The Midnight Queen

by Sylvia Izzo Hunter

  Sophie, too, was damp and shivering and still very dirty, though the rain had washed the blood and soot from her face and plastered her hair in sodden tendrils against her head. “How much farther, do you think?” she asked through chattering teeth.

  “Far enough,” he admitted. “Shall we get on?”

  * * *

  The rain eased; Sophie caught sight of a small structure to the left of the path. Close to, it proved to be a simple stone shrine to the Mother Goddess—old, but not abandoned—decorated with a bas-relief carving so weathered that the three figures were almost indistinguishable. Candle stubs, soggy remnants of flowers, and a scattering of grain bore witness to its recent, if not frequent, use.

  Sophie knelt in the mud—she was now so thoroughly drenched that it could hardly matter—and addressed the shrine. “Mother Goddess, bountiful and kind,” she began in ritual fashion, and then, hedging her bets, “Juno, Diana, Ceres, Proserpina, I thank you for my life, this day, and for the life of this, my brother . . .”

  But she found she could not go on.

  With a damp squelching noise as his knees sank into the mud, Gray knelt beside her and began his own prayer: “Mother Goddess, bountiful and kind, we pray you will see us safe out of our present troubles, and those that are to come.”

  They had nothing to leave as an offering, no flowers or grain or coin, no incense to burn or wine to spill—nothing to yield up in exchange for the favours he asked. Nevertheless he bowed to the faceless images and spoke the ancient formula: “Do ut des.”

  I give so that you may give in return.

  As they struggled up out of the clinging mud, Sophie wondered anxiously what result such a bargain might yield.

  * * *

  False dawn had just begun to lighten the sky when they came into sight of their destination. By now they were beyond exhaustion, maintaining forward momentum only by leaning heavily one on the other; even thus supported, neither could go more than ten or twenty paces without rest. “I hope we shall not be seen,” Gray sighed, “for I am far too tired for explanations.”

  Sophie did not reply.

  Their ardent wish to reenter the inn unseen—which ought not to have been impossible, being just such a house as might naturally leave its front door unbolted for the convenience of visitors in the night—was thwarted before ever they came near the door. A light burning in an upper window outlined a small, motionless form; when Gray and Sophie halted some fifteen paces from the house, the light shifted as this figure and its shadow, no longer motionless, loomed and leapt against window and walls, then vanished altogether—to erupt, sooner than seemed possible, from the very door by which they had meant to creep silently in.

  “Elinor! Ned!” it shouted, in Joanna’s voice. “You are come back! Thank all the gods . . .”

  “Joanna, hush!” Gray scolded her. He tried to see her face; there was light enough now, surely, yet everything he looked at seemed faded and blurred, dark around the edges.

  “Take him indoors and feed him,” Sophie said, her voice a great way off. “He is badly magick-shocked—and so am I, I expect . . .”

  Then Joanna and the inn and the lighted window bent and swayed alarmingly, and the cobbles of the forecourt rushed upwards, and he heard no more.

  CHAPTER XVIII

  In Which Several Tales Are Told

  Gray woke abruptly from an unpleasant dream filled with Gorgons and basilisks, in which he tried repeatedly to run to someone’s rescue and repeatedly discovered himself to be turned to ice or stone, to find himself in his room at the inn. He could not have slept long, for the morning sun still streamed cheerfully in through the tiny window opposite the bed. Chill air streamed in with it, the landlord of the Swan having little concern for such fripperies as window-glass.

  At first Gray thought he had woken (as sometimes happens) from one dream into another, for in the rickety chair wedged in next to the clothes-press slumbered a rumpled-looking, and strangely gownless, Master Alcuin. He was snoring very gently, the tip of his beard rising and falling with every breath.

  “Magister?” Gray croaked, shading his eyes against the sun. “What do you here?”

  There was no answer but another delicate snore.

  Gray’s throat still ached, his head was pounding, and, as he woke fully, he began to recognise that he was desperately thirsty—and desperate for something else as well.

  Awkwardly he threw back the bedclothes and swung his legs over the side of the bed; he lurched to his feet, clutching the bedpost for support, and slowly bent down to retrieve the necessary from beneath the bed.

  The room swam; he blinked, trying to clear his vision, but the moment his eyelids descended the swimming and spinning increased, so that his empty stomach heaved painfully and it was all he could do to stay on his feet. No sooner was the receptacle covered and replaced, than he was sinking again, until he found himself on hands and knees with his face against the floorboards. Laboriously he rose to his knees and attempted to scale the side of the bed.

  But it was no use, and at last he subsided to the floor with a thump, both arms wrapped about his aching head.

  There was a scuffling sound from behind him; he suspected rats, but could not bring himself to care very much. Then a familiar voice said, “Marshall?”

  Footsteps, a rustling noise, then the same voice sounding almost in Gray’s ear: “Marshall, my boy, whatever are you doing?”

  Gray sat up—an undertaking requiring Herculean effort—and blinked in consternation at his former tutor. “I am trying,” he said, the words clotting in his throat, “to get back into bed—but—I do not seem to get on at all . . .”

  Master Alcuin was a slightly built, sedentary man at least in the late sixties; Gray had a vague sense that such a person ought not to be asked to lift so much weight, but he was too grateful for the older man’s assistance—and too much in need of it—to make any protest. At length he found himself tucked up into bed again, with Master Alcuin bending over him and fussing at him in a way that would have done credit to his mother.

  “I am very disappointed in you, my boy,” he said, rather severely, and Gray, who had spent most of the return journey from Merlin in castigating himself for his failures, turned his head to the wall, fighting back tears. “I am very sorry, Magister,” he choked. “I wanted so much to save him, but—”

  To his astonishment, he was lifted, and turned, and enveloped in a brief but crushing embrace. “You misunderstand me,” Master Alcuin said, blue eyes kind under his snow-white eyebrows, as Gray sank back into the pillows. “I have no fault to find with you for failing to exert the powers of a god. You did your best, and Lord Halifax chose to ignore your warning.”

  He sat back in his chair and folded his arms. “But that you should be so foolish as to attempt to fly home, after exhausting yourself in fighting off two more experienced mages—that, my boy, disappoints me greatly. I believed I had taught you better sense.”

  Again Gray blinked at him. “Then—that is what is the matter with me?” he said slowly. “Magick shock?” A vague memory came to him, now, of Sophie saying—

  Sophie!

  He sat up abruptly, which made all of his various ills dramatically worse, and clutched at Master Alcuin’s arm. “Sophie,” he said urgently. “Is she—”

  “Your young lady is quite well,” the older man said complacently. “She appears to have been considerably less reckless than her companion. She has been up and about since yesterday evening, I am told.”

  Gray stared, aghast—yesterday evening?—and his mentor chuckled. “Ah, I see,” he said. Then he rose from his chair, snapped his fingers, and crossed to the door that led to the corridor. “You must be very hungry,” he said, turning back. “I shall sally forth in search of breakfast.”

  Left alone, Gray struggled to think past his pounding headache. Everything about the present situation was pe
rplexing and bizarre, but at least he knew now that Sophie was safe and well—though he would not entirely believe it, till he had seen her for himself.

  I must ask Master Alcuin to stop calling her my young lady; I am sure she would not like it.

  Food was brought, and devoured, along with two potfuls of strong tea, and afterward, feeling much restored, Gray at last recalled that his first question had not been answered.

  “Magister,” he said, “you have not yet told me how you came here, or why.”

  Master Alcuin sighed. “Thereby hangs a tale, indeed,” he said. “I think, however, I had rather tell it only once. By your leave, Marshall, I shall send for the rest of your party—”

  He rose to go, but Gray stopped him. “A little time, Magister, I beg,” he said. “I fear I am not fit to be seen at present.”

  It could hardly be denied that he looked quite dreadful, and smelled worse; if Master Alcuin was to be believed, he had slept a full day and night in this ruined shirt. His burnt hands and wrists stung fiercely, and rough, itchy stubble covered his cheeks and chin. He needed a hot bath, new clothes, and a healer; though these luxuries were not to be had at present, he could at any rate wash and shave and put on his ill-fitting old clothes, which were at least neither filthy nor singed. Mrs. Wallis, presumably, could be prevailed on to repair the results of his adventures, provided that he did not look like a denizen of Newgate prison when next she saw him.

  Half an hour later, looking as respectable as cold water, clean linen, and considerable elbow grease could make him, Gray sat on the edge of his hastily tidied bed, awaiting the arrival of Joanna, Mrs. Wallis, and Sophie.

  * * *

  The door opened from within, and Gray (perched on the narrow bed along one wall) tottered to his feet to greet the ladies. He was pale and looked deeply tired, and his too-short shirtsleeves revealed the angry red of burnt skin on his wrists and hands; otherwise, however, he was much more himself than when Sophie had last seen him. He smiled at her, though his eyes remained grim and sad.

  Mrs. Wallis shut the door, and Sophie felt the now-familiar whisper of magick as Master Alcuin warded the tiny room. She wanted more than anything to fling herself into Gray’s arms, but it would not be dignified and, besides, might very well knock him over.

  Her sister, in any event, did it for her.

  “Magister,” said Gray, having extricated himself from Joanna’s too-enthusiastic embrace of his midsection, “please allow me to introduce Miss Joanna Callender. Joanna, Master Everard Alcuin, usually of Merlin College.”

  “Joanna,” Master Alcuin repeated, studying her and tugging thoughtfully at his beard. “A most unusual name.”

  “Joanna is a most unusual young lady,” Gray said dryly. Joanna sniffed—but she looked rather pleased.

  “It is a name used among the Greek-speaking Judæi of the Mediterranean,” the don continued, “derived from the Hebrew Jokhanan, meaning, roughly, ‘gift of God.’”

  “‘Of god’? Which god?” Joanna inquired, frowning.

  Master Alcuin chuckled. “Most Judæi believe that there is only one,” he explained.

  “How peculiar,” said Joanna. “He must be terribly busy.”

  “Interestingly, there are certain sects—some of those that call themselves ‘Christian’—whose belief is that their one god is a tripartite entity—in essence, not unlike our concept of—”

  “Magister.” Gray’s tone was a singular blend of impatience and affection. “Another time, perhaps?”

  “Of course, of course,” his teacher said. “I ask your pardon.”

  Joanna did not seem interested in pursuing the matter, but Sophie could not help remembering her mother’s words on the occasion of Joanna’s birth—The gods withhold their gifts from me, she had said—and wondering.

  “Mrs. Wallis,” Gray said, “the Master of Merlin is dead, and we believe that the Professor and Lord Carteret intend to murder the King.”

  * * *

  Between them, haltingly and with many digressions, Gray and Sophie told their tale. Sophie’s impressions of the battle (if such it could be called), and of their subsequent escape over the College walls, proved very different from Gray’s own; it was startling to hear himself described as brave and quick-witted, when in fact he had been at all times clumsy, slow, and frightened out of his alleged wits.

  “We should have had no chance at all, had Sophie not thought to provide me a weapon,” he argued at one point; turning to her, he said, “When is it that you learnt to perform an unseen summoning? Only that afternoon you were asking me—”

  “The spell is the one I learnt from Gaius Aegidius,” she said, “as I expect you did yourself. And the incentive was very great. It was not so difficult as I expected.”

  By way of demonstration, she summoned a codex from the stack beneath the dressing-table on which she was perched and leant across to put it in his hands.

  Gray gaped at her—as he thought she must have intended.

  “Remarkable,” Master Alcuin murmured. He took the book from Gray; as he listened, he rubbed the worn leather binding gently with his thumb.

  Thus, for some time, the tale went on, until, interrupting Sophie’s breathless recital of her rescue from the Watch, Mrs. Wallis remarked, “If we are to spend the next se’nnight in this excess of mutual admiration, perhaps it will be as well to lay in some provisions.”

  When Sophie and Joanna glared at her, she assumed a bland expression and busied herself once again with the unidentifiable object she was knitting.

  “For my part,” Gray said, looking down at the man beside him, “I should like to hear your portion of the tale, Magister. You must also have had some manner of adventure, I think . . .”

  “What young Marshall means,” his teacher rejoined, “is that I am renowned for my attachment to my own rooms and my own books; he fears that some dire and dreadful calamity must have befallen me, to induce me to change my habits so suddenly.”

  “It is . . . unexpected, you must allow,” said Gray.

  “Well, as to that,” Master Alcuin said, “it is very simple: I am no longer welcome at Merlin, and have therefore decided to throw in my lot with all of you.”

  “But—” Gray began, and could not think how to go on. Everard Alcuin had been at Merlin College always, as far as anyone knew; it seemed quite impossible to imagine the place without him.

  “You must tell us more than that, Professor,” Joanna scolded him—Joanna, Gray had often thought, would not fear to scold the gods themselves. “It is quite unfair to begin so, and then not to finish your tale!”

  “What Joanna means—” This was Sophie; but Master Alcuin raised a hand, gently compelling her to silence.

  “Miss Joanna and I understand one another very well,” he said, with a little smile. “And I trust you will all forgive an old man his odd ways. It seems,” he continued, abruptly sobering, “it seems that the Master of our illustrious College has been foully murdered, and that I am one of the chief suspects in this dreadful crime. The other being, of course”—with a nod at Gray—“my former student.”

  If his aim had been to render them all speechless, he had succeeded admirably. For some moments, they could do nothing but stare, at one another and at him.

  It was Sophie who broke the silence at last, in tones of mingled horror and disgust: “Then this is what the Professor meant by ‘insurance.’”

  “On your own evidence, Miss Sophie,” Master Alcuin said, “their original scheme must have been as we surmised—to test whether their poison could make death appear quite natural; I suspect that they altered their timing, however. The Master’s manservant was seen delivering a message to Professor Callender’s rooms. I believe that it was an invitation, and that Callender and his companion took advantage of the opportunity. Knowing you to be in Oxford, likely bent on exposing their plot, must have hastened them
.”

  As a boy, Gray had been on the receiving end of many a body blow; Master Alcuin’s words struck him in much the same way, and he regretted his recent meal. “We brought this upon him,” he said. “If we had not—”

  “No,” said Mrs. Wallis firmly. “Your visit may have hurried the hour of Lord Halifax’s death, but it was Callender and his friend who chose him as their victim, and he himself who chose to ignore your warning. If indeed we must now prevent a further murder, Mr. Marshall, as well as escaping arrest for the first, then we have certainly no time for self-pity and purposeless self-blame.”

  Gray blinked and straightened his spine.

  “I should guess,” Master Alcuin continued, “that they arrived when they did intending to make quite sure that nothing in the circumstances could arouse suspicion. And, as they admitted quite openly before you the existence of a trap—”

  “Arachne’s Web,” said Gray, “the easiest spell in the world to break.”

  “For you, perhaps,” muttered Sophie. Joanna merely looked perplexed.

  “I should imagine that it was intended to catch quite a different sort of prey,” the little don acknowledged. “A curious Porter, for example, or the Master’s own servant. They cannot have anticipated your presence, any more than we anticipated . . . In any event, when a man is dead, and his sanctum sanctorum thoroughly ravaged, the two facts are seldom unconnected, and someone must take the blame . . .”

  “Did you see it, then, sir?” Sophie asked him.

  “I did not,” he said, with a shudder, “and glad I am, for to know it is dreadful enough. But all the College will have heard by now. The tale they tell—but it is so absurd, you know, that I know not how anyone can entertain it . . .”

  The tale Master Alcuin related would have done credit to any market storyteller or tavern-minstrel.