Lammas Night (14 page)

“A coven? As in witches?”

“Not—necessarily,” Graham said carefully. “Coven originally meant any group of twelve plus a leader: Charlemagne and his twelve peers, Arthur and his original twelve Knights of the Round Table—even Jesus and his disciples, for that matter. The King and his council of twelve ministers could also be said to constitute a coven in the general sense.”

“Still sounds like witches to me,” William retorted with a grin. “What's a
grand
coven, then?”

“Only a gathering of a number of covens,” Graham said easily, “though I'll concede that in this case, they were groups of—well, let's just call them occultists. Some of them would have called themselves magicians, sorcerers, cunning folk—or witches. The point is, they were all adept at redirecting the forces of nature—using magic, if you will—and they all recognized Drake's authority to call them together to work for a common goal: to protect their country from invasion by raising a storm to wreck the invasion fleet.”

“Humph. We could use one of those now,” William said with a snort. “But I still say it sounds like a delightful but improbable folk tale. God knows, England abounds in them. You don't really believe it happened that way, do you?”

Restraining a smile, Graham glanced down at the reins threaded loosely through his gloved fingers, the ripple of muscle under the chestnut coat as his horse raised its head. William's comments had been glib, quite casual, but Graham thought he detected a note of more intense interest. He would see what happened if he offered the prince a few more tidbits to spark his speculation.

“I don't know,” he said. “Whatever you and I believe, a storm
did
blow up, and the Spanish fleet
was
scattered and wrecked. It was a decisive naval victory, as you know, and some say it hadn't only to do with Drake's seamanship. You've surely heard the famous story about him playing bowls on Plymouth Hoe with his captains when word came that the Spanish fleet had been sighted off the Lizard?”

William nodded. “First-year naval history classes. He said something about having time to finish his game
and
defeat the Spanish.” He raised one eyebrow. “
We
were always taught that he was simply waiting for the tide to turn so he could sail.”

“Perhaps,” Graham agreed. “Another interpretation would have it that he could afford to be blasé because he knew measures had already been set in motion to ensure his victory by other means—and that version doesn't even necessitate refuting the theory about the tide.”

William gave a nervous chuckle. “You're implying that magic is real. Don't you think that's reaching a bit?”

Graham managed a nonchalant shrug, but inside he was churning. William continued to sniff at the bait; time now to give him something more substantial to chew on.

“You tell me,” he returned. “What would you say if I told you that similar measures were taken to stop Napoleon from invading—that Drake's drum is said to have been heard all along the coast at the height of the French threat? Supposedly, Drake swore on his death bed that if his drum were beaten in England's hour of need, he'd come back. Some say he has, Nelson and Blake being two of the more prominent of his reincarnations. For that matter, there are men alive today who will swear that they heard ghostly drumming at Scapa Flow in this century when the Germans were preparing to scuttle their fleet at the end of the Great War.”

As he glanced aside, William was shaking his head.

“This is all too incredible. It's like saying that—that King Arthur really
is
asleep in Avalon and that he'll come to save England when she's in need, as the legends promise. I haven't seen
him
lately—and God knows, we're certainly in need!”

“Does the fact that you haven't seen him mean he isn't here?” Graham asked innocently. “Would you know him if you saw him?”

“What?”

“Here's something else of interest,” Graham continued with a tiny grin. “Do you happen to remember what kind of engines we use in our Spitfires and Hurricanes?”

The prince looked at him blankly.

“They're Rolls-Royce
Merlin
engines, William. Defending England. Think about it.”

William stared at him in something approaching shock for several seconds, then rolled his eyes and broke into a chuckle.

“You're too much! You nearly had me believing you for just a minute there.”

But his mirth did not last. When Graham did not join in, William's face fell, and he glanced away in confusion, nervously backing his horse a few steps in the shallows. There was a kind of desperate apprehension in his eyes as he turned to Graham once more.

“Come on, I'll race you to the tower!” he cried, touching spurs to his mount and taking off in a shower of spray, not waiting to hear whether Graham agreed.

Graham held back, letting him have several seconds' head start, then followed at a more leisurely canter, though his horse wanted badly to go with the other. It was clear that William needed a chance to think.

He watched the prince take his bay over a fence beside the open Forest Gate, then veer right and disappear into a copse of trees near the tower. Graham continued following at his same easy pace, going through the gate instead of over the fence, slowing to a trot and then a walk as he, too, entered the trees. A few dozen yards in, he found the prince sitting on a fallen log in a clearing, smoking a cigarette as his horse busily cropped grass. The reins were looped over the handle of the riding crop in his other hand. No hint of emotion could be read on the finely chiseled face.

“It took you long enough,” William said, flicking ash against the log as Graham drew rein.

Graham remained in the saddle, though he let the horse drop its head to graze.

“Call it a hunch. I thought you might need a few minutes to collect your thoughts.”

“Good hunch.” William tapped the log beside him with his crop. “Sit if you wish.”

Swinging down easily, Graham pulled the reins over his horse's head and led it a little nearer the other before sitting next to William. The prince slid over to make more room, turning his attention to a mud smear on one boot and scraping at it idly with the end of his crop. He would not look at Graham.

They sat that way for several minutes—William smoking, Graham waiting, neither of them speaking. Graham let himself drift with the silence for a while—the bird and insect sounds, the soft snuffling of the horses searching for greenery among the leaves, the whisper of William's breathing beside him—but though he kept hoping William would be the one to resume conversation, he soon realized that was not to be. William had outwaited him too many times in the past when some sensitive topic waited to be discussed.

With a sigh, Graham flipped a leaf across William's boot with the end of his crop, trying a tentative smile as William glanced his way.

“This place has quite an interesting magical history; did you know that?”

William snorted: an expression of somewhat uncertain bravado.

“So we're back to that, are we? All right, I'll play along. They say that some of my royal ancestors are supposed to haunt various parts of the castle. I suppose you believe that, too.”

“I couldn't say,” Graham replied, ignoring the implied challenge, “Actually, I was referring to this part of the park. They say that when calamity threatens England or the Royal Family, Herne leads the wild hunt through these woods astride a fire-breathing black horse. He wears a stag-skull helmet with the antlers still attached, deerskin clothes, and red-eyed hounds run with him. Some say he pursues a mystical white stag. That's also been seen around these parts from time to time, though the old oak it used to fancy was destroyed almost a century ago.”

“I've read about Herne,” William said uneasily. “He's just another ghost. They say he was warden of the forest to Henry VIII—”

“And that he committed suicide after being accused of witchcraft,” Graham finished smoothly. “Actually, he probably goes back to Cernunnos, the Celtic god of the underworld, or perhaps Odin, who rode the wind on eight-legged Sleipnir—remember your Norse mythology? There may also be connections with other ancient gods of forests and hunts and the sun.”

William sighed and glanced away, troubled, finally dropping his cigarette and grinding it out with a booted heel. When he raised his eyes to Graham again, he looked scared.

“Gray, I—Christ, I feel silly asking this, but somehow I—you're not a—a
warlock
, are you?”

“The word would be
witch
for either sex,” Graham said carefully, “but as Shakespeare said, ‘What's in a name?' That particular one has picked up all kinds of negative associations over the years. Try another.”

“A—a magician, then,” William whispered after a stunned pause.

“Better, but still smacking of charlatanism to some. How about ‘occultist'? That takes in a lot of territory without being overly judgmental.”

“Without being—bloody hell!”

William stood so explosively that his horse shied, snorting and backing, spooking Graham's in turn. Both men had their hands full for the next few seconds.

When order was restored and the horses grazed peacefully once more, Graham gingerly resumed his seat on the log, not daring to speak. William remained by his horse for a while longer, his back to Graham and one arm draped over the saddle while he continued to stroke the animal's neck, fiddling with a strand of mane. Finally, he half turned to glance uncertainly at Graham.

“You know, every time I think I understand you, you come up with something I hadn't counted on,” he said. “This one takes the prize. God knows I trust you, Gray, but—did I misunderstand? Do you really,
seriously
mean to imply that you practice witchcraft? Don't fog the issue with technicalities of language. Do you or don't you?”

Graham inclined his head minutely. “That would be one way of putting it—yes.”

He heard William swallow, the sound very loud in the silence of the clearing, and watched the fear flicker across the otherwise controlled face.

“But isn't that the same as—as black magic and—and devil worship?”

Graham smiled and shook his head. “None of those three is equivalent, William,” he said softly. “For one thing, magic isn't black or white; it's power, which is neutral. Like anything, it can be used or abused by good or evil men. Witchcraft does use what you'd call magic—causing changes in conformity with will is how one man once defined it—but it really has to do with reverencing the old gods of Britain and harmony with nature.”

“What about devil worship?”

Graham shrugged. “That's a Christian concept. No self-respecting witch would worship a Christian god of evil.”

“But I thought that was the main accusation in the old witch trials!” William protested, crossing the distance between them in three long strides and sinking down gingerly on the log beside him again. “Didn't they hang and burn witches for worshiping the devil?”

“That was the allegation,” Graham replied. “But
devil
was the inquisitors' name for any god who wasn't Jehovah, the Lord of Hosts. The witches called their gods by other names, so naturally they were devil worshippers in the eyes of the Christian authorities.” He lowered his eyes, thinking of his own function at Oakwood and in other places and traditions in the past.

“Actually, each coven did have a man in black, who was sometimes mistakenly called a devil by outsiders. He was merely the priest who represented the god in rituals and led their meetings. He certainly wasn't the same as Satan, the embodiment of evil. Unfortunately, there are and always have been some people who are seduced by a fascination with evil and wanton destruction. They're satanists, however, like Sturm and the Thulists, perhaps. They have nothing to do with the old faith.”

William mulled that for some time, though much of the tension seemed to have gone out of him with the last exchange. He lit another cigarette—murmuring his thanks when Graham cupped his hands around the flame to block the breeze—then smoked it nearly all the way through before turning to look at Graham again. Graham met his gaze openly, trying to project as much confidence, reassurance, and trust as he could. After a few seconds, a ghost of a nervous smile twitched at William's mouth.

“You know, it's just occurred to me that the old laws against magic and witchcraft are still on the books. But I suppose you're aware of that.”

“All too well.”

“Yet you've just told me that you're a w—an occultist,” William amended, “which makes this conversation a very dangerous one for you, doesn't it? You didn't have to tell me—God knows, you've gone all these years without telling me before—yet you've told me now.” He paused to swallow. “Are you in trouble because of it, Gray? Have you come to me for help?”

With a sigh, Graham shook his head. “Not—directly. I—Christ, you must think I'm totally mad, Will—though you've certainly taken it far better than I feared you might.” He sighed again and gazed up at the leafy canopy above their heads.

“No, I suppose I really told you because I needed to talk to someone I could trust—someone who isn't involved in the actual problem.” He glanced at the prince. “You've sworn oaths as a Freemason, William, so you'll understand that I'm bound by similar oaths not to divulge certain things, but I'm—feeling very alone right now. I've been asked under oath to do something for which I'm not really trained, and I'm not doing a very good job of it so far. There's nothing you can do about that, of course, but it helps to be able to talk about it, anyway. You don't mind, do you?”

“Mind? After all the times you've had to sit and listen to me? Don't be daft!” William paused. “What is it that you're supposed to do, that you're not trained for?” he asked. “Are you allowed to tell me?”