Her companions gaped at her.
“But,” said Sophie, “why . . . why my guardian, and not Joanna’s? And what need have we of a guardian, when we have a father living?”
“Each of you has a father living, yes,” said Mrs. Wallis. Gray frowned at this peculiar expression of the facts and waited for her to elaborate, but she did not.
For the next quarter-hour Mrs. Wallis’s impassive calm met Sophie’s and Joanna’s increasingly importunate questions. Gray’s own suspicions, growing all the while, at last produced an ultimatum.
“We go no farther,” he declared, coldly furious, “until you have explained to us whence came all the coin, and why you had all in readiness for flight before we thought to flee, and what was your purpose—and, above all, Mrs. Wallis, who you are.”
Mrs. Wallis presented an appearance of dignity in defeat, but Gray thought he detected a contradictory gleam of satisfaction in her dark eyes.
“Tell me, children,” she said softly. “Has any of you heard the tale of the Midnight Queen?”
Joanna’s grey eyes lit with recognition, but Sophie frowned, puzzled, and asked, “Who?”
“Queen Laora,” Mrs. Wallis told her. “Second wife of King Henry, and eldest daughter of the last Duke of Breizh . . .”
“Oh!” said Gray. “She who eloped with a Breton nobleman—or perhaps was a spy in the pay of the Alban king? And I once heard it said, I believe, that she had smothered the little Princess, and fled when . . .”
His voice trailed off as he saw that Joanna was looking at him in astonishment, and Mrs. Wallis in what might almost have been dislike.
“No, no,” cried Joanna; “she ran away because—”
“Listen,” said Mrs. Wallis quellingly, “and you shall hear the true tale, from one who knows the whole of it.”
* * *
“I was there, when Queen Laora made her choice,” Mrs. Wallis said. “I have heard that the servants in the Royal Palace in London spoke of it in whispers for years thereafter, that final confrontation between King Henry and herself.”
“You were there?” Joanna demanded. “How came that to be?”
Sophie expected a reprimand, but Mrs. Wallis only smiled—a tight and mirthless smile—and said, “Listen.”
Joanna subsided, listening tensely; her hand crept into Sophie’s, and Sophie squeezed it gratefully.
“His Majesty,” Mrs. Wallis went on, “had only one living child, the little Princess Edith Augusta, for his first wife, Niamh of Eire, was barren; but he had high hopes of more. A son, of course, like any man,” she added bitterly, with an unreadable glance aside at Gray.
Gray looked as though such an idea had never crossed his mind.
“Needed a son, surely,” Sophie said; “Princess Edith Augusta could not have inherited the throne.”
“Women did, in Breizh, before the Saozneg conquest,” said Joanna.
“In any event,” said Mrs. Wallis, “His Majesty was pleased with himself, and with his Queen and his child and the sons he was certain would follow, and in this optimistic humour he sent an embassy to the Iberian Court.”
This meant nothing in particular to Sophie—that the great Iberian Empire existed, in splendid isolation away to the south, was the sum total of her knowledge thereof—but Joanna and Gray both sat up straighter.
“The Iberians were not greatly interested in an alliance of any sort with Britain,” Mrs. Wallis continued, “but they were, as ever, eager to bring new and valuable magickal talents into their bloodlines, and for that purpose were prepared to make unusual concessions—to grant us, in fact, some limited access to the extraordinarily varied commodities produced in the far reaches of their empire.”
Sophie frowned, puzzling this out.
“Queen Laora knew, of course, that her daughter must one day marry out of her family and her home, as she had been—as she had done herself. The prospect of sending the Princess away to Iberia when she reached the age for marriage did not please her, but it was not unexpected; the prince to whom she was betrothed was more than twenty years her senior, and though this, too, was not a pleasing prospect, such betrothals often come to naught. She therefore made no objection. The Iberian Empress, however, demanded that the Princess be sent there within the year, to be raised in her household, and this Laora could not bear.”
“What did the Iberians want her for?” Sophie asked. “What talent had she, that they considered so valuable?”
“Can you not guess?” Mrs. Wallis said softly. And, when Sophie shook her head, she continued, “Well. The Queen wept and begged and raged at her husband; she demanded to know what could have possessed him. He was patient with her, for he loved her, in his way, but she was desperate in her fury, and his patience had its limits.
“‘The Princess has a duty to her kingdom,’ he finally said. ‘She is too young to understand this, but it is no less true for that. Think, too, how much less difficult it will be for her to leave us now than in two years, or five, or ten—’
“‘And if I refuse to let her go?’ Laora demanded. I could have shaken her for such reckless idiocy; but it would have done no good.
“In any case, the King only looked perplexed. ‘I am her father,’ he said, ‘and you do not rule me, Laora, nor this kingdom. Your consent is not required.’ I believe he was no happier than she, at sending his child away so young; but he would not break his word. And, of course, he believed they would have other children.”
Mrs. Wallis drew one hand across her eyes—a weary gesture, as though the telling of this tale exhausted her.
“He did not hear what she said to him as he left her chamber; but I heard it. There will be no other children, my lord.”
There was a long, tense silence. Sophie became aware that her grip on Joanna’s hand was painfully tight and made an effort to relax her fingers.
“The King did not yet know it,” said Mrs. Wallis, “but that was the last he was to see of his wife and daughter. That evening Laora kept her room, feigning illness—it cannot have been difficult, for she was utterly wretched—and made her plans; or, rather, she made plans, and her cousin, her best-beloved handmaiden, attempted to dissuade her, and succeeded not at all.
“They collected together all the coin and jewellery they possessed, and anything else that might possibly be sold for coin. They chose their plainest clothing and altered it as much as time permitted, to render it less conspicuous, and at the second hour after midnight, when the household slept as much as it ever does, they bundled up the infant Princess and took their leave.”
“And no one saw them, and stopped them?” said Joanna, voicing the disbelief that Sophie also felt.
“No one stopped them,” Mrs. Wallis replied. “Many must have seen them, but without remarking their passing, or remembering it afterward as worthy of remark. Mr. Marshall, what does this fact suggest to you?”
Gray frowned fiercely—an expression not of anger but of furious concentration—but said nothing.
“Queen Laora was determined to return to her home country; she had some mad idea of throwing herself on the mercy of her father, but was at last persuaded that no good could come of such a course. Her handmaiden was for directing their flight to Eire or Alba, or into the Duchies, where they should not be known, but she loved her mistress too well to stand forever against her dearest wish.
“At length they found a small, modest house to let in a small, modest market town in the province of Kernev, and established themselves as a young widow, of modest fortune and modest talent, and her faithful servant, and began to look about them. It was clear, of course, that Laora must marry—”
“What?” Sophie exclaimed, before she could stop herself. “Why?”
Mrs. Wallis gave her a pitying look. “How else were they to live? For a time they might subsist upon the proceeds of their clothing and jewellery, but even carefull
y husbanded, these resources could not last forever.”
“But she was still married to the King,” said Joanna.
“Indeed,” said Mrs. Wallis, “but her suitors had no means of knowing it. And as for the King, if he could not find her, and she would make sure that he could not, he must marry again, for he still had no son. If he were not persuaded that she and her daughter had drowned while crossing the Manche, as the rumour then was in Breizh, then he must eventually have divorced her in absentia.”
“But they did die,” Sophie said. “Did they not?” A creeping dread had begun to take hold of her, though what she dreaded, and why, she could not have told. The beating of her heart threatened to choke her; she remembered her mother’s books, the name Laora carefully inscribed in so many of them instead of Mama’s name, Rozenn; I inherited those books, Mama had said, when Sophie had asked why.
“Laora died, yes,” said Mrs. Wallis, “but not then. Though in some ways . . . but no.” She gave Joanna a long, sad look. “It was not such a very bad plan,” she said, with a sigh. “Its downfall was that the most eligible of Laora’s suitors was a wealthy widower with a young daughter—a Fellow of Merlin College, by the name of Appius Callender.”
CHAPTER XI
In Which Mrs. Wallis Is Asked Difficult Questions
“Impossible,” Sophie said flatly.
“Sophie is a princess?” said Joanna.
“How do we know that you speak truth?” Gray demanded. So bizarre and unexpected was Mrs. Wallis’s tale that it would not strike him until much later how far—once again—she had managed to evade his questions. Had all the tales been false, then? The version of events current in England in his boyhood had painted a very different picture of Queen Laora’s actions. The Breton harlot, he had heard her called, the false queen, la traîtresse . . .
“Has Sophie a crown-shaped birthmark somewhere?” said Joanna eagerly. “Or a locket with her parents’ portraits? Or a royal signet-ring? Or—”
“You, miss, pay too much heed to minstrel-tales,” Mrs. Wallis interrupted, her tone severe.
Joanna’s chin rose, her brows drew down, and she was drawing breath to protest this judgement when Mrs. Wallis went on: “Think, child. Had the truth been discovered, the Iberian marriage might yet have been carried through.” The colour drained from Sophie’s face, and she clasped her trembling hands together. “The last thing your mother wished was any visible sign that Sophia Callender was in fact Edith Augusta Sophia, Princess Royal of the House of Tudor.”
Sophie’s throat worked; her face, already pale, began to look a little green.
“The magick,” said Gray. “Of course, her mother’s magick is the sign. It was there all along, had anyone been by to see it.” Then he dropped to one knee beside the bed and bent his head over Sophie’s hand. “Your devoted servant, Your Royal Highness,” he said softly.
With an inarticulate cry, Sophie snatched her hand away. When Gray looked up at her, she drew back and slapped him, so violently that he nearly lost his balance. Then, turning her back on them all, she burst into tears.
* * *
Sophie would not have either Gray or Mrs. Wallis near her, and Joanna’s glares could have frozen Tartarus itself. They retired, therefore, to Gray’s tiny chamber, where Gray set his wards against eavesdroppers and perched on the end of the bed, and Mrs. Wallis settled herself in the only chair. For some time they sat in silence, considering their respective positions.
“You were the faithful handmaiden,” Gray said at last.
Mrs. Wallis inclined her head.
“Who are you?” he asked her, for at least the fifth time since their departure.
“My name would mean nothing to you,” she said.
Gray frowned at her; she met his gaze steadily, her face expressionless, until at length he tacitly conceded the field.
“Tell me,” he said instead, “what is it Sophie does when she sings, that triggered the interdiction and gave me hallucinations?” There seemed no use in concealing this aspect of his “illness” now. “Was that her mother’s magick, also?”
“No,” said Mrs. Wallis, thoughtful. “That talent she has from her grandmother—her father’s mother.”
There was a silence as Gray recalled the book of Breton tales in the library at Callender Hall, the faded ex libris Laora inscribed on the flyleaf, and wondered what other volumes of hers he might have found there, had he known how useful it might be to look.
“It strikes me,” he said, changing the subject, “that it would be wise to make a survey of the neighbourhood—to know whether we are pursued.”
“An excellent plan.” Mrs. Wallis raised her eyebrows. “How exactly do you propose to carry it out?”
Recklessly cheerful at the thought of what he was about to do, Gray beamed at her. “You may have the use of my room as long as you like, Aunt Ida,” he said brightly. “You shall have a full report when I return.”
* * *
Enjoying her bemused stare—So there is one secret of mine that she has not penetrated, after all!—he ducked behind the dressing-screen that hid one corner of the room; he was forced to bend almost double to make the barrier do its office, as its upper edge scarcely reached his ribs. After a few moments, feeling at once foolish and exhilarated, he crouched down, the ancient oaken floorboards smooth under his bare feet, and closed his eyes, breathing deeply and slowly, willing his body to relax.
Slowly he focused all his thoughts, all his magick, and the pent-up energy of his long summer’s yearning to fly, into the process of the shift. The more his body shed its human aspect, the lighter and more compact his crouched form became, the more he had to steady himself against a tide of joy. That he was weary and stiff and saddle-sore no longer mattered, now that he had his wings again.
At last, blinking round eyes, he emerged from behind the screen: nearly two feet and a half of soft, grey-barred feathers, sidling awkwardly on splayed-out talons.
Mrs. Wallis, for the first time in Gray’s memory, looked nonplussed. She stared at his owl self for a long moment, and then, slowly, she began to chuckle. “A Great Grey,” she said at last. “Very fitting, indeed—though a native bird would be less conspicuous.” She drew something from her reticule.
Then, to his surprise, she leant down and lifted him in her arms. “For safety,” she said, looping something round his left leg. “A charm left me by Queen Laora, to shield the wearer from unwelcome notice. Good hunting, young man. And keep well clear of the interdict.”
Then Mrs. Wallis carried him to the window and tossed him out.
The inn’s upper storey was not so high as the window of Gray’s college rooms, and he had a nervous moment before instinct took over and he surged aloft. His blocky, compact body hung suspended between his outspread wings, more than four feet from tip to tip. He must not fritter away all the effort of this magickal working, he knew; he must do what he had promised, and reconnoitre the path they had taken. But in those first moments he could not resist simply circling, borne along on pillowing updraughts.
This, he thought, half giddy with the joy of it—this is how it feels to be properly alive.
The Great Grey Owl is not built for majestic soaring, but such a bird can coast on the breeze as well as any other with large, strong wings. Gray flew as high as he dared, attempting, with little success, to spy Callender Hall in the distance without coming near enough to run afoul of the interdiction; then, coming down to a more owl-like elevation, he explored the path their party had taken, gliding silently from tree to tree in search of any sign of pursuit. He found none, which did not surprise him, but he was puzzled to discover that even their own passage had left almost no visible traces. He had not thought to use any means of obscuring their trail—but evidently someone else had done so.
And there could be no doubt, surely, who that someone was.
* * *
At
breakfast the next morning, Sophie could scarcely bring herself to meet Gray’s eyes. She felt ashamed of herself—though her anger at him remained. Had she struck him because she believed him to be mocking her, or because she knew that he did not? And how was she to justify to him, or to anyone else, what she could not explain even to herself?
Joanna and she had lain awake into the night, discussing in whispers Mrs. Wallis’s more than incredible tale. Joanna seemed less perturbed by her mother’s not having been properly wedded to her father than vexed to find the Professor her father in truth—having, it transpired, long fancied herself a changeling-child. Sophie herself was so overwhelmed by these latest revelations that she could scarcely manage to order her thoughts coherently.
“I cannot bear it,” she had sobbed into her pillow, shrugging off Joanna’s attempts at comfort. “I do not want to be a princess, Jo. Nor to be Elinor Dunstan. Mama was right to run away! Imagine, an Iberian prince—an old Iberian prince—and I should never have known Mama at all, or Breizh, or England. Or you, Jo. I want . . . I want to go back, back to the—to Father—and Amelia. I want to be myself again.”
“You are yourself,” said Joanna. “What other choice is there? And Mama had better have stayed, and done her duty, and let you do yours; I cannot see that her marrying Father did the least good to either of you.”
“But, Jo! Only think, if Mama had not married the Professor—”
“It will all come right in the end.” Joanna overrode Sophie’s protest, heartlessly cheerful. “You know very well you were miserable with Father and Amelia; now you need never answer to them again. You have always wished for magick, have you not? Well, here’s your wish granted, and your very tall beau to teach you the use of it—”
“Gray is not my beau, Joanna,” Sophie interrupted. “You are a silly girl, and your imagination has got the best of you.”
In the darkness, Joanna’s silence managed to seem both knowing and smug.
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