Druid's Sword

by Sara Douglass

  “You know who he is reborn?”

  “Yes. John Thornton.”

  “He loved your mother very much.”

  Grace looked at him quizzically. “Why so pensive, Jack?”

  “I was remembering what your father said to me yesterday.”

  “He didn’t mean to—”

  Jack smiled. “Oh yes, he did. He’s terrified for you, Grace, and I cannot fault him for that. He thinks that I am as much a threat as Catling.”

  “No, surely he doesn’t—”

  “What he said about my three sons cut to the quick.”

  Grace didn’t answer.

  “Noah—Cornelia as she was then—and I had three glorious sons, and have I ever thought about them? No. How could I not have ever thought about them, Grace?”

  “What were their names?” she asked softly.

  “Achates,” Jack said, and grimaced. “He was the eldest. Got on your mother the night I first raped her.”

  “Jack, there’s no need to—”

  “I think there is, Grace. I need to say this to you…not for your sake, perhaps, but to acknowledge those three boys.”

  “And the names of the others?”

  “Idonale and Charistes. Those I got on your mother when I had imprisoned her within hatred.”

  “Did you love them?”

  “As much as I was capable of loving when I lived as Brutus…and that was not very deeply. Not enough, I’m afraid. Gods, Grace, I was so hideous.”

  Grace had tears in her eyes, and neither of them were aware that the king’s address had ended and Mrs Stanford had turned off the radio and gone back into her kitchen.

  “Your father has every right to be afraid of what I might do to you, Grace.”

  “I am not afraid,” she whispered, and Jack gave a short laugh.

  “I’m afraid of what I might do to you, Grace.”

  She didn’t respond for a long minute. “And your daughter? The one who died at birth?”

  In the kitchen the White Queen stirred, and raised her head, her nerveless black eyes gleaming.

  “She had no name,” Jack said, “and isn’t that the supreme tragedy of all, that she had no name? That I cared so little for her that I thought not even to name her?”

  “Jack…“

  “If I had one wish, one wish that I could make come true, Grace, I think I would want to be able to hold that girl, and cuddle her, even if she were dead, tell her I love her, and name her. Give her that, at least.”

  In the kitchen the White Queen lowered her face, and wept black tears into her bubbling pot of marmalade jam.

  NINE

  London

  Tuesday, 24th September to Wednesday, 9th October 1940

  GRACE SPEAKS

  Ifelt somewhat guilty that Jack had to ask me to go out into London again and see what I could discover about the shadow. Since I’d been living at Ariadne’s, I’d done little more than to work with her, and to explore and develop my abilities with the labyrinthine harmonies by myself. I’d also been so involved with Jack’s growing presence in my life that I had put virtually everything else aside. These were, however, pitiful excuses when considering the desperate battle we were all involved in, and I should not have needed Jack’s prompting.

  I went out the very next day. Much had changed, not merely in the city, but in me. Ariadne’s training had deepened my power and my perception, but Jack’s influence had bolstered my self-confidence and courage. I walked into a city that I saw with different eyes, and I walked with bolder steps than I had ever done hitherto.

  Jack’s diamond bracelets felt warm and comforting, a constant reminder not only of him, but of my own abilities. I didn’t allow them visibility when I walked the streets, but they were always there, part of my flesh as the four bands of Troy had once been a part of me.

  I did not fear Catling as once I had. I was still very much aware that she held my fate in her hands (or, bound by my wrists, as it were), and I very much respected her power and malevolence, but fear of her no longer dominated my life. Jack had taken my scars, and my feelings of shame and failure and burden, and (with his belief in me, more than his gift) gave me back my life and my heritage.

  Neither did I fear the imps. It had been weeks since their last murder, and I wondered if they had grown tired of their deadly activities.

  For the sake of the young women of London, I hoped so.

  Thus, with my new-found abilities and confidence, I discovered a new city. It opened up to me in a way it had never done before. I was far more aware of the labyrinthine shadow that hung over London, but I was also aware of all the labyrinthine twistings of the city itself, the paths and harmonies and strange meanderings that gave the city its life. I looked at the way cars and lorries and people moved about the city and saw underlying patterns and purposes. I watched the way racing pigeons flew in their flocks about the tops of the buildings, and saw a reflection of the way a Kingman danced about the labyrinth. I looked at the barrage balloons moving in the breeze, and saw new possibilities of manipulating harmonies.

  Suddenly I was more than Grace. I was a Mistress of the Labyrinth, and I was a Darkwitch, and I had the power to create my own future, rather than allowing others to create it for me.

  I encountered difficulties as well as new possibilities, though, and those mainly due to the war. “Wandering about” was no longer quite so easy as once it had been. Large areas had been bombed and were closed (or were too difficult to access). Other areas were officially off limits (although it was a simple matter for me to assume a glamour and wander unseen); yet more areas were unofficially off limits. These were areas where there was so much residual pain and fear and distress from bombing that I found myself walking past them quickly. I hadn’t been affected by the sorrow and pain of others before, and I realised just how introspective (even selfish) I’d been before Jack arrived.

  I still disguised what I was doing as much as possible. Catling appeared to have no idea of this shadow hanging over London (and I admit that this bothered me deeply, and made me wonder if I was right in thinking the shadow was Catling’s trap; perhaps it might be something else and I didn’t want to be the one to make her suspicious). The war made disguising the true purpose of my meanderings easy. There were many people, all over London, who needed comfort and relief and help, and I spent a great deal of my time with either my mother or Matilda and Ecub (I was finally feeling more confident with them, as I was with my mother), travelling around with my mother’s mobile canteen in the evening and night, and visiting those who needed comfort during the day. It all gave me a chance to get out and about, and to open myself up to this shadowy possibility overhanging the city, but I also enjoyed meeting people, and laughing and crying with them.

  Again, it was all part of this new experience for me…living.

  Mostly I kept to the central areas of London—both Jack and I were well aware that the shadow spread over the entire Greater London area—but it was at its most potent over the old City. It would be here, I thought, that I’d have more chance of discovering anything of its nature.

  For a week I walked here and there, visiting a shop in this street, helping out at a shelter or a kitchen for the homeless in the next. On one occasion Ecub came with me, on another my father accompanied me. For that week I concentrated on opening myself up as much as possible. As each day passed I became more and more sure I was on the verge of a breakthrough. Each day the shadow seemed “closer”—not in a physical sense but almost in an emotional one. I felt as if I would discover something significant, very soon.

  I was only slightly wrong. I didn’t discover anything. It discovered me, and once it did, my new-found serenity shattered completely.

  One day I met Matilda at Leman Street Station. We meant to walk through the East End to see if we could be of any assistance. Both of us had spare food coupons (gods alone know where my mother had “found” those), cards giving directions to hostels for the homeless, and, we hoped, a st
ore of sympathy and empathy for the wretched people of the East End who had borne the brunt of the bombing thus far. As the morning wore on, we moved through that part of the East End closest to the Tower of London, stopping here and there to help as we were able.

  I grew increasingly uncomfortable as the morning wore on. I felt as if I were being watched the entire time. That wasn’t entirely unexpected, as both Matilda and I were too well dressed to go totally unnoticed amongst the East Enders, but I didn’t feel as if it were human eyes watching me. I thought initially it was Catling…but it didn’t feel like her, either.

  It didn’t have her malevolence, but it was watchful, cold, judgemental, greatly discomforting.

  Matilda kept an eye on me. She knew something was unsettling me, but she didn’t probe, for which I was grateful.

  As the day passed I gradually expanded my senses, using all the added knowledge and understanding that working with Ariadne had given me.

  Finally, about midday, with a sickening turn of my stomach, I realised that the feeling of being watched was caused by the shadow itself. It was watching me.

  And it was whispering to me. That scared me so much that the instant I first realised it I gasped and leaned against the brick wall Matilda and I were passing. We’d been wandering along St George Street close to where it turned into Shadwell High Street, moving towards a community hall a few blocks further up, when suddenly I realised that all the “strangeness” I’d been feeling, and increasingly so for the past hour or more, was in fact soft words whispered at a frantic pace into my mind.

  GraceGraceGraceGraceGraceGraceGraceGrace

  I leaned against the wall, my stomach now heaving over, and barely stopped myself from gagging. Along with the whispering I could sense the shadow, as if it were leaning close. The feeling was similar, if not quite as horrifying, to what I’d felt on the night the imps attacked me.

  GraceGraceGraceGraceGraceGraceGraceGrace

  “Grace?” Matilda slid an arm about my shoulders. “Grace?”

  WatchmeGracewatchmeGracewatchmeGracewat chmeGrace

  “Oh, gods, Matilda…” I whispered, desperately wanting her to stay near and yet not sure I could actually force out the words to tell her what was happening.

  GraceGraceGraceGraceGraceGraceGraceGrace

  “Grace?”

  WatchmeGracewatchmeGracewatchmeGracewat chmeGrace

  I finally managed to dampen the noise a little, for which I was profoundly grateful. At least I could do that.

  “Grace?” Matilda all but hissed.

  “Matilda…the shadow is whispering to me. I don’t believe it…sorry, I only just realised what was happening and it overwhelmed me.”

  She was silent for one long shocked moment. “What is it whispering?”

  “It calls my name over and over, and begs me to watch it.”

  Both of us at that moment firmly fixed our eyes on the pavement. Neither of us wanted to look up, although gods alone knew what we might have seen. The shadow was not visible as such; it could only be sensed.

  The whispering continued—

  GraceGraceGracewatchmeGracewatchmeGrace

  —but I found it far more bearable now I’d dampened it down.

  “What do you want to do, Grace?”

  What did I want to do? “Continue on, I think, Matilda. I don’t want this to stop us.”

  Matilda looked at me searchingly, but eventually she nodded, and we managed to continue walking down St George Street towards the community hall.

  The whispering continued over the next few days. Sometimes it was barely there, sometimes it was almost a scream in my head. On those occasions I shut it out completely, closing myself off from my powers as a Mistress of the Labyrinth as a last resort.

  It called my name, it begged me to watch it.

  And it asked me to come to St Paul’s.

  That last made me revise my initial belief that it wasn’t Catling. The shadow must be her—why else would it try to get me close to St Paul’s?

  There wasn’t much else I could discover about the shadow, but the whispering was enough for me.

  I rang Copt Hall that first day, in the evening, when I’d returned to Ariadne’s apartment. Jack was out. Malcolm was vague about where he was, but I gathered he was in the forest somewhere.

  Jack rang me back the next evening, and we arranged to meet the following night. He’d wanted to come straight down to talk to me, but I’d demurred. It was late, I had a terrible headache, and I didn’t want Jack to think he had to dash down to save me from every bump in the night. I told him what the shadow was saying to me (just calling my name, begging to meet me at St Paul’s), and he reluctantly agreed to leave it until the following evening.

  I was a little surprised by how pleased I was to see him waiting outside the White Queen Cafe. As I approached he turned, saw me, and grinned, taking my hands (then running his own a little way over my wrists and up my forearms) and planting a soft kiss on my cheek.

  We sat once again at the back table, Mrs Stanford hovering happily in the background, feeding us marmalade cake and forcing us to listen to another execrable variety show on the radio. As before, there was no one else in the cafe apart from us.

  “What do you think, Jack?

  He looked at me with worried eyes and shook his head slowly. “I have no idea. I can’t hear it.”

  “It is Catling. It must be.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Jack.”

  “I know, I know. I haven’t shut myself off to the idea that this entire shadow is Catling’s construction, Grace. But…why would she want you to come to St Paul’s?”

  I shrugged. Now that I was settled in the cafe and the initial euphoria of seeing Jack had passed, I felt close to tears. The past few days of listening to the constant whispering had worn me down.

  “I’ll come out with you tomorrow,” Jack said. “Maybe together…”

  I nodded. Maybe together…

  At that moment, we both heard the whispering.

  GraceJackGraceackrajacgrajackjacejracegrajace

  Jack went white, and without thinking I reached out and took his hand.

  Yes!Yes!Yes! GraceJackGraceJack…Come to St Paul’s. Come to St Paul’s.

  Now that it had both of us together (hand in hand) the whispering became clearer, less urgent.

  Come to St Paul’s, Grace. Come to St Paul’s, Jack. Come to St Paul’s together, GraceJack.

  Why? whispered Jack.

  Because I have something to show you.

  Hours later we still sat in the White Queen Cafe. Mrs Stanford had come out to refresh our tea, and to call us her best customers, although I was starting to think we were her only customers.

  No one else had entered in all this time.

  “I don’t know if I want to go,” I said.

  Jack was looking down at the snowy linen tablecloth, slowly drumming the fingers of one hand.

  “I don’t think it is Catling,” he said.

  I closed my eyes in mingled horror and desperation. “Jack—”

  “Sweetheart,” he said, that hand now sliding across the tablecloth and taking mine, “I don’t think it is Catling.”

  My heart turned over when he called me sweetheart, but considering my stomach was also doing slow, queasy turns in fear the mingled effect wasn’t particularly pleasant. I knew I should trust him—gods alone knew Jack had so much more experience with the Troy Game than I did—but, oh, the fear…

  “Please,” he whispered, “trust me.”

  Gods help me, I did. “All right,” I said, and his hand tightened about mine.

  In the kitchen the White Queen smiled, and the pot of marmalade dropped from her fingers and shattered over the floor.

  We went to St Paul’s the next week. Having made the decision, we then lingered. Partly this was because of the weather, which had closed in (a poor excuse!), and partly because both of us were more than a little hesitant.

  Strangely, even though we t
ook our time about arriving at the cathedral, the whispering stopped completely the night we’d made the decision to go.

  We would arrive, eventually, and the shadow was content.

  The night we did go, Wednesday, was a cold, blustery night. Jack picked me up from outside Ariadne’s apartment at ten o’clock (we hadn’t wanted to go during the day when we might disturb the cathedral worshippers), then drove to a street two or three away from St Paul’s where he parked and turned off the ignition. We were both so tense we hadn’t even spoken when I got in the car, and now, as we sat in the cold and dark, listening to sleet pelting against the car windows, we remained silent for long minutes. I had my hands thrust deep into my coat pockets; Jack had his still resting on the steering wheel of the Austin, as if he wanted to be ready to drive off at a moment’s notice.

  Eventually he sighed, and looked at me. “Ready?”

  “No,” I said.

  He gave a faint laugh. “That’s good enough for me. Grace, Catling won’t hurt us. Neither of us. We’re too important to her. She can taunt, but she won’t hurt us.”

  I turned my head so I could look at him. Maybe he was right, maybe not, but we were here now, and we might as well get on with it.

  I took a deep breath, opened the door, and stepped out into the freezing wet.

  One of the aisle doors in the west face of the cathedral was ajar. A member of the cathedral Watch stood just inside, and looked at Jack and me incredulously as we entered and shrugged off our wet coats.

  “There’s an air raid on,” he said. “Are you sure you want to come in? There’s a shelter on Ludgate Hill.”

  “We’d like to stay for just a while,” Jack said, “if you don’t mind.”

  He shrugged, and we were in.

  This was the first time I’d ever been in St Paul’s. The first time, that is, since I’d gone down into the dark heart of the labyrinth where Catling had imprisoned my parents while London burned in 1666, but that had been a different cathedral entirely.