The Dragon Queens (The Mystique Trilogy) (4 page)

‘Indeed…but I managed to get away early.’ Levi took hold of both my hands and kissed my cheek. ‘And I came here directly, so that we might have more time to talk.’

‘Was there something in particular you wanted to discuss?’

If my son’s early arrival was due to the cause I suspected, that meant he had known the outcome of my meeting with Malory this afternoon before it had even taken place.

Levi returned my loving smile, his blue eyes twinkling with mischief.

It was always a happy and lively occasion when our family came together over dinner. Levi was something of a harmonising force in our lives; he brought out the best in everyone. Since he had been away studying, the mood of all in our house had been rather subdued.

Our eldest daughter, Rebecca, was a feisty sixteen-year-old redhead who rarely stopped talking and so missed exchanging lively banter with her older brother. Daughter number two, Charlotte, was fourteen and exactly the opposite of Rebecca, as she rarely said a word. Unlike her older sister, who was psychically void of talent, Charlotte, like Levi and myself, had the gift of clairvoyance and was particularly interested in the natural world. Hence Charlotte and Levi had a psychic bond and understanding, which Charlotte did not have with her other siblings. The youngest of our children, Thomas—who did not object to being named after my father—was a typical ten-year-old boy who
missed having his brother around as he resented being left in a house with so much female company. I think my Lord Devere missed Levi for the same reason. Myself, I missed Levi’s constant little psychic challenges—like the current one concerning whether or not I would break the news to my husband of Levi’s intent to accompany me to Persia.

My suspicion concerning the reason Levi had wanted to speak with me had proved correct, and I had insisted that I intended to tell my lord of my plans only. If Levi wanted to throw away his fellowship to accompany me, then that was a matter for him to take up with his father. I had no intention of championing his cause, despite the fact that Levi predicted quite the opposite—and his predictions were seldom wrong.

Upon the conclusion of the main course, Tibbs entered to announce that there was a strange man at the front door, who refused to leave a calling card and was requesting an immediate audience with myself.

‘How do you mean “strange”, Tibbs?’ Lord Devere inquired.

‘The gentleman appears to be a gypsy, my lord,’ Tibbs said with disdain.

‘A gypsy?’ The announcement sent my heart soaring into my throat and I looked to my husband in disbelief. ‘Could it be…?’

The dulcet sound of a violin wafted from the entrance hall through to the dining room. My husband and I both smiled broadly. ‘It is!’ we cried in accord.

‘Show the gentleman in,’ Lord Devere decreed. ‘And have another place set at our table.’

Tibbs seemed rather puzzled by our resolve. ‘Very good, my lord.’

In France, I had once saved the man at our door from imprisonment, after duelling with the finest swordsman of the duke who held him captive. He had composed the tune now being played in our foyer in honour of my success. It sounded as if the gypsy captain was still able to enchant the heart of any woman with his music—which was what had landed him in the duke’s prison in the first place, having briefly enchanted the Duchess de Guise.

As my old gypsy friend entered the dining room, I stood and moved to greet him. ‘Cingar Choron.’

The years of outdoor living had aged my old travelling companion—streaks of grey now tinged his long dark curls, moustache and beard, and his skin was more leathered and tanned—yet he was as handsome as ever. Cingar was still long and lean, but his stride seemed to have lost a little of its bounce. It seemed to me that he had experienced a tragedy recently—which was confirmed when I clearly perceived the deep muddy patch that encompassed the heart centre of his auric body.

‘Welcome to our home, captain.’ I embraced him tightly. ‘After twenty years what could possibly have brought you to our door?’

Cingar’s clan usually travelled through southern France and Italy, although Cingar had also travelled in the East, in search of exotic wares to peddle on the continent. Never had he ventured so far north as to visit us in England, however.

‘Chiara sent me,’ the gypsy replied. ‘She said you were embarking on a journey and would require my assistance.’ He looked concerned when my husband appeared confused, and I was stumped as to how to react.

‘But what of your wife, Jessenia?’ I asked, hoping to change the subject. ‘And how will your clan manage without their captain?’

The look on Cingar’s face said it all.

‘Jessenia has passed,’ I surmised.

‘Last winter,’ was all the explanation he could bring himself to give. ‘As for my people, my son, not much younger than your own boy,’ he motioned to Levi, ‘has taken charge of our band to get a feel for his future responsibilities…leaving me free to serve you once again.’ He bowed.

I took Cingar by the arm and leapt into the formalities, to prevent my husband enquiring after our gypsy friend’s purpose. ‘Allow me to introduce you to our children,’ I said, and led him around the table to meet them one by one.

My Lord Devere waited patiently as our children had their say, then proved he was not to be distracted from the matter at hand. ‘Lady Devere and I have no knowledge of an imminent journey,’ he informed Cingar. ‘Do we, darling?’ He turned to me.

I have always refused to tell my love a barefaced lie, so what choice did I have but to confess…or at least refrain from responding for a moment or two?

‘Do we?’ my husband fished, beginning to suspect that I had some explaining to do.

I raised both brows and forced a smile, which more than adequately answered his query.

‘Oh no.’ Cingar looked to me apologetically. ‘Is my arrival a trifle premature?’

‘That’s the price you pay for associating with spirits,’ I said, dismissing the inconvenience. ‘With such a scarce awareness of time, they are bound to get it wrong on occasion.’

‘It seems we need to talk,’ my husband suggested amicably, motioning towards the door.

As my Lord Devere excused himself, I looked back to the table to find Levi smiling broadly. He made a small punching motion with his fist to spur me on to my confession.

‘I think an adventure is a splendid idea!’ My husband surprised me with his response once I had confessed all. ‘How soon do we leave?’

We!
I was doubly floored by this premise. ‘But what about your parliamentary duties?’

Devere waved me to silence. ‘A complete bore…I trust my brother shall get word to me if my presence is necessary. To get anything through parliament seems to require a lifetime of argument, so I’m quite sure we shall return long before I am urgently needed.’

‘Are you sure? I will be fine on my own,’ I said, subtly trying to discourage him. I didn’t know why I wanted to go on this journey without him; maybe I just needed to escape being Lady Granville-Devere, wife and mother, for a time and recall what it was like to be Ashlee.

‘Ahh…you don’t want me to come.’ My husband saw through my intent in a second—he was quite the psychic himself these days. ‘You think I am prepared to let you go running off with Cingar, Levi and that ghost of yours without me?’

‘I do not intend to take
that ghost of mine
.’ Then his words registered fully. ‘You are aware that Levi wishes to accompany me?’

‘As such a journey is our son’s life ambition, naturally he will want to go,’ my husband replied. ‘Levi never wanted the fellowship anyway, nor has
he the slightest interest in politics, his inheritance, running an estate, or even
England
for that matter.’

‘Much like his parents,’ I commented, pleased that my husband was considering our son’s wishes. My Devere was not like most men in this day and age; he knew his family well and I loved him for it. ‘Of course I want you to come with me, if that is what you wish.’ I approached my husband and wrapped my arms around his neck. ‘But what shall we do about Levi?’ I had sworn not to take up my son’s battle and here I was doing just that, proving his prediction right.

‘He’s a grown man, free to choose his own path,’ Devere said wisely, his brilliant blue eyes alive with thought. ‘You do know why Levi wants to go to the Holy Lands so desperately?’

I had always assumed it was because he had been conceived during my Sinai trip, but something suddenly told me this was not the case.

‘Levi believes that he’s going to meet a woman there,’ my husband went on, ‘someone integral to his destiny.’

‘He told you that?’ I was delighted that our son would disclose such intimate insights to his father.

My husband nodded and grinned. ‘He was twelve years old at the time, but I believe that the premonition is still a large part of his passion for knowledge about the region.’

I didn’t know quite how to react to this news, but it certainly explained Levi’s lack of interest in the marriage market in London. ‘So in the end it all boils down to a woman?’ I said.

My husband thought my comment ironic. ‘Always, my dear.’ He bowed gallantly.

‘In 10,000 BC a moon-shaped expanse of land, ideal for cultivation, encompassed much of Mesopotamia, Canaan and Egypt. This area was the cradle of civilisation that became known as the Fertile Crescent.

‘Although we know of the city of Ur from Biblical accounts, its exact location has remained a mystery. Still, the Bible hinted at its whereabouts, stating that Abram—Abraham—came from Ur of the Chaldees, which is believed to refer to the Tigris–Euphrates region of what was once southern Mesopotamia. This would place Ur at the extreme south-eastern tip of the Fertile Crescent.’

Levi, Lord Devere, Cingar and myself were standing at the rail of our vessel, the
Sea Rose
, gazing out over the Persian Gulf, while Levi gave us a brief overview of the legendary city of Ur.

‘So what you are saying is that this excavation we are travelling to may have unearthed the birthplace of Abraham?’ Lord Devere said.

‘It is a distinct possibility,’ Levi confirmed.

It had taken four months to get here. From London we had sailed all the way to Alexandria, then travelled overland to the Red Sea, where this vessel had been waiting to take us via the Arabian Sea and the Gulf of Oman into the Persian Gulf. Three years previous, the British had signed a maritime truce with all the
scheikhs
on the coast of Oman prohibiting the building of big ships and fortifications along the Trucial Coast. As a result, the British East India Company ruled the Gulf and hence our vessel had sailed the once-infamous ‘pirate coast’, without incident.

As the land we sought to explore drew close, Levi was finding it increasingly difficult to repress his anticipation. He’d endured the camel ride through the desert from Cairo to Suez like one of the Bedouin, when the rest of our party had been affected by the heat. A few hours in the company of real Bedouin and Levi was chatting to them in their dialect and making friends rapidly. He was so interested in the culture and history of the region that he found plenty to talk about with everyone we met, and his knowledge of their civilisation greatly impressed the locals.

‘What is the political climate in Persia at present?’ I asked, focusing on the more practical aspects of our journey.

Levi cleared his throat, eager to impress us with his knowledge and prove his worth as a member of this expedition. ‘The King of Persia is Shah Nasr ed-Din of the Qajar Dynasty. In him are vested the threefold functions of government: legislative, executive and judicial.’ He counted them off on his fingers, as if giving a lecture. ‘His word is law. The Shah appoints and dismisses all ministers, officers, officials and
judges. He has the power of life and death over his own family and the civil or military functionaries in his employ, without being answerable to a tribunal. He holds the rights to the exploitation of any of the resources of the country, and all requests for the making of public works, the working of mines or archaeological excavations must be approved by him.’

‘So the Sangreal brotherhood is paying off the King of Persia,’ I said. ‘I imagine that must be costing a pretty penny.’

‘They would never
pay him off
,’ Cingar corrected sarcastically. ‘They would present the Shah with
gifts
.’

I found the gypsy’s interpretation amusing. ‘What a polite way of putting it.’

‘Mother misunderstands you,’ Levi said. He turned to me. ‘It is the custom in Persia—from the Shah downwards, there is hardly an official who is not open to gifts, nor a post that cannot be acquired or an income that has not been amassed by the receipt of gifts. This has been the way of government in Persia for centuries and the system poses a solid barrier against reform. The practice of gift-giving is known as
madakhil
. This word has no exact English translation, but may be roughly rendered as “commission”, “perquisite” or “profit”. It represents the sum total of personal advantage one has in any transaction.’ Levi noted my frown and decided that a simpler explanation was in order. ‘You see, upon the receipt of a gift, not only must you make a return gift of equivalent cost to the donor, you must also liberally compensate him in a ratio proportionate to his gift’s monetary value.’

‘Making for a lot of very rich officials in Persia,’ Cingar finished.

‘Indeed,’ Levi said. ‘There is scarcely a province, district, city or town in Persia that is not governed by one of the previous Shah’s princelings. All of whom prey upon the country like a swarm of locusts, in order to maintain their own court and a large harem.’

‘In Persia, camels, fleas and princes exist everywhere!’ Cingar cited an old saying.

‘So the Shah has a big family?’ I asked.

‘Oh yes.’ Levi raised an eyebrow. ‘The Shah’s wives and concubines number in the hundreds. Needless to say, his offspring are bountiful.’

‘Poor man,’ muttered Lord Devere; he was finding one wife and four children more than enough to handle.

A crewman interrupted us, advising us that the captain wished to speak with Lord Suffolk. My husband departed to answer the summons, and Cingar followed him to the bridge.

‘By sunset tomorrow we shall be on Persian soil,’ Levi said as he and I turned back to admire the coastline, now bathed in a late-afternoon glow. ‘I can hardly wait to see the excavation.’

I felt sure it was not just our quest that had my son so excited. ‘Your zest for knowledge is most inspiring,’ I said. ‘One would almost suspect you are expecting to find something in particular there.’

‘Whatever do you mean, Mother?’ Then Levi observed the grin on my face. ‘Father told you,’ he said, sucking in his cheeks to hide his embarrassment.

‘Whatever do you mean?’ I imitated his innocent tone.

Levi turned away from me, letting me know that he found the subject unworthy of further discussion. ‘I am sure my prediction does not mean what you imagine it to mean.’

‘Your father dreamt of me long before we met,’ I said, regaining his full attention.

‘Did you dream of him?’ he asked. I knew that his real question was: Has she dreamt of me?

‘Only after we met,’ I said. ‘But at that time I had my heart set on marrying the much older and welltravelled Lord Hereford.’

‘Your dreams of Father proved prophetic then?’ Levi assumed.

‘In a way.’ I recalled the vision as if it had occurred only yesterday. ‘In my dream I was off on a wild adventure and your father kept showing up to save me right when I needed him…which proved true enough.’ A smile warmed my face as I remembered all that my husband had endured to protect me, regain my trust and secure my heart. ‘I remember waking with a feeling of great intimacy and attraction to your father.’

This comment brought a grin to my son’s face, until I added, ‘Which lasted all of seconds before my conscious reasoning stuffed it into my mind’s closet and ignored it.’

‘But in the end Father was victorious.’

‘Oh yes.’ My voice broke over the words, for I loved my husband with all my being. ‘No other man has ever come close to rivalling my affection for him.’

‘I am very touched to hear that.’ Levi and I turned to find that Lord Devere had snuck up behind us. ‘However, your mother’s testimony is not entirely truthful.’

Levi was a little disturbed by his father’s claim and I was rather puzzled myself.

‘Albray?’ Lord Devere suggested, to jog my memory.

‘Who is Albray?’ Levi asked.

I laughed. ‘Albray is not a man.’

‘He is not a dog,’ my lord countered.

‘Who or what is he then?’ Levi was intrigued.

‘Albray is a ghost,’ I informed him. ‘The ghost of a Crusader knight that I have had nothing to do with for twenty years.’

‘Is that right?’ my husband challenged.

‘Yes,’ I insisted. ‘And I have no intention of ever contacting him again.’

‘Interesting to hear you say that.’ My lord frowned, appearing most perplexed. ‘Then one wonders why you would pack the sword and accompanying attire that was given to you by the Duke de Guise. We both know you can barely lift the sword without Albray’s aid, let alone wield it.’

During the challenge in which I had bested the duke’s finest swordsman, with Albray’s assistance, I had near lost the upper hand when I had tripped over my cumbersome skirt. Afterwards, when I had secured my victory, the duke had made me a gift of a green velvet suit of clothes that consisted of pantaloons, a thigh-length coat and a long green hooded mantle that made the masculine guise more modest, and which could be used to conceal my gender altogether. I had also been given long riding boots that folded down at the knee and a leather belt for my weapons.

‘The weapons belt of that outfit also holsters a
pistol,
which I can wield perfectly well alone,’ I justified. ‘As Levi has just been telling us, there is a certain element of lawlessness in the district where we are bound; we enter at our own risk.’

‘I see.’ Lord Devere humoured me with a smile that conveyed he was not entirely convinced. ‘Did you bring the stone?’

‘What stone?’ As a psychic, Levi prided himself on knowing everything about everyone, but clearly he’d never heard of this mysterious ghost we were arguing over. Indeed, Lord Devere and I had gone out of our way to bury the issue.

I faltered; I could not lie to my husband.

‘Ah!’ Lord Devere knew he had caught me out. ‘So you did bring it.’

‘Chiara is also attached to my treasure stone,’ I reminded him. ‘I might need her counsel, so
yes
, I brought the stone.’

Chiara was the ghost of a gypsy witch; Albray had introduced me to her when I had needed to consult with someone proficient in spell-casting and potionbrewing. She was also the great-grandmother of Cingar, and it was at her request that I went to rescue Cingar from the prison of the Duke de Guise. When I succeeded in saving her great-grandson, Chiara had pledged me her services for life and now her spirit was attached to my ringstone.

‘Are you wearing it now?’ my husband asked with a hint of hurt.

‘Yes.’ I had no idea why I felt guilty to admit this, when I had done no more than think of Albray over the past twenty years.

‘Not over your heart?’ Devere pleaded.

‘No.’ I peeled the glove off my left hand to expose the chain around my wrist and the ringshaped stone that hung from it.

My lord, reasonably appeased, took hold of my other hand and urged me closer to him. ‘I don’t know if I like the idea of you holding another man’s spirit in the palm of your hand.’

I gazed into my husband’s eyes to reassure him. ‘There is no other man for me, Mr Devere.’

‘Oh please, not in public,’ Levi cried. Our open affection for each other had always served as an embarrassment for our children.

‘How on Earth did we ever raise such a family of prudes?’ my husband commented.

‘It defies the imagination,’ I replied, looking to our boy who had distanced himself from us in disgust. ‘You’d think Levi would be encouraged to know that it is possible to find true love.’

‘I am not here to fall in love!’ Levi was vexed, but when he saw that his protest had not swayed our belief, he had to struggle to keep from smiling. ‘I mean it.’

Once our son had disappeared below deck, Lord Devere and I had a wee chuckle at his expense. ‘We shouldn’t tease,’ my husband said, hugging me from behind and kissing the top of my head.

‘Nonsense! What else are children good for?’

This comment was in jest, for I’d had quite a time bringing myself to leave my other three children for a year. My only solace was in knowing that I had left them in the very best of care. Mrs Beatrice Winston had been my nanny and more of a mother to me than mine ever was. She was now head of all our female staff and yet she would not give up her position as nanny to our children. Nanny Beat went everywhere with us, or should I say she went everywhere with the children, who adored her just as much as I had. I was proud to say that, unlike my parents, whom I’d barely known, I was close to my children; still, after twenty years of dedicated motherhood it was time for me to again pursue my own vocation. But, oddly, I found that I could not enjoy the same sense of liberation during this journey as I had during the last, as my mind was
constantly distracted by thoughts of home and how my three youngsters were faring.

‘Enjoy the moment,’ my husband whispered in my ear. ‘We shall be bound again by the conformity and responsibilities of England soon enough.’

He was right. After all, we did not every day get the chance to explore a previously undiscovered ancient city, especially one that the Catholic Church had yet to censor.

Yes, we were heading into hostile territory, but I expected the desert bandits would be the very least of our problems.

The excavation site was located roughly halfway between Baghdad and the Persian Gulf, some ten miles west of the Euphrates. Along the great river little villages of mud huts were sparsely scattered in clumps, but westward extended a vast desert. Out of this wasteland rose the hill the Arabs called Tall al-Muqayyar, the Mound of Pitch, which Malory and his team suspected had once been the grand city of Ur.

As our camels approached the summit of the great mound, heatwaves shimmered across the wasteland surrounding us, mocking us with mirages of placid waters. From the higher ground we were able to distinguish the palm gardens lining the riverbank along the eastern skyline, from where we had departed earlier in the day. North, west and south there was little to distract the eye from the vast sandy desert, but to the south-west the horizon was broken by the tall grey pinnacle that marked the ruins of the staged tower of Eridu, the sacred city which the Sumerians believed to be the oldest upon the Earth.

The project sponsors had spared no expense. Rather than the camp of tents I had imagined, the
excavation base was a large house surrounded by a recently erected village. Our camel train came to a halt in front of it and a man came out to greet us.

‘Welcome to the site house,’ he said, clearly an Englishman. ‘Mr Taylor, British Museum and Consul at Basra, at your service.’

‘But you are not in Basra now, old friend.’ Lord Devere jumped from his camel to greet Mr Taylor, with whom he was obviously on familiar terms.