"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 Wilham. "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. Wilham 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 wimess 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 intluences 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 arc 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?" Wilham 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 entry way 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-Uned stairwell, guiding him up by the hght of a single candle on the first landing.
Another candle, shielded in red glass, glowed by a door at the end of a long gaUery 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 unbeatable, 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
aprehensive 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..."
As William nodded, nervously smoothing his fair hair into place, the two younger men vanished into the shadows again. Even though they had spoken no word, Graham sensed a warmth that had been comforting to William, and he was grateful. With a little bow that somehow seemed quite natural, he led the prince to the door and knocked, waiting until he felt the latch move under his other hand.
The candlelight inside seemed bright after the red-lit hall, but it was created by only a single taper in the center of the long table. Four more red votive lights, like the one outside, were set around the perimeter of the room. A breath of incense and a hint of lemon oil and old wood hung on the air.
Alix moved to the left of the door as they entered, her blonde hair hanging loose almost to her hips, folds of her robe obscuring the blade Graham knew she held in her right hand. The brigadier waited behind the table, and before it a man Graham knew the prince would instantly recognize, as soon as he got a good look at him.
Selwyn nodded stiffly as Wilham's jaw dropped, but the interchange covered Alix's brief bending to draw her blade across the threshold of the door she had just closed behind them. She caught Graham's free hand and drew him with her as she returned to her place by Selwyn's side, leaving William standing a few paces behind. Graham kissed her hand as she slipped her other arm around her husband's waist and simultaneously laid her blade on the table behind them. William did not seem to have heard the faint scape of metal on wood as she sealed the door. Now he would see only a staghom-handled letter opener when they moved aside, and possibly wonder what it was for.
"Good evening, David," Graham said softly, clasping Selwyn's hand and nodding reassurance. "I'm pleased to report that your whiskey was a great success. No problems at this end, I take it?"
"We're ready," Selwyn murmured.
"So are we. Shall we get started, then?"
The room was as he remembered it from his several other visits over the past few weeks. The deep window recesses were covered with double layers of blackout curtain, but otherwise he was sure it looked much the same as it had in Drake's time. The Drake armchair was set at the head of the table, and beyond it, just to the right of the fireplace in the north wall, was a splendidly carved settle, wide enough for three people. William would watch from there. A court cupboard and an ancient garment press were pushed against the eastern wall beneath the famous portrait of Queen Elizabeth—all vintage of the years when Drake had lived here. Several other dark-toned paintings hung on other walls, including one of the great captain himself.
Graham gazed at the likeness of Drake for a moment as the others set about their final preparations, aware of William easing closer to his back, but then his attention was caught by Selwyn pulling something bulky from underneath the table, its shape obscured by a black cloth. As Selwyn lifted the object to the table, the cloth fell away, and Graham almost gasped. It was Drake's drum.
He nearly forgot William. He nearly forgot everything else in the room. He had never seen the drum except behind glass. The difference was breathtaking.
Nearly three feet high, almost too large for a man to grasp around its circumference, the drum's sides were painted with Drake's arms and crest on one half and decorated with a pattern of small metal studs on a crimson background on the other. The rims at top and bottom were also crimson, the drumhead a yellowed, ripply vellum. He could feel the drum drawing him already, from clear across the table, and it was all he could do not to reach out and touch it right then.
All at once, Alix was moving between him and the drum with a bowl of water, and the compulsion was broken. Averting his gaze, Graham dipped his hands and dried them on the towel across her arm, then gestured minutely toward William with his eyes. The prince dipped his fingers as he had seen Graham do and returned the towel to Alix with a shy nod. As she took the bowl away, Graham laid one hand on William's sleeve and guided him to the fireplace settle.
"Well done. Now, this is your place until either 1 or the lady tell you otherwise. Her command supersedes even my own. Do you understand?"
At William's solemn nod, he returned to stand at the east of the table and drew up the hood of his robe, his attention drawn ever more intently to the waiting drum.
Chapter 9
WILLIAM SHIVERED A LITTLE AS HE SLID BACK ON THE carved settle and tried to make himself disappear against the wood, relieved no longer to be under Graham's scrutiny—or the others'. He watched Gray pull up his hood, the rest following suit, and surreptitiously he did the same. Huddling in the shadow of the hood eased his nervousness somewhat.
He had been a little dubious about the robe they had put on him, but he was glad for it now. The others wore the same kind of garment, though the cords around their waists were red, not black. He also did not think they were wearing anything underneath, despite the chill of the room. He had seen Gray strip by casual stages while he thought William was distracted with his own robing. He wondered whether they would have worn anything at all, had he not been here. He had read that in the old days the witches sometimes marked their revels in the nude.
He shuddered at the thought—not the nudity but the unknown rites the old tales implied—and told himself sternly that if he kept this up, he was only going to scare himself again. The people in this room bore little resemblance to the folk of the old accounts. Three of the four were his friends or acquaintances, even if he had not guessed the extent of their occult interests before.
Brigadier Ellis's involvement certainly came as no great surprise, for William remembered the telephone call at Dover and then Geoffrey's presence on the plane and outside. Ellis was Gray's father-in-law, too. The one who surprised him was the Earl of Selwyn, despite his own earlier, jesting quip about Selwyn's whiskey back at Plymouth.
Yet Selwyn was Michael's father, as William himself had observed, and a long-time friend of Gray's. He should have foreseen. Selwyn also had to be the group's man in black, who had stepped aside in favor of Gray because of the war.
And the woman, to whom all of them seemed to defer— he had a feeling she was Lady Selwyn, though he had never met the earl's wife. She and Selwyn seemed to be in charge of things tonight—though exactly where that put Gray, he didn't know. Gray obviously carried a great deal of weight despite Selwyn's presence, or else it would not have been his decision as to whether William might attend. But Gray himself had stressed that the lady—he had seemed to capitalize the title by his very tone—was ultimately in charge.
The four of them were consulting quietly, the countess— for so he persisted in thinking of her—doing most of the talking while the three men listened. Gray looking vaguely distracted. William could not hear what they were saying, so he turned his attention cautiously to the rest of his surroundings to keep his mind from going off in frightening directions again. The room, at least, was real. Now that he was here, he was not as sure about the other.
He inspected the paneling, burrowing his toes more snugly into the cushion they had provided to keep his feet warm. The oak—said to have been installed at the order of Drake himself—was still magnificent. In the past few days, he had taken in so much about the great Elizabethan captain that he could almost picture Sir Fr
ancis striding boldly into the room with his charts under his arm, spreading them on this very table under the portrait of his Queen and benefactress on the east wall.
And the drum—that conjured more mystical images: the drum, whose beat would summon the spirit of Drake to save England from her enemies threatening by sea. He had seen Gray's reaction when Selwyn first brought it up on the table and uncovered it. It had seemed to pull him like a magnet. William wondered whether there really was something to this business of reincarnation that Gray had mentioned so casually.
The chair had been Drake's, too. What would happen when Gray sat down in that, if the niere sight of Drake's drum evoked such a reaction? Suddenly, he was very uneasy for his friend.
Relax, William, he told himself sternly. He knows what he's doing.
He shifted uncomfortably on the hard seat and withdrew further into his hood like a turtle in its shell, unable to prevent another apprehensive shiver. This was ridiculous! He had never had reason to doubt his courage before. He had faced danger often enough—far more often than most people suspected. Besides, Gray had assured him that there was no danger here so long as he did as he was told.
Why, then, was he trembling? What was it about the thought of a few people pottering about in an ancient room and creepy robes that set the hackles rising at the back of his neck? Was it the suspicion that they really were engaged in magic?
Magic, indeed! Now he was beginning to beheve what Gray had been telling him.
And yet if he did not believe it at least a little, why had he almost insisted on coming? He had not been able to explain it at the time, and he had no better answer now. If he did not believe, why was he sitting here in this silly robe and expecting something to happen when Gray sat down in that chair a few yards away?
Nor was there any doubt in his mind that something would happen. Already, something ancient and powerful, alien and yet vaguely familiar, seemed to be stirring in the room. He could feel it prickling along his spine, in the pit of his stomach, making his pulse quicken in anticipation. Was it all imagination, born of Gray's casual references to the old line and his own yearning to do something that would make a difference, or was it real? Did he even want to know?
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