Lammas Night (55 page)

Michael's face was pinched and very pale as he shook his head.

“I don't know, sir. Whatever it was, it knocked me out for a while.” He glanced at his watch and grimaced. “Christ, I didn't know it'd been that long! We'd better ring Oakwood.”

As soon as Michael could walk without obvious assistance, the two of them made their way stealthily back to the royal apartments, where William immediately rang the Oakwood number. He tried to keep in mind that it was almost two in the morning, but even so, it seemed to take an unconscionably long time to get anyone to the phone besides a servant. He got more and more worried as he watched Michael sitting in a nearby chair, head cradled on knees. Even when Brigadier Ellis finally came on the line, he could get maddeningly little information.

“Wesley, is that you?”

“Sorry to have kept you waiting so long, sir,” Ellis said coolly. “I'm afraid everyone had already retired for the night. How may I help you?”

The formal, guarded wording only confirmed to William that something was wrong. Pulling out a cigarette and trying to light up, he realized that his hands were trembling. He had to concentrate to keep his voice calm as he pursued the conversation with Ellis.

“Actually, I wanted to speak to Gray,” he said, slipping the lighter back into a pocket and exhaling smoke. “We've—had an interesting evening at this end.”

“Have you, indeed?” Ellis murmured. “I trust everyone is all right.”

William glanced at Michael, who was groggily raising his head in question, and wondered whether they were.

“Well, Michael isn't in too good a shape, but I suppose it could be a holdover from this afternoon,” he replied, knowing it was no such thing and suspecting Ellis knew it, too. “Nasty business, that. He has a devil of a headache. I'm all right, though. Would it be possible to speak with Gray?”

The silence at the other end was finally broken by a nervous cough.

“I'm afraid not, sir. As a matter of fact, he's down with a beastly migraine himself,” Ellis answered, his voice curiously flat and emotionless. “The doctor's just given him a stiff sedative to knock him out for a while, and I shouldn't be surprised if he sleeps until noon. Could you ring back late in the morning, do you think? Or if you wanted to run down and see him tomorrow afternoon, I suspect he'll be feeling better by then.”

William's mind churned with imagined reasons for the cause of Gray's condition, but there was nothing further he could do except agree to come. Michael was staring at him intently, starting to get out of his chair as he read the concern on William's face, but William shook his head and jabbed his cigarette emphatically in Michael's direction for him to stay put. He did not like the way things were developing, but he had no choice but to play it Ellis's way.

“I suppose that sounds fair enough,” he said, feigning nonchalance. “Tell him I hope he feels better and that I'll drop by after lunch tomorrow—or today, actually. Sorry to bother you so late.”

There was little to relate to the anxious Michael beyond what he had already heard, but William reiterated all he knew. After that, he took a clue from the mention of Graham's treatment and persuaded the younger man to take a sedative. Only when Michael was resting comfortably did William return to his own room and collapse on the bed shaking. After a while, he, too, slept and for the first time in weeks did not dream.

William's concerns the next morning were as much for Graham as for himself, though he did not intend to relent in telling Graham of the decision he had reached. Other than the facing of the deed itself, William suspected that this afternoon would be the most difficult time of all: convincing Gray of the inescapable logic of it and that Gray's part was as vital as his own. He was greatly relieved and encouraged to find Michael almost fully recovered as the two of them drove to Oakwood.

To William's surprise, the brigadier was still there when he and Michael arrived. It was Ellis, not Lady Selwyn, who greeted him and ushered him into the garden. He soon learned that Alix was taking a nap, having nursed Graham through much of the night, and that Lord Selwyn had already left to return to his duty assignment, as had Ellis's three grandchildren. Michael immediately disappeared upstairs to inquire after Graham and his mother.

Ellis did not go into great detail on what had occurred, but William gathered, by reading between the lines, that the focus of the group's working the night before had been shifted. Graham had mentioned Sturm before and his fear that Sturm's black adepts were working against British interests. After Wells's betrayal, all of them worried that Sturm might have discovered the plans for the Lammas working and would take action to try to counteract it.

Now he understood that Sturm had, indeed, been intending to interfere and that his defeat had been the object of Graham's work the night before. The venture had been complicated by the unexpected presence of Hitler himself at the place of Sturm's working. Ellis never made it clear just how Graham had learned of this or how he had gone about neutralizing Sturm's influence, but however it had happened, Ellis now believed Sturm to be dead. Unfortunately, the same could not be said for Hitler. The episode did not seem to have a great deal of bearing on what William had come to talk about, so he did not give it too much thought other than to realize that Graham's resultant condition might make him less likely to succeed in talking William out of his decision.

After a while, Graham came downstairs, haggard and unshaven and a little unsteady on his feet, wearing a dark-blue bathrobe over a pair of Selwyn's pajamas. He had little real desire to talk to William yet, especially with his head still aching the way it was, but Michael's quick briefing convinced him that it should not be put off. There was no time to think through the full implications of his own survival and its impact on the prince. His only goal, as he joined William and Ellis in the garden, was to get through the visit without having William realize the true reason Graham had put himself in such jeopardy the night before. After Jennings brought them tea and biscuits beside the fish pond, Ellis left them alone.

“Now
you
tell me how you are,” William demanded. “I've had enough of Wesley's vague reassurances.”

Graham managed a shaky smile and launched into reassurances of his own. He gave William a brief account of what he could remember of the assault on Sturm between careful sips of tea and bites of dry toast, but he scrupulously avoided any intimation that William had been at all the cause of his action.

But everything Graham ate and drank suddenly turned to lead in his already queasy stomach as William began relating his own night's experience. The prince unfolded the evolution of his logic with cool detachment, not meeting Graham's eyes as he described his regression and subsequent decision. In the ten short minutes of the royal recitation, all of Graham's most dreaded speculations gradually took tangible form. William was aware of the need for sacrifice.

“So you see, I'm the only logical choice,” William concluded as he ground out a cigarette in a Wedgewood ash tray and dusted off his fingers. “You yourself said that Bertie is too valuable to the country as a rallying point just now, though the lot would normally fall to him. Besides, if it were he, think who comes next. She's hardly more than a child, Gray. She's fourteen years old. And my other brothers and my sister all have families; I don't. Remember? I'm the extra prince, that fifth wheel. For the first time in my life, that's a useful thing. You have to admit, I'd be least missed.”

“Not by me,” Graham whispered, absolutely stunned.

William shoved his hands in his pockets and glanced away uncomfortably.

“Well, I'm not that keen on the whole thing, either,” he murmured, his voice a trifle unsteady. “The whole notion scares the hell out of me, when you get right down to it. I simply don't see any other way to read the evidence. If your sacred-king theory holds any water at all, then all the signs point to a sacrifice being necessary at this time. And are you going to tell me now that you
weren't
Reginald FitzUrse or Walter Tyrrel and probably some others that you haven't bothered to mention? You can't have been unaware of all this, Gray. And I know that
I
was Becket and Rufus. How much clearer does it have to be?”

Graham dropped his head into his hands, unable to refute it, pain throbbing in his temples. He had come close to dying along with Dieter last night, and now he almost wished he had. He
had
been FitzUrse and Tyrrel and other slayers, not to mention Drake and doubtless others yet unremembered. Just as surely, it seemed, William had been Becket and Rufus and the gods alone knew who else. And despite everything Graham could do, the two of them were being drawn inexorably toward the same relationship played out so many times before. Was there no way to break the cycle? Surely this cup might yet pass.

“It's clear that you believe what you're saying, Will,” he said, rubbing at the space between his eyes and wishing he could make his head stop pounding. “I
don't
necessarily accept that it's the only way of looking at the evidence. You're talking about a—a propitiary sacrifice to seal the success of what was done last night by the grand coven. This is the twentieth century. Propitiary sacrifices haven't been a part of our British tradition for—at least a thousand years.”

“Perhaps not, but you yourself said that the seven-years were still observed.”

“In
theory
, William—in
theory
!” Graham murmured. “But in
fact
, maybe not for several centuries. Even if they were, we aren't in anyone's seven-year cycle right now. The King is—what?—forty-four? And this is his
fourth
regnal year, not his seventh.”

William's chair squeaked as he leaned it on its back legs. “That's true. But if you're going to use that argument, you have to take it the rest of the way. I've done a little calculating myself on the way here. My brother David was forty-two the year he became King and abdicated. Now I'm beginning to wonder if I understand part of the reason he did it. Don't you think the abdication was a kind of sacrifice? As far as this country is concerned, he might as well be dead. Maybe he sensed what else might be demanded if he stayed. And Bertie began
his
forty-second year three days after he became King.”

“Then say that
David
was Bertie's sacrifice for that cycle!” Graham blurted, desperate and sick at heart. “He doesn't need you to be another—not yet in
any
case. Even if the cycles still operated, it's at least three years until the next need!”

“That may be true,” William agreed. “It could well be, however, that extraordinary circumstances sometimes require shifting the cycle. That's what our mutual recollections say to me. There is also the very interesting fact that this is the 840th year since the death of William Rufus, and the 770th since the death of Becket—both of which are multiples of seven. That fact alone might well merit an independent sacrifice.”

“This is insane. You can't mean what you're saying. You can't actually
believe
it!”

“Can't I? There's this, too: my niece is fourteen. She's the heiress presumptive. Maybe the sacrifice is needed for
her
. Weren't substitutes sometimes given for the heirs in the past, before they came to the throne?”

Fighting down increasing nausea, Graham closed his eyes and nodded, remembering Wallace and the future Edward II. He mouthed a tortured “Yes,” but no sound came out.

“No, I think it's very clear,” William's voice went on softly. “It's something I have to do. Aside from the fact that I love my brother and would like to know he'll reign in health and happiness for a very long time, I'd like for
her
to have the chance to grow up and lead something of a private life before she's called to be Queen. If my sacrifice will ensure both of those things—and incidentally seal the success of what was willed last night—then I'll consider my life well spent. I can't think of a greater service I could render my country. I'm asking you to help me, Gray—as you've done before.”

That the logic was inescapable made it no easier to accept. If Graham believed what he had lived by all his life, then he could hardly deny what this man who was his prince was now asking, for it was his destiny—it was both their destinies. Perhaps the fate of Britain
did
depend on it.

But the idea of being William's slayer was too terrible to contemplate. How could the fates demand this of him?

“William, I can't!” he whispered desperately, clapping his hands to his throbbing temples. “Not again. Please don't ask this of me.”

“I have to. You're the only one I'd trust. There's no one else.”

“I can't!”

“Gray, I'm begging you!” William murmured, crouching to seize one wrist and shake him until he glanced up. “Don't make it any harder for me, please!”

William's eyes held him pinned for an instant, but the world was starting to spin as Graham shook his head and staggered to his feet, half blind with the pain behind his temples, and dragged William with him.

“William, I can't—and
God
, don't kneel to me! Please! Ask me anything else—
anything
.…”

“No,” William murmured. “Only this.
Promise
you'll do as I ask.…”

“I can't,” Graham gasped as William's face began to blur. “I can't, I can't …,” and slowly crumpled into blackness.

He was alone when he regained consciousness later that evening. For the first few minutes, he simply let himself drift drowsily. Aware that he had been sedated again, he was grateful for the insulation it afforded. Time and the drug seemed to have relieved all but a last dull vestige of the pain in his head, but the ache in his heart remained a heavy, oppressive weight.