by John Gribbin
It was difficult work. Mistress Harcourt is a stubborn old lady and, while she never quite realised what I was doing, she knew something was wrong. I will spare you a complete recital of everything she said and merely summarise. She had been attending a service with a number of other local Catholics when a fisherman brought in his young daughter. The girl went into a trance, levitated up into the air and spoke truth. It chilled me to the bone, I must admit, when it became clear that the girl had pointed an accusing finger at John Rotherham and accused him of being in the pay of London. You will be aware, of course, that Rotherham is indeed one of our agents.
And then things became truly terrifying. The girl called down the wrath of God and Rotherham burst into flame. She fainted at the same moment; her father, with many prayers of thanks to his Lord, helped her to leave the chamber. Mistress Harcourt left shortly afterwards, deeply shocked. I would venture to say that this ‘proof’ of her religion was enough to harden her soul against my Charm.
Mistress Harcourt, of course, agreed with the prevailing opinion that the young girl was a saint, although there are no recorded incidents of any saint (male or female) incinerating a grown man. I suspected there was another explanation. The girl was a magician, either capable of using multiple talents, like Master Thomas, or covertly assisted by another magician in the congregation. A Talker or a Sensitive would, perhaps, have been able to pull John Rotherham out of the crowd and identify him as a spy. Rotherham could hardly be expected not to be thinking of his report to London when he saw the girl levitate herself into the air.
This was clearly more dangerous than I had supposed. I bade farewell to Mistress Harcourt, using a limited amount of Charm to ensure she forgot the specifics of my visit, and headed at once to Grimsby. Brave as I am, I dared not walk into the lair of at least one magician without intensive support from the Royal Sorcerers Corps. I reached the city as night was starting to fall, asked a Talker who worked at the Sorcerers Hall to send a message to London, and waited for the response. When it came, I was ordered to take a room in the local inn and wait for Lady Gwen.
I must confess that I did not find the thought reassuring. Master Thomas had been a firm hand, guiding the policies of the Royal Sorcerers Corps; I found it hard to believe that a sheltered young girl could possibly take his place, even if she was a Master Magician. But I knew better than to protest, particularly with war threatening the country. I left my details at the railway station, found a room and settled down to wait. In all honesty, I did not expect to be summoned until the following morning. I was wrong.
The landlord knocked loudly on the door seven hours after I had put my book aside and gone to bed. I glanced at my watch – five in the morning – grabbed for my jacket and opened the door. The landlord informed me that I had a visitor, waiting downstairs for me. Mindful of the propriety of being alone with an unmarried girl, I slipped the landlord a small tip and asked him if we could use one of the side rooms for a private chat. He was surprised, but willing.
I must admit that I was not one of Lady Gwen’s supporters when she assumed the role of Royal Sorceress. A young and largely untested magician – and a girl, at that – could not, in my opinion, fill Master Thomas’s shoes. And yet, knowing that she enjoyed the support of some of the most powerful men in the land, I decided to give her a chance as I walked down the stairs and into the meeting room. If nothing else, she was a Master Magician.
She surprised me. I had expected a young woman in a fashionable dress, not someone wearing male clothing. Indeed, had I not known her sex, I would have honestly mistaken her for a slightly effeminate man. She lacked stubble, of course, and an Adam’s Apple, but without knowing to look for such details I would have missed them. There was little feminine in her movements, none of the reluctance to be forward of aristocratic womanhood or the blunt plainspoken attitude of a commoner woman. Her clothing disguised her figure perfectly.
“Mr. Davidson,” she said. Her voice was low, but firm. “The Sergeant told me a great deal about you.”
I confess the thought worried me. Sergeant Hamilton, the Master-At-Arms of Cavendish Hall, was never one of my biggest supporters. We Charmers are rarely popular when we do not use our powers to make people like us. Indeed, everyone who has anything to do with us worries constantly that we might be affecting their thoughts. But I swallowed my fears and waited for her next words.
“He said you were a good man,” she added. “And quite observant.”
The Sergeant, of course, was observant himself. He had seen dozens of young magicians pass through the doors of Cavendish Hall. Many of them would have been more useful, certainly more open, than a second-rank Charmer. I couldn’t help wondering if I was being flattered, before I decided that it was unlikely. Lady Gwen didn’t strike me as the sort of person to pour out unjustified praise.
“Thank you,” I said. “You came quickly.”
“Lord Mycroft wants the whole affair investigated as soon as possible,” she said. “When can we leave?”
I glanced at my watch. “We can go now, if the landlord will pack me something to eat,” I said, “or we can go after breakfast.”
“We’ll go after breakfast,” Lady Gwen said. “That will give you plenty of time to brief me.”
The landlord was kind enough to supply a breakfast of porridge, eggs and bread, which we ate in the sideroom while I told her everything I knew. Lady Gwen agreed with my assessment, remarking that she’d developed her powers when she was very young. I had the impression that something bad had happened at the time, accounting for her near-complete exclusion from the London social scene, but she refused to be drawn on the topic. There was no way I could draw more out of her, not without using Charm. And she would almost certainly notice if I tried.
“We will probably not be particularly welcome when we arrive,” I said. “Do you want to go as an official investigator?”
“I have authority to investigate any and all cases of suspected magic,” Lady Gwen answered, bluntly. “I’ll go as myself.”
“Yes, My Lady,” I said. My cover as a travelling salesman was likely to be blown, if word spread, but it couldn’t be helped. “What will you do if the child is a magician?”
“I’ll take her away,” Lady Gwen said, shortly. “It will be better for her to be raised by her fellow magicians.”
“And we cannot leave her in Papist hands,” I added.
Lady Gwen nodded. The Pope had made the mistake, back when Cavendish first proved the existence of magic, of proclaiming it the work of the devil. France and Spain promptly started killing every magician foolish enough to reveal his powers, while Britain, on the other hand, sought to use them. Even now, after the French reversed their policy, their magical corps is far inferior to ours. To the best of our knowledge, they have never found a Master Magician.
We finished our breakfast, collected an official carriage and driver from the local magicians and drove off to Salk’s End, where the girl and her father were supposed to live. It was a tiny fishing village, barely eking out a living; the villagers, according to the taxmen, were fond of smuggling goods from France into Britain and vice versa. Even so, I was struck by the poverty as we drove into the village and down towards the girl’s house. Grimsby, Hull and the other major towns had sucked the prosperity from the village. I was surprised that so many people actually remained.
But perhaps I shouldn’t have been. Too many of them were Catholics and it was hard for them to get a job elsewhere.
We parked the carriage outside a rundown hovel, ordered the driver to wait and headed down the path. The stink of rotting fish hung in the air as we approached; I could see a small boat resting on the beach as we walked around the house looking for the door. I am a confident swimmer, yet I would not have cared to go out onto the waters on that boat. Even a skilled sailor would have problems handling it if the weather turned rough. I found myself looking eastwards, towards the open waters, and wondering if an invasion fleet was lurking just over the h
orizon. It all seemed so safe and tranquil, but the threat of war was very near.
Lady Gwen rapped on the door with her cane and waited. I was on the verge of proposing that we kick the door down when there was a rattling sound from inside and the door opened, revealing a grim-faced man in grimy clothes. He was, perhaps, one of the ugliest men I’d ever seen. I found out, later, that his name was George Barton and he claimed to be related to the Nun of Kent, although this was never actually proven (and seems unlikely.)
“Yes?”
“I am here to investigate reports of your daughter possessing magic,” Lady Gwen said, in her most officious voice. She sounded very much like a man at that moment. “Please will you take me to her?”
“My daughter is a saint,” Barton insisted. He looked very much as if he had no intention of budging. “You will not call her a filthy magician.”
“I’m here to establish that she isn’t a magician,” Lady Gwen said, lacing her voice with subtle Charm. It was nowhere near as skilled as my own work, but I had to admit that she definitely had more skill with Charm than had Master Thomas. “Please will you take me to her?”
The beauty and danger of charm is that it allows the victim to come up with their own justifications for their behaviour. George Barton wanted – needed – to believe his daughter a saint, so he convinced himself that we would prove she had no magic and, therefore, that her powers came from God. He turned, beckoned us to follow him and led the way into his house – his hovel. The outside was bad enough, but the inside was worse. I would sooner have grown up in a tenement in Glasgow than that tiny hovel. The floor was filthy, the walls were mouldy and I really didn’t want to know how they washed. I sincerely hoped that they swam in the sea. The stench alone was enough to turn my stomach.
Barton tapped on a door and opened it, revealing a young girl kneeling on the stone floor. I was struck at once by just how ... strange she looked, although I could not put my finger on why. She was around nine years old, with long blonde-brown hair and a dark dress that reminded me of a nun’s outfit. A copy of the bible – the latest version authorised by Rome – lay on her lap, open to the Book of Exodus. And there was something utterly expressionless in her eyes, so much so that I couldn’t help wondering if she was drugged.
Lady Gwen knelt down on the floor. “Hello,” she said. “What’s your name?”
“Her name is Cecelia,” Barton said. “She rarely talks to strangers.”
“Wait outside,” Lady Gwen said. “Both of you.”
I did as I was told and, while waiting, bounced questions off Barton. It was a frustrating experience; Barton appeared completely convinced that his daughter was a saint, but seemed to be totally unable to recall any specific details. His only comment on the death of John Rotherham was to say that God had punished him for his crimes. He was a little more forthcoming on the subject of his late wife, who had died giving birth to his daughter. She had, apparently, been a zealot. Her name was completely unfamiliar to me. I discovered, later, that she’d been kicked out of her own family for excessive zeal, back when they’d been doing their best to make peace with the king.
“She was a holy woman,” Barton told me. “She made me what I am.”
I kept my thoughts to myself as I glanced around the hovel. It was no place to bring up a child. Barton himself slept on a mattress that needed to be replaced, although it was unlikely he could afford anything better. I couldn’t help feeling sorry for the girl and prayed, silently, that she would turn out to be a magician. We couldn’t justify taking her from her father and handing her over to another family if she wasn’t.
But when Lady Gwen emerged, she looked downcast.
“I couldn’t find any traces of magic,” she said, as she closed the door behind her. “She was very reluctant to talk.”
“She’s a saint,” Barton announced. “She has no truck with the devil.”
Lady Gwen nodded, gave him a guinea – I’d venture that it was more money than he’d seen in his life – and headed for the door. I followed her, breathing a long sigh of relief as soon as I could smell the salt air again. The hovel had stunk so badly that my clothes would need to be cleaned thoroughly – or simply discarded once we returned to Grimsby. Lady Gwen said nothing, but I was sure she was as uncomfortable as myself.
“That was a very strange girl,” Lady Gwen said. “She certainly isn’t normal.”
I looked at her. “How so?”
“A girl of that age should be bright and inquisitive,” Lady Gwen said. “Or, if her parents are strict, very submissive and obedient. But she wasn’t responsive at all. There was no sign she was even there while I was talking to her.”
You will know, of course, that while I am unmarried, I do have two younger sisters. They had been quite embarrassing when I’d been a lad – their sense of humour was definitely mischievous – and they drove their governess wild, but they had definitely been very active and determined to cause trouble. I still smile whenever I think about the time they’d play hide and seek with their tutor, rather than getting down to work. And, by their standard, Cecelia was very odd.
“Perhaps she’s touched in the head,” I said.
“Perhaps she is,” Lady Gwen said. “I can’t read thoughts directly, but I can normally sense emotions. There was almost nothing in her mind at all.”
I considered it. I’d been taught, years ago, that a strong mind could block out a mind-reading Talker, if he had sufficient skill. “Did she block you?”
“If she did, it’s a very odd block,” Lady Gwen said. “I sensed nothing, as if she wasn’t there at all. She would have needed magic to do that, but I didn’t sense a hint of magic surrounding her.”
I frowned and forgot myself. “Are you sure?”
“Yes,” Lady Gwen said. She didn’t sound angry at my tone. “I can usually recognise another magician, even if the specific talent isn’t recognisable. But I didn’t feel anything from her.”
“Me neither,” I admitted. I normally feel a little uneasy when near an undeveloped magician, but Cecelia hadn’t triggered that feeling in me. “And yet, we know that magic is involved somewhere, don’t we?”
“Yeah,” Lady Gwen said. “If Cecelia isn’t the magician, there must be another one or two hanging around nearby. I think we’ll be attending the next Mass.”
We drove back to Grimsby, where Lady Gwen sent a preliminary report to London and I consulted with Father Peter to learn the time and place of the next Mass. Barton, it seemed, was fond of attending a Catholic Church some distance from his village, even though it meant getting up very early in the morning and walking several miles. Father Peter reported that several of the local Catholics were already talking about requesting a papal commission to investigate Cecelia and confirm her claims to sainthood, even though appealing anything to Rome is in flat contradiction of the Edict of Tolerance. Something was definitely odd. Most of our remaining Catholics know to keep their heads down, but now they were doing something that would definitely incur London’s wrath.
“If the French are involved, they may be looking for an excuse to start the war,” Lady Gwen speculated, afterwards. She’d taken lodgings at the inn, rather than the Sorcerers Hall. I had a feeling she was enjoying the freedom that a male guise brought her. “Their own people are not keen on the idea of yet another ruinous war.”
I nodded in agreement. The French have fought us in seven successive wars and lost badly every time. Effective hegemony over Western Europe – and a union of crowns with Spain – does not make up for losing control over North America or for the simple fact that George IV rules an empire greater than Alexander’s. One has to admire their persistence – they have come up with hundreds of plans to invade our native soil – but their rationality is something else. Every war they have fought with us has cost their peasants dearly.
“They use religious faith to keep the peasants in line,” I said. It was true enough. The Pope in Rome wouldn’t dare say anything to contradict France w
hile the French held a dagger to his throat. Their network of priests served as secret agents, keeping an eye on the population; those who dared confess to anything less than complete loyalty were rarely seen again. “If they can convince their population that the next war is for the freedom of Catholics in Britain, they might be able to avoid trouble.”
“Perhaps,” Lady Gwen said. I could tell that she was troubled. “But all that will happen is that a great many Catholics will wind up dead.”
Privately, I disagreed. The military threat from Catholic or Jacobite families might be long over – they had been unable or unwilling to rise when the Young Pretender crossed the border – but those that remained stubbornly practicing their faith were hardened by decades of legal oppression. Even a relative handful of them might be able to cause trouble, if the French crossed the waters; the mere act of destroying a railway line would make it difficult for us to move reinforcements around the country. It would be better, perhaps, to offer the English Catholics the chance to move to Catholic Ireland or even to emigrate to France. But they wouldn’t be welcome in either place.
Going to Mass is never easy. The authorities, for reasons that date all the way back to Martin Luther and Henry VIII, are very nervous about the Mass. So is the mob. The mere suspicion that someone might be hosting a Mass is enough to provoke violence on the streets of London, where fear and hatred of Papists runs strong. Even in the days of the Edict of Toleration, Masses are only permitted in certain churches and carried out by registered priests. Catholics like Barton have been known to travel for miles just to attend a Mass, which made it easier for me to slip into the congregation. I had been, in my persona as a wandering trader, to Mass several times; Lady Gwen, still in male guise, was introduced as my business partner.
