by Dave Duncan
“Casting the monarch’s horoscope is high treason, Enchanter.” I didn’t deny that I had done that. “There was always a chance that he would make it through the dark time, as he had survived so many others in the past, but two days ago I learned that he had yielded up his soul. I called for Lars to hasten with me here, to Winchester. I enjoyed the journey with him. He’s grown up so suddenly that I feel I hardly know him now.”
Eadig noticed my clumsy effort to change the subject, but did not object. “Children always do.”
“True. And the size of him! Takes after his namesake, Lovise’s brother.”
“Gwynda hopes to pursue her training as a sage. She’s very anxious to study at Oxford. You will have room for one more?”
“For your daughter? Of course. I can still exert some gentle influence. There is much less prejudice than there used to be against female sages. Lovise set a fine example. She never had trouble mixing wisdom and motherhood.”
After a pause, Eadig said, “So what happens now? Lord—I mean King—Richard is sworn to go on crusade, to drive the heathens out of Jerusalem. When will he do that?”
“He’s not the sort of man to be deflected from his preferred course of action,” I said. “It will depend on Philip of France. He’s a man not to be trusted.”
“Perhaps Richard will send Lord John in his stead?” The question was ambiguous.
I glanced around to make certain that no one was within earshot. “How much will you wager?”
Old friends—we both grinned. Lord John was nobody’s idea of a martial hero.
Eadig snorted. “Every time that billy goat comes to Winchester, we lock up our wives and daughters. Women seem to find him absolutely irresistible.”
I knew Eadig well enough to know that he was hinting that the new king’s brother used black magic. I pulled a face and said, “Are you sure?”
“No. Just suspicious.”
“I’ll look into it,” I promised.
“I expect you’ll be busy, with a new king and all.”
“I’m always busy.” Which reminded me that I must return to the castle and wait upon Queen Eleanor. She had called me Merlin Redux, which suddenly seemed truer than I had known at the time. We broke up the other tete-a-tete, and I dragged my cantor away, not quite literally.
“Nice girl?” I said as we stalked along the street.
“All right,” Lars said with a shrug. “I was trying to talk her into coming to Oxford. Why are girls always so stubborn?”
Back at the castle, we found well-wishers swarming like bees. Ranulf de Glanville had remained at his post, for he was still chief justiciar, but he must have spread the word to his friends. No doubt the worst of them were already packing, planning to flee from the new king’s vengeance, while the optimists among them rushed to Winchester in the hope of currying favor after years of treating their queen as a leper.
I saw many that I knew, and was greeted exuberantly by many who yesterday would have rather thrown me in their moats. Some of the glory of my news had stuck to me, and the queen added to it by sending for me before all the other supplicants.
I expressed a desire to return to Oxford at once, but she bade me remain in Winchester for a few days. She then sat me down on her right and Glanville on her left, and proceeded to keep us there for hours, while she received all the fawning toadies and accepted their oaths of loyalty in her son’s name. Those who saw me as an upstart Saxon turd smiled and bowed and kept their contempt warm on the hob for another day. Seemingly oblivious of how she might be storing up trouble for me, Eleanor was in the seventh heaven of delight at being a queen again, being in touch with the world, wielding power. She invited a few of her especial favorites to stay on for a small celebration.
Far into the night the party continued. Required to play the gittern and sing, Lars acquitted himself well. A page brought him a gratuity which popped his eyes, so Eleanor had acquired money from somewhere.
One of my own troubles arrived that evening as Lars and I were saying our prayers before climbing into our squeaky bed again. The door flew open without a knock, and in strode a young man, not tall but heavyset, extravagantly dressed in silks and satins and glowing with the confidence of high rank. He carried a lantern, which he set down on the table as if he intended to stay awhile.
We both sprang to our feet. Perhaps we should have completed our orisons first, but for all we had known the intruder was armed and dangerous. We both wore only our small clothes, meaning next to nothing in summer.
Lars opened his mouth to roar, but I sank to my knees again, reflecting that this time I was more honoring the Devil than God. Puzzled, Lars followed my example.
“So sorry to interrupt your perversions,” Lord John said mockingly. “You,” he told Lars, “out!” He jerked a thumb at the still-open door.
Both startled and furious, Lars looked to me.
“Do as His Grace says, Son.”
So then Lars guessed who this newcomer was, with curly hair of Plantagenet red, distinctive even in the uncertain lantern light, so he jumped up and bowed, using the flowery contortions of a full court bow, which were absurd in his near-nudity. He scooped up his clothes and left, closing the door softly.
By his family’s standards, Lord John was short, a foot shorter than the new king. Once he had been King John, but only briefly, because when he was eleven years old, his father had given him Ireland. Only three people truly believed that Ireland was Henry’s to give, the third one being the Pope. As soon as he reached eighteen and was knighted, John had been sent off to claim his inheritance. His efforts to convince the Irish that he was their God-given ruler failed so abysmally that he managed to alienate every man on the island, natives and Norman squatters both. It was after he fled back to the safety of England that his father named him John Lackland. It was unwise for anyone else to address him as such. I must be careful; he did not seem to be armed, but he was certainly dangerous.
He took the only stool, leaving me on my knees.
“Truly your son?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Such a relief! I thought I would have to denounce you. They castrate sodomists, you know. You have told my mother that my father died on Thursday. How did you, in Oxford, learn of this so quickly?”
I was very tempted to ask him how he had done the same thing, because I knew he had been in Nottingham on Wednesday evening. He did not know that I knew that, of course. How had he arrived in Winchester in three days? I would have guessed that to be impossible, even for a twenty-two-year-old renowned for a fanatical love of hunting. His fancy clothes showed that he had changed on arriving, but he had brought a strong odor of horse with him and his face was still filthy with road dust. He could not have set out any earlier than Lars and I left Oxford; he could not possibly have learned of his father’s death by mundane means. He could not have made that ride without the aid of some sort of conjuration.
“By enchantment, my lord. That is my profession and my duty.”
“You were spying on him? That’s a hanging offense at least.”
“My duties as enchanter general include advising the king of significant events. When His Grace is overseas, I report to Regent de Glanville. I knew that both he and the queen were here, so I hastened here at once.”
“That is no answer. Don’t mince words with me, devil worshiper.”
“My lord, I was not spying on the king, but I knew by the arts of my profession that he had died.”
Lackland narrowed his eyes for a moment, aware that he was not intimidating me, at least not yet. “We only have your word for that. How do I know you’re telling the truth?”
“Castration and hanging would be a pleasure compared to what your noble mother would do to me if she learned that I had lied to her.”
His laugh sounded quite genuine. No one ever denied that John could be charming when he wished. “So true! And now my brother is king? He doesn’t give a spit for England, you know. The only lands he cares abou
t are Aquitaine, Poitou, Anjou, Normandy, and the other French ones.” He shrugged. “Richard can’t speak above a dozen words of English. I speak it well, don’t I?” He had been doing so since he came in.
“Extremely well, my lord.”
“So Richard will undoubtedly appoint me regent, to run England for him.”
Hope and pray that he would not be so stupid!
“He has sworn the crusaders’ oath, my lord, so he will have to make some such arrangement for all his possessions.”
Pouting, John said, “Pah! Mother, you think? A woman ruling England? My grandmother tried that and made a total dung heap of it. Besides, the old bag can’t last much longer. When she heads off to Hell, he’ll have no other choice than me. I am, after all, his heir.”
No mention of their nephew, Lord Arthur? Many people would think he had a stronger claim.
“Richard is a great butcher,” John continued. “Massacres are his forte—peasants, towns, other peoples’ troops, anyone who annoys him. He’s never happy unless he’s building himself a new castle or sacking someone else’s. Yet he is as naive as a baby. King Philip plays him like a gittern. He convinced Richard that Father was planning to disinherit him and leave everything to me. That’s what started this latest war.”
This was fairly close to the truth as I knew it, and I wasn’t inclined to argue. I was still waiting to find out what my visitor wanted of me. Almost certainly I would have to refuse him, and people who crossed any male Plantagenet were wise to wear their chain mail to bed.
He regarded me for a moment in silence, then said, “I hear you can smite castles with a wave of your hand.”
“I did yesterday, but King Philip will surely hear of it. France has sages too, and they can put warding spells on all his castle gates.”
“Then why haven’t you been putting them on our castle gates, Enchanter General? Shouldn’t that be part of your duties?”
“Because it would be an intolerable nuisance in peacetime. The guards would have to know the password to open them, so the secret would inevitably leak. Only when enemies approach is the time to ward them, my lord.”
Another instant change of subject: “I have a small problem, Baron Durwin. You could help me with it.”
“I should be glad to do so if it is possible.”
“Quite possible. There is a certain fair young maiden whom I most grievously wish to mount. You could supply me with means to turn her icy refusal into feverish desire?”
Remembering Eadig’s hints that morning I was startled, and must have looked it. Had Lackland been spying on us, just as I had spied on the kings’ parley? If Eadig’s suspicions were correct, why was Lord John asking me for help in his Satanic rapes? Fortunately he would have expected me to look surprised and shocked. I decided that he was just testing me.
“I could, my lord, but then I would have to denounce both you and myself for using black magic. Detecting and stamping out Satanism are my principle duties.”
“And who decides what magic is black?” He was clever.
“Ultimately the Church does.”
“And in the meantime Durwin of Pipewell will decide?” His pale eyes studied me for a very long moment. “I am the heir to England and sundry other domains. I am a very dangerous man to cross, Saxon.”
“I do not doubt that, my lord, but I fear the Devil more. I will never dabble in black magic, not at any price.”
He leaned forward so his eyes were close to, and level with, mine. “So you say, but you walk on the rim of Hell, Enchanter— day in and day out. You snatch your powers from Satan, like a mouse stealing crumbs beside a sleeping cat, but this cat knows you are there and one day the paw will strike. Then you will fall off that narrow edge, on the wrong side. When I was born, you cast my horoscope.”
“I did.”
“I want to see it.”
“I do not have it. I gave it to your honored mother four days after your birth. I never keep copies of horoscopes.” I still had my notes, of course, but saw no reason to say so.
My continuing defiance reddened his cheeks. “Then answer me one question, Saxon. Did the stars tell you that I will one day be king of England?”
Now I had to pause and think. “I’m sure you are aware, lord, that the stars do not make such specific prophecies. They merely warn of good times or dark times.”
“But Thursday, for instance, must have seemed a very good time for Richard and a very bad time for Father?”
“I expect so,” I said, seeing where this was going.
“You have cast both my horoscope and my brother’s. Is there a similar match in our future, a very bad time for him and a very good one for me?”
I decided that lying to him would do more harm than good in the long run. With a sigh, I said, “Yes, my lord, they did. You will have to be patient, but it does seem that one day you will wear the crown of St. Edward.” And may God have mercy on us then.
The following morning, I went back to the chantry, leaving Lars still safely asleep. The sick were already lining up at the door, but my green cape gained me immediate entry, and I asked for Dean Eadig. Seeing no sign of Gwynda, I wondered if her absence had anything to do with Lord John’s presence in town.
Eadig received me in a small consultation room—a couch, a stool, and a solid soundproof door. Neither of us sat down. “You have new worries?” he asked right away.
“Possibly. You must know some workers in the castle stables?”
He nodded. Winchester is not huge and impersonal, like London.
“Lord John rode in last night. I should dearly like to know who came with him.”
Eadig looked at me as if I were moon-howling crazy. “All two or three hundred of them? He is rarely discreet about his state, Enchanter!”
“In this case I’ll bet he came with a very small train. I’m especially thinking about anyone who might be an enchanter.”
“Ah!” Now I made sense, yet still Eadig looked puzzled. “There isn’t a landowner of any worth in England who doesn’t employ a house sage or two. I’ve always suspected that you kept a pretty close tally of them.”
“I do,” I admitted. “And I know most of them personally, because all but a few old-timers studied in Oxford. But I cannot recall any who work for Lord John—which is odd, because the high and mighty usually ask me to refer sages to them. He probably employs some Frenchman, or Frenchmen. If I knew their names, I could ask Couché about them.” Armand Couché was the king’s enchanter general for his French domains.
“I’ll see what we can do,” Eadig promised. “So you think Lackland is dabbling in something he shouldn’t?”
“As you said, the notches in his bedposts certainly suggest that—he makes his late father look like a nervous nun. That, and the fact that he seems to travel faster than a stooping peregrine. Don’t quote me on that, please.”
“I never heard of a conjuration for traveling fast, Enchanter.”
“Neither have I.” That was partly what was rankling. I thought I knew every valid spell in the kingdom, certainly all the white magic, and I had copies of most of the black locked away in the crypt in Oxford. A go-like-the-wind conjuration would be enormously valuable. I could finance the entire college by marketing that to major landowners, whose estates are often scattered all over the realm. My other worry was that if John Lackland was using such lore, what else did he have that I didn’t?
Back at the castle, I learned that he had already left, bound for France to do homage to his brother. I suspected from Queen Eleanor’s icy demeanor when she told me this, that he had not asked her permission. That raised—but did not answer— an interesting question about who had precedence: the king’s mother or his heir presumptive? And when Richard named an heir designate, who would it be? John or baby Arthur of Brittany? The traditions of inheritance in England were not necessarily the same as those in his French domains.
I spent most of that day witnessing oaths of loyalty, as I had the day before. That evening, L
ars mentioned that he had a message for me from his Honorary-Uncle Eadig.
“Been back to the chantry, have you?” I asked.
Baby blue eyes are wonderful for expressing innocence. “Well, I have nothing to do here, and I thought they might need an extra cantor, what with all these people jamming into the town just now.”
“Quite. Did they? Or was one of their cantors able to take some time off?”
“We went for a walk together. You want the message, Father?”
“Tell me.”
“Dean Eadig said that the man you were asking about arrived with a single attendant, a squire named Bran of Tara. He says Bran’s often been here before, but no one seems to know anything more about him.”
A king’s brother traveling with a single attendant was a bizarre notion in itself, almost enough to confirm my suspicions—mere abbots have been known to lead armies of fifty. Bran was neither a French name nor an English one, and where in the world was Tara?
Although the messenger had made wondrous speed from Chinon, it was Thursday before King Richard’s letters arrived, brought by a man I knew and respected, William Marshal. I was much surprised by this, because Sir William had been one of King Henry’s closest confidants—the aides known as familiares,a group to which I had been honored to belong for many years. I had expected King Richard to send one of his own cronies. The fact that the new king had accepted William Marshal’s oath of fealty so quickly showed the very high respect in which he was held. But William was also a shrewd judge of which side to butter his bread.
I was anxious to speak with him, but Queen Eleanor received him at once, wanting to hear details of her husband’s passing and the current situation in France. It was a long time before she gave William his leave, and night had fallen when he won free of all the fawning courtiers wanting news.
Lars and I were standing on the battlements, enjoying the evening’s coolness and studying summer stars in a moonless sky: Deneb and Vega, Aquila and Capricornis. Despite his size, William could move quietly, and we both jumped when the familiar voice came out of the darkness near my right shoulder.