“I do love a good prophecy,” said Phillip. “When do you think it will come to pass?”
“According to my mother and her followers, the first part of the prophecy has already been fulfilled. They are just waiting for the other half.”
“The first half,” Phillip mused. “You would be the male child, of course. But what is ‘the sign of seven’?”
“The discovery of the seventh sigil,” Thomas explained.
“Good God!” Phillip said, startled. “You are right. Now you just have to save Freya from an ancient evil. I can’t think what that would be.”
“Not even my mother can find an ancient evil,” said Thomas. “And, trust me, she has been searching.”
Phillip seemed restless. He suddenly threw off the bedclothes and stood up.
“I’m sick to death of lying about like a slug. Let’s go for a walk.”
“Absolutely not!” said Thomas. “I have strict orders from Father Ramone to keep you in bed. There, you see! You can’t even stand.”
He hurried to help Phillip, who had grown giddy and nearly fallen.
“I could stand if your bloody floor would stop jumping about,” Phillip grumbled.
Thomas grinned. “What you need is beef broth and milk toast.”
“Heaven forfend!” Phillip said with a faint smile. Thomas saw that he looked very pale.
“I should not have kept you talking,” said Thomas in remorse. “I will let you rest. Is there anything I can bring you? A book to read? My mother has an extensive library. All for show, of course. She throws books on occasion, but I don’t think she has ever read one.”
“I’m not much of a reader myself. There is one thing you could do,” said Phillip. “I promised a young lady of my acquaintance that I would— She was worried, you see, and I told her I would let her know…” He flushed. His voice trailed off in embarrassment.
“I will have servants bring you pen and paper,” said Thomas. “Write your letter to this young lady and then take a nap.”
Thomas rang the bell and ordered paper, ink, and a writing desk Phillip could use in bed. Seeing his friend settled, Thomas again admonished him to rest, then went to the stables.
Saddling the horse his mother kept for him, he set out for a ride in the park. He soon found friends who invited him to join them, but he was in a reflective mood and wanted to be alone.
“It’s good to talk to someone who understands. None of the others do,” Thomas said to himself.
He thought of the teasing about being “the Prince of Freya” he had endured since his mother had revealed to the world the secret that had been closely held for one hundred fifty years: The Stanford line had not perished with the death of King James. His direct descendant, Thomas Stanford, was the true and rightful heir to the throne.
If asked, his friends would have termed their gibes good-natured; their insults were “meant to be funny.” He was the only one who heard the bitterness and jealousy, the rancor in the laughter. And when once he had grown angry and told them he didn’t appreciate their humor, they had accused him of taking himself too seriously and had spent the rest of the night bowing and scraping to “His Highness.”
Since then, Thomas had learned to smile and laugh, keeping his true feelings behind the walls of the fortress of his being where he lived in isolation.
As he rode through the park, letting the horse go where it would, he wondered if, at last, he would be able to open the fortress gates, admit someone he could trust.
* * *
Phillip wrote his letter to the “young woman,” who in truth was Sir Henry Wallace. The letter was written in a code Simon Yates had devised for the Rose Hawks years ago. It contained the information he had gleaned from Thomas: telling them what he knew about Captain Smythe, the number of troops, where they were located, the prophecy (Henry would get a chuckle out of that), and the Freyan nobleman known only as “Sir Richard.” Phillip concluded with his own thoughts about Thomas:
Much to my surprise, my lord, I find I like the prince very much. He is not, as we have been led to believe, burning with ambition, although his mother apparently has enough for both of them. Thomas is brave and gallant, modest, intelligent and thoughtful. Should the unforeseen occur and he become king, I think Freya might do worse.
Phillip read over his letter. When he came to the last page, he frowned. Henry would certainly not be pleased to read such a glowing description of the Pretender. Henry wanted to hear that Thomas was a depraved monster, harboring evil designs upon their beloved country.
Phillip addressed the envelope to its recipient, Mistress Simone Yates, To Be Left Until Called For, smiling as he did so. He folded and inserted all the pages except the last one into the envelope. He sealed the letter with his signet ring, then rang the bell, telling the servant that the letter should go out with the evening post.
“And could you light the fire?” Phillip asked. “I’m feeling chilled.”
The servants looked surprised; the room was sweltering. Nevertheless, they did as he asked.
When he was alone, Phillip read the comments he had written about Thomas one more time, then tore up the paper. He dropped the pieces into the fire, watched to see that they had burned to ashes, then picked up the poker and stirred the ashes.
This done, Phillip returned to his bed, where he lay awake, disliking himself very much.
TWENTY
Henry Wallace was traveling by wyvern-drawn carriage to the home of his friend Simon Yates. He noted the fact that it was taking an infernally long time for the carriage to catch up with Simon Yates’s floating house, but, uncharacteristically, he made no comment. A westerly breeze had sent Welkinstead drifting past the city limits, almost into the country. Henry usually complained if he had to waste time tracking down the house. This time he sat in the back of the carriage in silent perturbation.
Accustomed to the complaints, Mr. Sloan was observing Henry with concern. “You are not yourself today, my lord. I trust all went well in Travia?”
“I have good news on that subject,” said Henry. “I am worried about Lady Ann. These confounded healers and midwives tell me all will be well, but what do they know?”
“I keep your lady wife in my prayers, my lord,” said Mr. Sloan.
“Thank you, Mr. Sloan,” said Henry.
Lady Ann was due to deliver their second child at any time, and while Henry had made all the arrangements for physicians—including the royal physician himself—healers and midwives to attend his beloved Mouse, he did not think he had done enough. The royal physician, three healers, and five midwives all had assured him that Lady Ann was in excellent health and should have a safe delivery.
“What do they know?” Henry muttered again.
What he knew was that childbearing was dangerous and he wasn’t about to take chances.
Henry had just returned from Travia, where he had met with a representative of the Travian dragons, a female dragon named Odila. He had arrived in Travia at a propitious time. The Travian government had foolishly sent armed soldiers to demand that the dragons pay their taxes; Odila and the other dragons were furious. Henry had been properly incensed and extremely sympathetic, and had left with assurances that the Travian dragons would undoubtedly accept his offer of titles and land in return for a fortune in gold.
Henry needed to talk to Simon, but he had not wanted to leave his wife at this time. She, however, had ordered him out of the house.
“You are driving me to distraction, Henry,” Ann had laughingly scolded him. “Fidgeting about the house all day, then leaping to your feet in a panic to fetch the physician just because I happened to hiccup. Simon will want to hear the news from Travia. You should go tell him.”
When the carriage finally arrived at Welkinstead, Henry entered in company with Mr. Sloan and the two went immediately to Simon’s office.
“Ah, Henry, your arrival is timely. We’ve received a letter from Phillip,” Simon announced. “I have decoded it.”
“Well done,” said Simon.
Henry removed his hat and coat and handed them to Mr. Albright, who silently bore them away. Mr. Sloan gave a sheaf of papers to Simon, who passed along the decoded version of Phillip’s letter.
“One odd thing about this letter,” said Simon.
“What is that?” Henry asked.
“It is only five pages long,” said Simon.
“I don’t see anything odd in that. Phillip said all he had to say in five pages.”
“The oddity is that Phillip wrote a sixth page, but did not send it.”
“How can you possibly tell?” Henry demanded.
“His signature is cramped up at the bottom of the fifth page. You see? There is barely room for him to write his name and there was no room at all for a closing.”
“And why is this significant?” Henry asked, turning to the last page.
“If you are writing a letter, you know to leave space at the bottom of the last page for your closing and your signature. He did not need to leave space on page five, because he had moved on to page six. But he decided not to send the sixth page and thus had to squeeze in his signature on page five.”
“Are you saying there is something sinister in this?” Henry asked, frowning.
“Not in the least,” said Simon airily. “I just found it curious.”
Henry glared at his friend. “Curious! For God’s sake, Simon, give your giant brain a day in the park!”
Simon raised an eyebrow and cast a questioning look at Mr. Sloan, who gave a cough and said, by way of explanation, “Her Ladyship’s time…”
“Ah, yes,” said Simon.
Lowering his head, he began to study the report. Henry perused the letter.
“Ha!” he said. “Phillip says to thank that marine sniper Alan selected for his exemplary marksmanship. The bullet hit nothing vital and our plan worked. Pip managed to immediately gain the sympathy and trust of the Pretender, who conveyed our friend to the house of the marchioness in Verisol.”
“Prince Thomas is not a pretender. He is royalty,” Simon pointed out. “You can’t deny his heritage.”
Henry lowered the letter to fix Simon with a grim look. “Stanford is not my prince! I don’t care how much blue blood he has coursing through his veins. I will not dignify him with the title.”
Henry returned to his reading. “Mr. Sloan, this will be of interest to you. I asked Phillip to find out who was in command of the Pretender’s army. He is Freyan, a retired marine captain named Jonathan Smythe. Do you know him?”
“I served with several Smythes, my lord,” said Mr. Sloan. “The name is a common one.”
“Which means it is undoubtedly an alias,” said Simon.
“True enough,” Henry said, sighing. He continued to read. “Listen to this. According to Phillip, the Pretender told him that a Freyan nobleman has been assisting his foul cause! Phillip says he is known only as Sir Richard.”
“We are aware that the prince has supporters in high places in the Freyan government, Henry,” said Simon.
“Those you call the Faithful,” Henry muttered. He went on reading.
“Phillip mentions a prophecy. Prophecy, my ass!” he fumed. “The marchioness made that up. The woman will stop at nothing.”
“Unfortunately, she didn’t, Henry,” said Simon. “You should really read Jonathan’s findings. He discovered the queen’s martyred priest prophesied the sign of seven and an ancient evil. Jonathan theorized that sign of the seven could be taken by the Faithful to mean the discovery of the seventh sigil.”
“Poor Jonathan,” Henry said. “He could never leave well enough alone. As we know, the ‘usuper,’ Alfred, went on to become one of our greatest kings. He ruled with skill and wisdom for thirty years and died peacefully in his sleep. You’re telling me that all the while, some secret society was out there plotting his downfall. Why didn’t they act?”
They had secretly smuggled the queen and her children out of Freya, but the king’s son died on the journey. Fearing Alfred would find and murder the queen, the Faithful spread the rumor that she and her daughters also had perished. At that time, a daughter could not inherit her father’s throne. The Faithful had to wait for a male child to be born. Unfortunately, a hundred and fifty years passed before that happened.
“And now these Faithful are working to place this insolent young upstart, Stanford, on the throne!” Henry snorted again. “Next you will tell me they have secret handshakes and swear blood oaths and hold clandestine meetings in mausoleums!”
Simon gave his friend a sympathetic smile. “You fall back on sarcasm to deflect your anxiety, Henry. I know you are worried, but all will be well with Lady Ann. She came through splendidly giving birth to little Hal.”
Henry gave up trying to concentrate on the letter and tossed it onto the desk.
“Lady Ann may have done splendidly, but I was a wreck,” he confessed. “I was never so terrified in my life with the exception, perhaps, of when our house was struck by the green-beam weapon and collapsed around our ears. If anything were to happen to my beloved Mouse…”
Overcome by emotion, he covered his eyes with his hand. Simon sent Mr. Albright for a restorative brandy, then maneuvered his floating chair to Henry’s side.
“You are accustomed to controlling every situation, Henry, but you must face the sad fact that you cannot control this one. You have done all that a man can do and you must leave the rest in God’s hands. Right, Mr. Sloan?”
“God holds us all in His hands, my lord, and He has a special care for the little children,” said Mr. Sloan.
Mr. Albright appeared at Henry’s side with the brandy. Henry drank it eagerly. The liquor would not ease his fears, but the act of drinking gave him time to master his emotions.
He cleared his throat and said briskly, “To return to business. Have you discovered any evidence that there is an organized movement plotting against our queen?”
“Passions ran high during the Cousins War, as happens with conflicts when families are divided in their allegiance. Bitterness remains even after all these years. I have no evidence, but I believe the existence of these Faithful to be entirely possible.”
“You are right about bitterness extending down through the years,” said Henry. “My own dolt of an ancestor backed the wrong side in the Cousins War and managed to lose everything. My grandfather was bitter over that to the day of his death, but he would have never been part of some secret plot to overthrow the government!”
“I will continue my investigations,” said Simon. “If we are finished with Phillip, we should turn to the Travian dragons. I have read your report and I believe their requests can be readily accommodated. Basically they are asking for large tracts of land where they can live in peace, and to be called ‘Lord So-and-So’ and ‘Lady So-and-So.’ Considering the vast sum they are willing to pay for land that no human wants, and a few meaningless honorifics, I say it is well worth it.”
“I will propose that Her Majesty accept. Of course, I shall have to drum up support in the House of Nobles. I am having dinner with the Old Chap at his club this afternoon. I will bring it up with him,” said Henry.
“How is your brother?” Simon asked.
“Still an attorney, still old, and still boring,” Henry replied with a smile.
“I believe if I ever needed an attorney, I should like him to be old and boring,” said Simon. “Someone like Richard, dull and staid, who takes tea with the judges and attends all-night sessions in the House of Nobles.”
“And manages to stay awake through hours-long speeches,” said Henry.
“Why are you taking this to the House of Nobles? Her Majesty is leasing land owned by the Crown to the dragons. She doesn’t need to seek approval,” said Simon.
“The nobles will view it differently,” said Henry. “They will term it a treaty with a foreign
government and demand a vote. Given the turmoil over the lack of an heir, I prefer not to create another crisis. My hope is that I can blind the nobles with the dazzling glitter of dragon gold.”
“Good luck with your dinner at the Law Club,” said Simon.
“I will need it,” said Henry, grimacing. “The food is deplorable. Leg of boiled mutton and mushy peas, washed down by a truly ghastly claret.”
Simon laughed. “Give my best wishes to Lady Ann,” he called as Henry was departing. “All will go well!”
Henry nodded his thanks and departed.
* * *
The Law Club was open only to those gentlemen employed in the legal profession, and if a person met that prerequisite, the gentleman still had to receive a majority vote from the other members. The club was housed in a building that resembled its members, Henry thought, being the grayest, oldest, and dullest-looking building in Haever.
He was greeted at the door by an ancient steward, who said Sir Richard was expecting him in the dining room. The club’s interior was shadowy and eerily silent. Heavy curtains covered the windows, and thick carpets blanketed the floors. If a member was forced to speak to another member, he did so in a refined whisper. Several members looked up from their newspapers to glare at Henry for disturbing the silence by clearing his throat.
Richard was waiting for him in the dining room, which smelled of mutton. The dining room was one of the few rooms where one could talk in a normal tone. Richard smiled to see Henry and rose to greet him. The two brothers shook hands and then sat down to their meal.
Richard was fifty-five, nearly ten years older than Henry. The two had never been close. Richard had been away at boarding school when Henry was young, going from there to university and then into the practice of law at their father’s law firm. Their father, a judge, had wanted Henry to join the legal profession as well.
“I sooner would have shot myself,” Henry had told his friends.
Richard had married a woman who was gray and dull. They had raised three daughters to be gray and dull and had married them off to gray and dull husbands.
The brothers had not seen each other or spoken in years until Henry invited Richard to his wedding out of politeness, never expecting him to come. Much to Henry’s surprise, Richard attended. The brothers reconnected and Henry, never one to miss a political advantage, proposed they meet monthly for dinner. Henry used these dinners to enlist his brother’s aid in advancing the queen’s causes with the House of Nobles.
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