guttered to either side of where he seemed to be.

  All at once, a black-robed figure pushed between the others to peer in his direction, the scarred face masked across the eyes. A hand emerged from a voluminous sleeve, pointing a double-edged blade directly at him.

  Graham snapped back into his body with a speed that left him queasy and weak-kneed. Clutching at the bridge support to keep from collapsing into the mud, he still caught a backlash that left him gasping. For what seemed like several lifetimes, he could only concentrate on breathing, on slowing his pounding heart, on keeping his mind wiped clean of any telltale ripple that might identify him to the entity that still searched, very near on the Second Road—though physically he knew it was miles away.

  Eventually, he became aware that he had shaken off whatever had threatened him and began to breathe a little easier. Other than having reassured himself that Michael himself was still alive, he had no idea just what he had touched. By the time he stood away from the bridge and began making his careful way back to Denton, only memory and the vague throbbing behind his eyes reminded him that something had, indeed, happened. He did not want to think about what it was. Something very horrifying.

  And far across the Channel, in a chamber dug deep beneath a castle in the Rhineland, a masked man in cowled robes eased back mto the midst of his colleagues and scanned the torch-lit stillness yet again, his gaze narrowing as he searched each taut, apprehensive face turned to his.

  "Zeigen Sie mir die Gesichter!" he ordered, though he hardly raised his voice above a whisper.

  Instantly, the others removed their masks, standing stonily while he scanned each face anew.

  "Was war das?" he murmured then. "Hatte jemand etwas neben dem Kreis gesehen?"

  No one spoke. No one moved. After another moment's further reflection and more suspicious scrutiny of the men around him, the man in the mask nodded slowly and then gestured with a curt wave of his blade for the others to replace their masks.

  A few moments he allowed for everyone to settle again, to gravitate a little closer. Only then did he return his attention to the center of the circle.

  Nordic runes flashed in the candlelight as he laid his blade against the upturned throat of a man tied naked and spread-eagled across a rough black altar stone.

  Chapter 3

  Constable's Tower, Dover Castle. 0530 hours, 29 May 1940

  GRAHAM GAVE HIS NAME TO AN ORDERLY ON DUTY downstairs, with instructions to forward any calls, then left his mac and sidearm with Denton and headed up to the royal quarters. Wells, the perpetually intense young naval lieutenant who served as William's secretary and aide, met him at the door. The man sitting with the grey dawn at his back turned and rose as Graham and Wells entered the room, his face a blur against the rain-smeared windowpanes.

  "Sir," Wells said, "Colonel Sir John Graham is here."

  "Why, Gray, what a welcome surprise," said the familiar voice. "Good morning."

  "Good morning, sir."

  Graham paused to incline his head with proper formality before continuing on toward the light, for Wells was still in earshot. But as soon as the door closed behind him, Graham was met by the always-unexpected warmth of the royal handshake and the bright Windsor smile.

  "Good gracious, you look like you could use a cup of tea," his host observed, leading him back toward the table in casual fashion and gesturing toward a chair. "Had a rough night, have you? Not that 1 look a great deal better, I suppose, but—sit down, sit down. I'll be mother, and you can tell me all about it when you're ready."

  As they sat and the fine, agile hands splashed milk into a china cup and added sugar, pouring strong black tea from a pot engraved with the arms of a former constable of the castle, Graham sighed and let himself slump a little in the chair, appreciating William's discretion. He shaded his eyes against the oddly glaring greyness of the window beyond as cup and saucer were passed across the table, but only as the first cautious swallow trickled down his throat, hot and soothing, did he realize how shaken he still was. He wondered whether it really showed that much or if William had simply been making conversation.

  Nor, on closer inspection, did the prince himself look much better for wear, though that fact might have escaped anyone who knew him less well than Graham. Prince William Victor Charles Arthur, Duke of Clarence, K.G., K.C.M.G., and a host of other suitable alphabet soup, was ordinarily a man bursting with vibrant life—perhaps the most energetic of all the royal brothers in a family known for its love of physical activity. An even six feet tall, slender like his brothers but fairer, bright far beyond the necessity of his royal station, this youngest living son of King George V had long ago mastered the royal art of masking his true emotions. Despite that, he looked tired this morning.

  At least the cause was likely of an honest sort, Graham reflected, unlike the occasional hints of dissipation in his youth. William had been somewhat frail as a child. An epileptic twin brother had died before their fourteenth birthday, and the resultant coddling of the surviving boy by family, nannies, and tutors had produced a somewhat spoiled young man. Improved health enabled him to enter the Royal Naval College at the expected age, like several of his elder brothers, but Graham knew that the prince's pranks might have gotten a man of less exalted rank quietly written out of the service. Graham had seen the records when William was posted to his section on graduation.

  That px>sting—not entirely a ch
ance occurrence, Graham often suspected—had begun a wary and often exasperating first year for both of them, tempered only by the fact that the two men had taken an instant liking to one another. Graham, only seven years William's senior and by then a rising young major of army intelligence, was ordered to treat his new agent exactly like all the others—so William began by performing all the routine and often boring tasks expected of any young naval lieutenant on his first assignment: copying and filing countless reports for more senior agents; processing mountains of paperwork that made little sense to his inexperienced eyes; occasionally acting as a courier; and, very rarely, working as part of a surveillance team or helping collect an operative from some rendezvous point—so long as it was not too dangerous. Officially, the only impact of his presence felt by MI.6 was that as a member of the Royal Family, he must be sheltered from excessive physical danger and, of course, scandal—even if he was fifth in line for the throne and very unlikely ever to inherit. Unofficially, it is probable that Graham's superiors expected little more of their royal intelligence officer than to serve his time in rank as innocuously as possible until duty called him to more conventional royal obligations.

  Such an attitude very shortly began to trouble Graham, however, though he knew better than to defy department policy directly. The more he came to know the prince, the more he became convinced that William was a rare commodity and far too intelligent to waste merely occupying desk space. After an initial breaking-in period during which both of them did a certain amount of testing, Graham began to bear down with increasing pressure, pulling military rank unmercifully and sometimes even bullying to get William to apply himself to his full potential. Over the next few years, an increasingly interested and competent "Lieutenant Victor" took part in a variety of specialized missions with Graham—each one more challenging than the last and some of them far more dangerous than his father or elder brothers would have approved, had they known. William shrugged off the dangers at first, reminding Graham that he was a fifth prince and therefore expendable, but the underlying bitterness in that remark gradually decreased as his faith in himself grew.

  By the time William's family became aware of the true scope of his activities, Commander Victor had been working closely with Graham for over two years on a project that came to have profound implications for national security. It earned Graham his knighthood almost immediately, but the prince's part remained deeply buried—though eventually, he, too, was admitted to a second order of knighthood. It came as a part of his brother's coronation honors, and in conjunction with his creation as Duke of Clarence on the eve of his planned marriage; but the well-deserved recognition paled when a fatal car crash claimed the new duke's bride-to-be before they could be wed.

  This new disaster, following within six months of his eldest brother's abdication—in itself a staggering blow to the adoring William—shook the youngest royal duke almost beyond enduring, canceling out much of the progress he had made in the recent years. Following a near breakdown that left him desolate and uncommunicative, he plunged into the mindless solace of hard work, spending the next year in a whirl of royal appearances, patronages, and unfortunately, a return to the irresponsible ways of his youth, ever on the brink of scandal.

  Gradually, he emerged from his depression and modified his behavior. But when he had recovered. His Royal Highness Captain The Duke of Clarence found himself no longer permitted to participate in the all too dangerous and sensitive area of intelligence operations—the very work that might have given him purpose and the stability he so desperately needed. The prohibition, from higher than either he or Graham could appeal, had been liked by neither of them, but it had been obeyed. It did not curtail the friendship that had begun under such improbable circumstances so long before and had grown so in the intervening years.

  Now Prince William, lost in thought, sat in the brightening Kentish gloom idly smoking a cigarette, almost ordinary looking in the service dress uniform of a Royal Navy captain. He wore only the ribbons of his decorations, as was customary in wartime; only those and the four cuff rings of his earned rank set him apart from any other naval officer. The white shirt under the uniform coat was immaculate, as usual, but the knot of his tie was loosened and slightly askew, and the fair hair needed a comb. Graham wondered whether the prince had slept at all the previous night.

  "I needed this," Graham said quietly, savoring another mouthful of the strong, sweet tea and sighing gratefully. "If you never learned anything else while you worked for me, you certainly learned how to appreciate a proper cup of tea. When did you get back?"

  William flashed a quick, distracted smile and exhaled smoke as he flicked his cigarette over a silver ash tray.

  "Is that all you think I learned?"

  "A bit more than that," Graham conceded with an answering smile.

  The prince chuckled mirthlessly and inspected the end of the cigarette in his hand.

  "I got back last night," he said. "Bertie continues to be amazed that we're still getting men out of Dunkirk, so he asked that I continue my blow-by-blow report from the harbor." He shrugged. "I had nothing better to do."

  As the prince turned his head to gaze out the window again, taking another slow, deliberate drag on his cigarette, Graham had to fight down a dual pull of pity and admiration, as he had so often in the past three years. While he sipped his tea, he let the taste take him back to the days before disaster: strong, acidic tea at the harried morning briefings in the old office in Whitehall; the more tranquil tastes of coffee and cognac before the fireplace in William's apartments at the Palace; champagne the night the prince told Graham of his engagement to the shy, demure Caroline-Marie; and, a few months later, neat whiskey—far too much of it—and holding the prince while he wept like a child at the news of her death, grieving with him.

  Other memories, less fraught with tragedy: minor explosions of temper in their early days, when William had rebelled against the discipline of Graham's training; apologies, gradually but grudging, when Graham's patience did not snap and William discovered that Graham would not permit him any effort that was not his best, no matter how simple the task; the growing sense of mutual respect and camaraderie, and then friendship.

  Long arguments, talks, discussions, both light and serious, sometimes from horseback at Windsor or at one of the other royal estates. And the first time, though not the last, that William's life had truly been in danger and Graham had been responsible.

  It had begun as a routine mission. They almost always did. William, who had only been on a few very tame field assignments, was one of four operatives chosen to go with Graham by fast torpedo boat to pick up an agent off the French coast. When the agent did not show, Graham and two of the other men had gone ashore.

  An ambush had been waiting. Killing one man and slightly wounding Graham, snipers had pinned down Graham and the remaining agent with automatic weapons fire. Strictly against orders, William slipped ashore to cover Graham and the other survivor as they struggled back to the boat. Once they were all safe, a trembling Graham had sworn both his remaining men to silence and given William a private tongue-lashing that neither of them soon forgot. William had not disobeyed orders again.

  The boat and the thought of wounded agents brought Graham back to Michael and the events of the past few hours. He did not think he had changed expression, but something must have shown because William suddenly glanced at him sidelong and raised a speculative eyebrow.

  "So, is this purely a social visit, at this hour of the morning, or can I help you for a change?" he asked, breathing smoke ceilingward as he stubbed out his cigarette. "You don't have to tell me about it if you don't want to—I'll give you the same option you've always given me— but you've got a ready ear if you want one."

  Graham sighed and set aside his tea. He had come here for company while he awaited word on Michael. That need had not changed. But he also needed to understand the new nightmare—wishing that were all it were. Perhaps it was only the figme
nt of an overtaxed, overtired imagination, though he feared not. If only his eyes did not ache so.

  Lack of sleep, he told himself, though a part of him knew otherwise.

  "You know Leo, that agent I've been tracking for the past week?" he said, massaging the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger as he sat back in his chair. "Well, his ship was torpedoed a few hours ago. Ah—Leo is Michael Jordan."

  "Michael?" A grieved look flashed across the prince's face. "Oh, bloody hell! Are you sure?"

  Graham nodded. "We're sure about the ship. We're reasonably sure that Michael was aboard. The hopeful news is that the ship was still afloat as of a few hours ago. That's about all I know. They'll have started intensive rescue operations with first light."

  Numbly, he watched William rise and begin pacing in front of the seaward window, restless fingers twisting a gold signet ring on his left hand. After several passes, the prince paused and gazed out to sea. For several seconds, both of them watched the silent parade of ghost ships gliding out of the mist toward safe harbor between the arms of the breakwater. In the stillness, they could faintly hear the thud of shelling thirty miles away and the occasional closer whoop of a destroyer overtaking slower ships.

  "You never told me what the Leo mission was all about," William said after a long silence. "Do you think he'd succeeded before all of this happened?"

  Graham tried to make his shrug convincingly noncommittal, for while most of the mission itself could be discussed freely with the prince, some of the methods could not. He also dared not indicate that he knew for certain Michael was still alive— or had been half an hour ago.

  "We have good indications that he had."

  "And if he doesn't come back?"

  Graham sighed. "If he doesn't come back, we'll have to find another suitable agent and start all over again. Some of the information is—very sensitive," he added, wondering where he would find another suitable agent to handle some of the material he hoped Michael was carrying.