The Midnight Queen (35 page)

*   *   *

A fire crackled below a ponderous carven mantelpiece—merrily, one might have said—and was the room's only source of light. It illuminated, besides the scarecrow in scholar's clothing that was Lord Merton, a man of middling height and middling girth, altogether undistinguished but for the shock of golden curls, gleaming in the fitful light, that showed above his green velvet masque. Having motioned the newcomer to a chair, this man paced to and fro before the hearth, passing sometimes so near to Sophie that she could see the tiny beads of perspiration that bedewed those artfully disarranged curls. In his hand he clutched something—a slip of writing-paper, she saw at last.

“Calm yourself, Wrexham, I beg,” Lord Merton said, leaning negligently back in his seat. He pulled off his masque to fan his face, a slow, hypnotic motion. “What can have happened to put you in such a state?”

“You shall know soon enough,” the other snapped—yes, it was the Queen's brother, of course.

Sophie started when the complicated knock came again. Lord Wrexham crossed the small room and opened the door to admit Viscount Carteret and another masqued, elegantly dressed stranger, and after them, narrowly avoiding the backswing of the great oaken door, Sieur Germain de Kergabet, who secreted himself in the shadows on either side of the door.

“Why have you summoned us
now
?” demanded Lord Carteret. “Have we not duties to perform?”

Lord Merton half turned towards the door, and Sophie's heart leapt into her throat. Hastily she extended her concealing magick to embrace Sieur Germain, as well as Gray and herself; she now felt stretched very thin indeed, but there was nothing else to be done.

“Shall I set the wards?” the don said. “Or do we wait?” He spoke delicately, as though the question meant much more than appeared.

The others, too, had now removed their masques, so that Sophie could clearly see Lord Wrexham and the handsome young stranger—surely the healer, Lord Spencer—exchange a hard, cold look. “Set them now,” said the former, and, with another shrug, Lord Merton did so. His spell was long and elaborate, yet Sophie scarcely felt the whisper of his warding-magick.

“My friends, we are betrayed,” announced Lord Wrexham. He held up the letter in his hand and read out the indictment of himself, Lord Spencer, and Lord Carteret, so recently composed in Carrington-street. “It is Callender's doing,” he continued, his face livid in the dancing firelight.

Lord Carteret reached for the letter. “This is not his hand,” he said.

“It will be the work of that student of his, then, to put us off the scent,” Lord Wrexham returned, impatient; in her mind's ear Sophie heard Gray's voice:
Woodville, of course. The man was a forger in his cradle.
“Callender has lost his stomach for the affair, I suppose, or he has discovered—”

“Nonsense!” said Lord Merton. “He is a fool, certainly, and hard pressed to see beyond his own interest, but what would it profit him now, to turn on you? He cannot expect his word to be taken over Carteret's, or yours.”

Lord Wrexham still looked unconvinced, but the others were nodding. Sophie fidgeted. “You judge rightly, I think.” Lord Carteret's high nasal voice was startling after Lord Merton's basso. “Has the old man seen it?”

“He has.” Lord Spencer folded his arms across his lace-frothed breast.

“The old man would read it, of course,” said Lord Wrexham, “and did, before anyone could prevent him—and seemed half inclined to believe it, too, but naturally I—” At a raised eyebrow from Lord Spencer, he amended, “naturally
we
made haste to persuade
His Majesty
that his enemies are not so close to home.”

Lord Merton's gaunt cheeks creased in an approving chuckle. “Naturally,” he repeated.

The younger men smiled.

“A child might have done it,” said Lord Spencer. “We told him that a truly loyal friend would not fear to put his name to his warning, and reminded him that the men named have ever been his devoted servants, one of them his own brother.”

“The messenger awaited a reply,” Lord Wrexham added, “but he had not the patience to wait us out; you may be sure that no meeting has been arranged by that means.”

“Well enough,” said Lord Carteret. “Merton—we may depend on Callender to play his part as agreed?”

“Certainly, my lord,” said the latter, rather stiffly.

“And you have no reason to believe he suspects our plans . . . ?”

“Certainly not!” Now Lord Merton's tone was positively scandalised. “I have been entirely discreet, I assure you.”

“See that you remain so,” Lord Carteret went on, sternly, “until we have persuaded him to yield up the Princess. After that, of course . . .” And the wave of his hand as he spoke left Sophie in no doubt as to her stepfather's eventual fate.
If only he knew,
she thought, pressing her hands together to still their trembling,
he would thank all the gods that he has not yet found me . . .

Just then a bell began to tell the hour:
one, two, three . . .
At the final chime the four men exchanged looks of consternation. “It begins,” Lord Wrexham intoned dramatically. He made for the door, avoiding a collision with Sieur Germain only because the latter stepped smartly out of his path, and wrenched it open; but he was stopped on the threshold by Lord Merton's wards, as were the others who followed him.

After a long moment Lord Merton smiled a thin, humourless smile and snapped his fingers negligently to release the wards. The other three tumbled over one another out the door.

Sophie lingered, torn. Clearly, whatever the conspirators had planned for tonight was about to begin, but ought she to leave Lord Merton to his own devices, however peripheral he appeared?

*   *   *

The hour was growing later, and Gray had followed the Professor, he felt sure, over every inch of the Palace ballroom. He had not again sighted Joanna, though he had several times been half convinced of glimpsing her out of the corner of his eye, nor had he seen any of the rest of his own party. He had at first stayed well back, wary of being recognised, but, emboldened by his quarry's apparent ignorance of his presence, had drawn gradually closer, till the temptation to knock the Professor on the head and turn out his pockets, or attempt to summon their contents, was very strong indeed.

But the first was too crude and would attract too much attention, charms or no, and the second was very unlikely to succeed; the first thing every mage learns about finding and summoning is that one can do neither without an accurate image of the object sought.

As he was contemplating this problem, he heard an unexpectedly familiar voice. “Professor Callender, sir,” it said, in tones of obsequious respect, “a word in your ear?” And Gray raised incredulous eyes to find himself, in very truth, almost face-to-face with Alfric Woodville.

In Which Several Stratagems Fail, and Others Succeed

Sophie had been
lurking along the corridor, still concealed, for mere moments when Lord Merton emerged and made his way past her, returning in the direction of the great ballroom. She followed some half-dozen paces behind as he rejoined the chattering throng that drifted and surged, by turns, towards the great double doors leading out into the courtyard.

Shadowing her quarry as closely as she dared, she found herself at length on the north side of the large inner courtyard, facing the great altar—and the King—through a screen of people some three or four rows deep. The rites of Samhain were just beginning; around her there persisted a faint hum, the muted voices of those unready to suspend the pleasures of conversation, yet not daring to disturb too far the solemn dignity of the occasion.

Her attention was so much divided—her eyes between Lord Merton and the King; her thoughts between half a dozen objects; her magick tenuously extended, now, to all her allies, wherever they might be—that Sophie felt she might fly apart. Never had any sacred rite claimed less of her concentration. She knew it, and felt all the disrespect of a wandering mind at such a time, but her task, too, was a kind of sacred duty, and had its own urgency. Perhaps not every life is sacred to the gods—but surely, that of Britain's King . . .

The murmurs were gradually fading, so that Sophie could now hear more clearly the voice of that king—not only the paterfamilias of the kingdom but her own. It was a pleasant voice, lighter and higher than Gray's or Master Alcuin's but possessing the same warm timbre, the same easy command of the several languages in which it spoke the prayers. From Sophie's current vantage point—gazing up at the dignitaries ranged around the altar steps—King Henry looked a small man, fine-boned and none too stoutly made. His face in the torchlight was earnest, his attention all on the act of worship entrusted to him on this night. For the first time she felt a rush of affectionate concern for him—so trusting, so much burdened with duty and care, and surrounded by men who wished him ill.

For surrounded he was. To his left and right stood Queen Edwina and the princes, but just beyond them—at the short ends of the oblong altar—were stationed Lord Wrexham and Lord Spencer, and at the opposite end, together with a sharp-faced, supercilious man of middle years, Appius Callender—Master of Merlin—stood behind Lord Carteret.

If these four were here to be seen, then somewhere close by must be their shadows. It was not to be supposed that Mrs. Wallis and Master Alcuin would be easily visible, in all this press of humanity, but surely Gray must be, here as elsewhere, at least half a head taller than anyone about him.

Sure enough, when next she took her eyes from Lord Merton to glance eastward, in the direction of her stepfather, she was rewarded with the briefest glimpse of her heart's desire: a flash of sandy hair, a gleam of peacock feathers, a neck angled in the stoop-shouldered attitude of one attempting to hide in plain sight.

*   *   *

“Sacramus Cereris aristifer, Jovis celestis, Matris tergemina, Patris magnum, dei magnique dei parvuli, bordeum primum . . .”
His Majesty lifted a gleaming sheaf of barley. He held it aloft for a long moment, while around him echoed
sacramus, sacramus
. Then, slowly, deliberately, he bent to deposit the offering on the altar, already heaped high with the fruits of earth and tree, shrub and vine. King Henry bowed to the altar; his subjects, sincerely or cynically as conscience decreed, followed his example.

And now, rustling and whispering through the crowd from the eastern gate of the courtyard, came the next, and nearly the last, offering. Gray craned his neck to see the fat golden sheaf of wheat, the
triticum primum
, its heavy heads nodding with each passage from arm to arm. Voice after voice murmured blessings and private petitions,
May the gods grant it
. Hands reached out to touch the offering, and those farther away seemed yet to bend towards it as it passed them; he fancied he could feel their prayers and pleas hanging in the air, heavy as incense.

The great persons of the kingdom—Saxon and Breton, Cornish and Welsh, Briton and Norman—were not, perhaps, so different from their tenant farmers who would, at this hour or near it, be making their own bargains with the gods for the year ahead.

“Sacramus Cereris aristifer, Jovis celestis . . .”

The rite of offering was repeated. Gray looked and listened, spoke and bowed, with the rest. The near-encounter with Woodville had been a shock; though no flicker of recognition had shown in the other man's eyes, his very presence was an unexpected complication. Had the Professor expected opposition and brought reinforcements? If the worst should come, would they face one more mage-warrior than they had expected?

But at any rate, there could be no question of poisoning at present; the offerings now piling on the altar were destined for the gods, not for men.

The wheat-sheaf was laid atop the altar, its weight causing the heap to shift dangerously before it settled again. By the stir in the throng around the western gate Gray recognised the moment when the
vinum primum
, the first-pressed wine in its heavy golden chalice, began its journey towards the altar dais. Its path differed, apparently, from those of prior offerings, circling the edge of the courtyard before beginning a slow spiral in towards the central altar.

More than any other period of this endless evening, the libation's journey seemed interminable. Gray clenched and unclenched his hands; he crept as close as he dared to the altar steps, eyes on the Professor. At last he saw the chalice approach—an ancient, elaborate thing, glowing with the bright warmth of that most precious of metals.

The cup travelled round the lower steps of the dais, at length reaching the top on the far side of the altar, where stood a row of dignitaries—foreign ambassadors, by their dress—whom Gray could not identify. Beginning at the northeast corner, it passed slowly from hand to hand until it reached the northwest, and the hand of the Master of Merlin.

Gray did his best to keep half an eye on the King, but thousands of eyes were trained on His Majesty, and his true task was to watch Professor Callender. He watched, only half understanding what he was seeing, as the Professor's left hand accepted the sacred chalice and his right dipped into his coat-pocket. Then comprehension arrived in a horrifying flash—
He is going to poison the
libamen
!
—and Gray desperately gathered his magick for a summoning-spell.

When the hand reappeared, however, a sort of fog blurred it and its contents. Gray scarcely needed the familiar shiver of hairs rising under his collar to recognise a clumsily rendered spell of misdirection. Odd, this—the Professor was not a rank amateur, to work such a small magick so poorly.

Clumsy or not, however, the spell served its purpose, for Gray could not see the poison clearly enough to summon it away.

While the Professor muttered his blessings over the cup, his hands shielded from behind by his own body, and from before by Lord Carteret's, Gray worked his way closer, dodging around well-heeled spectators who muttered accusations at one another in his wake. But he had not been quick enough; Professor Callender was already passing the chalice to Lord Carteret.

Well,
thought Gray, chagrined beyond any thought of concealment,
at any rate I can summon
that
.

To his astonishment, however, he found that he could not.

By now the
vinum primum
had passed from Lord Carteret's hands to Prince Roland's, and thence, quickly, to the Crown Prince. In a few moments the King would receive it, and, if Gray's conclusion was correct, then all might be lost.

As he stared ferociously at the glowing chalice, collecting his wits for a second attempt, a hand touched Gray's arm; looking down, he found Master Alcuin close beside him. “
Conjuncte
,” he murmured—
together
. “Before the King can drink.” Gray nodded sharply. But even their joined efforts could not shift the chalice from the Prince's hands.

Master Alcuin looked again, narrowly, at the object of their concern, and muttered, “Of course . . . it is warded against magickal interference.”

“We must stop
him
, then,” Gray replied, sotto voce; the older man inclined his head. How much simpler and safer their task would have been, could they only have borrowed some piece of the King's jewellery and found a means to spell it against the poison!

Bowing ceremoniously, Prince Edward offered the cup to his father, who accepted it with an answering bow. As he made to lift the
libamen
above his head, Master Alcuin and Gray directed at him a spell intended to freeze an attacker in his tracks.

But this too, it seemed, their enemies had anticipated; their combined magicks met some palpable barrier, and His Majesty continued his invocation undeterred.

Sing to him, Sophie,
Gray silently pleaded, as though there were some possibility that she might hear. Had she seen what her stepfather was doing, or guessed it? Did she understand what might be at stake?

Then the rolling Latin cadences faltered, and—yes,
there
—from somewhere far to Gray's left, in the fraught, puzzled silence, a clear, sweet voice was singing.

The voice grew stronger. Lowering the chalice, the King stared out into the throng, his brow furrowing. For one exulting moment Gray thought the danger past. Then Lord Carteret leant across the corner of the altar, apparently remonstrating with his monarch, and from the ends of the dais a fair-haired man and a dark one edged over to join the conference.

All about them, people began to whisper, and the whispers grew as Gray wove through the crowd, towards the sound of Sophie's voice.

“Your Majesty.” Lord Carteret's voice was low and urgent. “Remember your duty—to the gods—to your kingdom—to your people . . .”

The King made no answer—or none that Gray could hear.

“The King of Britain,” said the fair-haired man, “surely will not be persuaded by a
siren song
to dishonour Britain's gods . . .”

“Remember Ulysses at the mast, Your Majesty . . .”

The low, cajoling voices went on and on—working some persuasion, magickal or otherwise, which Sophie could hold at bay but not defeat. The tide of whispers ebbed and flowed, but Gray could hear nothing clearly but her voice. It seemed to him that all the world revolved around the two fixed points of Sophie and her father—revolved at an excruciating crawl, as though caught in some immense Arachne's Web.

Some instinct warned him in the nick of time that a more immediate danger threatened. He ducked sharply, just avoiding the spurt of flame that passed harmlessly over his head to scorch the opposite wall; on one side of him a woman screamed, on the other a man cried, “Jove's blood! What foolery is this, on such a night?” Turning, he muttered a hasty shielding-spell to fling a wall of magick between himself and his assailant. Somewhere just behind him, Sophie sang on—an Erse melody in the Mixolydian:
It will not be long, love, till our wedding day . . .

Around him, vaguely, Gray heard more people shouting, shrieking. He struggled against a tide of panicked flight as his fellow guests took to their heels. At last, across an empty expanse of cobbled courtyard littered with festive debris, he spied the source of the threat.

Sophie's voice faltered.

“Sing!” he hissed, risking a backward glance. “I can hold off the others, but
you
must stop him from drinking; the poison is in the wine, I am sure of it. Look, they are whispering at him still.” As he spoke he held out one hand; when Sophie clasped it, he drew her forward and pulled her tight against his side. Though her eyes were wide, her face ashen, the words of her oddly chosen spell-song again rang clear and true. Reassured, he let her go.

But the effort of fighting her father's sense of duty had taken its toll of her other magick. “You had better have stayed at home, boy,” Lord Merton taunted, with a mocking smile of recognition, as he raised his hands for a renewed assault.

Gray poured magick steadily into the shielding-spell wrapped about himself and Sophie, and held resolutely still as a rain of fire-spurts, increasingly large and numerous, fizzled into nothingness about them. His opponent's confounded expression gave him more satisfaction than he cared to admit, but it would not do to be overconfident. For now they were safe enough—but no mage could hold a shielding-spell forever.

“To me!” cried Lord Merton, staring wildly about him. “Foul treachery! They mean harm to the King!” Flames streaked towards Sophie and Gray, only to rebound harmlessly. Their author roared in frustration.

And why, indeed, Gray wondered, should Lord Merton be fighting all alone?

He spied his brother-in-law, just east of the altar, in the act of subduing some elegantly dressed stranger; Master Alcuin had come to magickal blows, not, to Gray's surprise, with the Professor, but with Woodville. Of Mrs. Wallis he could see no sign; she might, he supposed, be on the far side of the altar—or, indeed, have sensibly taken shelter from this storm, no place for a healer's magick.

But for the group round the altar, frozen between panic and devotion to duty—the spellbound King and his earnest lecturers; the plump little Queen sobbing; the foreign dignitaries crouched on the steps with their arms about their heads—none now remained in the courtyard but attackers and attacked. Those of the invited guests who had not vanished altogether were ranged along the outer rim of the courtyard, hugging the walls or cowering behind pillars or the half-denuded trees. The men of the King's Guard standing to attention on either side of the gates had come forth, pikes at the ready, to defend their monarch—but against whom, or what? Though Sophie had let go her own concealing magick, all but she were still shielded by her mother's charms, which few guardsmen would be equipped to defeat. Rather than level their fearsome weaponry against one unarmed girl, they stood and looked bewildered, while Lord Merton, the Professor, and Sieur Germain's prisoner bellowed orders at them, which they could not understand how to obey.