Lammas night

  The funeral went off without a hitch. Dozens of friends and acquaintances of both Wells and the prince showed up to pay their final respects, including one of the four suspects—an aging baronet who worked in the Ministry of Finance. But the man did not accompany the smaller cortege that made its way to Chatham for the burial at sea. Nor did Wells's parents accompany their son's body for the final services.

  Heavy weather was brewing as the pallbearers brought Wells's coffin aboard the minesweeper. The naval ensign draped over it was the only splash of color against the grey-painted decks and the even greyer sea and clouds. Thunder rumbled along the horizon all the way into the Channel, a stiff breeze prickling everything with spray as the ship ploughed through the swells, the temperature falling.

  By the time the last words had been read by the ship's captain and the body was committed to the deep, the weather had worsened considerably. As the crew battened down for the run back to port, the pallbearers and the few other mourners went below to get warm, but William turned up the collar of his naval greatcoat and wandered far up on the bow with Graham. Michael lagged a little behind to see that they were not disturbed.

  "Thank God that's over," William murmured, gloved hands locked around the cable rail as he squinted into the wind. " I

  hope you don't think I'm being too paranoid, but I really didn't feel like being cooped up below with that pallbearer. Do you think he's involved?"

  Graham hunched down farther in his overcoat and shrugged. "It's too soon to say. I'm having everyone checked out on all four men's staffs as well as vetting all their regular acquaintances. But we mustn't start seeing Thulists under every bush. The master's affihations don't necessarily carry over to his servants, after all. Look at Wells."

  "I suppose you're right," William said with a sour grin. *'r ve been doing a lot of worrying about where all of this leaves me, though, since we had that talk last Thursday night."

  He glanced over his shoulder, where Michael was lounging against the rail a few yards out of earshot, but there was no one closer. Most of the crew were not even in sight.

  "Gray, you've said that part of your role seems to have been determined by your past lives—Drake and such. I was wondering whether I might persuade you to do some past-life regressions with me. I'd certainly like to find out a little more about where I'm headed."

  Graham braced himself against a particularly heavy swell and held onto his hat with a gloved hand, avoiding the blue eyes. He hoped William would not pursue this. It touched too closely on that chilling conversation with Alix about past lives and sacrifices and the possible role Conwy and some of the others had ascribed to the prince at the end of the Laurelgrove meeting. Though Graham was as determined as ever that he should be the Victim, if it came to a choice between the two of them, he was no longer entirely certain the choice lay within his power. That uncertainty produced a very great temptation not to tell William anything further—to cut him off entirely from future involvement by keeping him in ignorance.

  Yet ignorance was not an answer. Only knowledge was an honorable weapon with which to fight the Enemy. William was already involved, whether Graham liked it or not—though at least they could hope the assigned role would be minimal. Whatever the fates had in store, the prince deserved to face it armed with the best information available. It was his right, by blood and by birth as well as by trust, even if Graham might mistakenly have been tempted to deny it to him out of love.

  "Are you sure you want to find out?" Graham asked, making one final try to turn William aside. "I'm not sure I do. Tve been worrying, too. I think you're in deep enough already."

  "Deep enough for what?" William replied. "I still don't know a great deal more than when all this started. Oh, I've certainly seen and heard some strange things, but I feel like— like I'm on the outside of a sweet shop with my nose pressed against the glass. Now I'll grant you I'm not fond of all kinds of sweets, and I'm not sure I could afford the price of some of them, but several of those pieces seem to have my name on them. I think I ought to at least have a closer look—maybe even a taste."

  Graham shook his head slowly, but he could not help a resigned smile. Despite all his efforts, William was being drawn closer for something. Graham had no choice but to give him all the help he could.

  "If I said no, you'd just keep badgering me until I changed my mind, wouldn't you?"

  "Yes."

  "Very well, then, I'll save us both the argument. I need the energy for other things. What's your schedule like in the next week or so?"

  "Full—but I won't be put off, Gray. I'll adjust to suit yours even if I have to cancel something else."

  "You'd do it, too, just to spite me, wouldn't you?" Graham replied, echoing the prince's bemused nod. "Early or late in the week, then?"

  "Early if possible. Tuesday would be best. Bertie has asked me to tour with him later in the week. You'll want an evening, anyway, though, won't you?"

  Graham shrugged. "Tuesday it is, then."

  "Fine. When and where?"

  Graham smiled at the prince's enthusiasm despite his own lack of it. He wished he felt more confident that he was doing the right thing, that he was not leading one or both of them to their deaths.

  "Come 'round to my flat around seven," he said. "I'll have Denny whip us up a hght supper before we get started. I'll bet you didn't know he's a gourmet chef, did you?" he added, almost as an afterthought.

  "Denton?"

  Graham nodded distractedly and gazed out through the spray at the nearing point of Sheemess.

  "Oh, I think you'll find we have all kinds of unexpected talents," he said softly.

  For Graham, the intervening days continued much the same as the end of the previous week. Surveillance was discreetly extended to all four Thulists. He assigned both Grumbaugh and Basilby to back up Ashcroft's surveillance task force while he and Denton ferreted away at the even more delicate question of how Wells had managed to get security clearance for royal service without his German connections coming to light. By Monday, Graham had amassed enough evidence to transfer several lesser clerks and background investigators to nonsen-sitive departments for their parts in Wells's clearance, since wartime dismissals might tip his hand to their Thulist superiors prematurely. By Tuesday evening, when Graham left to meet the prince, no one had yet been able to pin down anything serious enough on the four to warrant action beyond continued surveillance and investigation.

  William arrived at Graham's alone on Tuesday evening, smoking a slim cigar and carrying a bottle of vintage port under one arm, which he presented with a flourish. After a simple but elegantly prepared supper, Denton brought them coffee and the port in Graham's sitting room, accepting the royal compliments with a deferential nod before retiring to his room. William had a cigarette with his port and did not seem to notice that Graham had largely abstained. He started a little as Graham turned out a lamp on the table behind them.

  "Well, I suppose we ought to settle down to work," Graham said, setting his wine glass aside as William turned to peer at him owlishly. "Why don't you take off your coat and tie and lie down? Take off your shoes, too. It helps to be as comfortable as possible, especially in the beginning."

  Caught a little off balance by the abruptness of it all, William tossed off the rest of his wine in a single swallow, then wormed awkwardly out of his coat. He hesitated over the tie as Graham hung the coat neatly over the back of a chair, but then he stubbed out the last of his cigarette and yanked loose the knot, draping the tie over the coat.

  "There's just no point dressing properly when I do things with you, is there, Gray?" he muttered, making nervous conversation as he sat to remove his shoes. "In Plymouth, it was a polo sweater and baggy trousers—and now you've got me in shirt-sleeves and stockinged feet. You aren't conventional about anything, are you?"

  Graham smiled, defusing a little of the tension.

  "I didn't think you'd come here tonight to be conventional," he rephed, waiting until William
had swung his legs up on the couch to cover his feet with a tartan lap rug. "Just lie back and make yourself comfortable. Put a pillow under your head if you like. There's nothing particularly complicated about getting started. As soon as you're settled, close your eyes and take a few nice deep breaths to relax."

  As William adjusted his pillow and settled down, Graham pulled a straight-backed chair closer to William's head and sat, reaching across to touch his forehead gently as soon as the prince's eyes closed.

  "Let go like you did before. That's right. Another deep breath, in... and out. Good."

  All of William's previous nervousness and tension seemed to melt away as he let himself sink into trance. Graham watched him for several seconds, considering various strategies, and decided that a little reinforcement and practice would be good for both of them. Excursions into past lives could be unsettling enough, the first few times, without asking for something odd to happen. Already he dreaded what William might recall.

  "Before we try anything more advanced, I thought we might work our way up by talking a little about hypnosis in general," he said conversationally. "Doing it with you already in trance helps take the edge off any nervousness. You can open your eyes now if you want to, though you'll remain in trance."

  As William's eyes slowly opened, Graham leaned back in his chair and smiled. There was surprise in the prince's slightly unfocused gaze. He clearly had not expected that they would jump right into the night's work this way, and Graham deliberately had not warned him.

  "Are you comfortable?" Graham asked.

  "Yes."

  "Are you aware that you're in a fairly deep trance?"

  William blinked sheepishly. "Am I? I still keep thinking I should feel sleepy or groggy or something."

  "I thought you'd agreed never to doubt me again," Graham said with an easy grin. "Relax for just a minute. I'll be right back."

  The pungent smell of medicinal alcohol accompanied Graham when he returned, but its source was hidden casually in his left hand. William wrinkled his nose in question, but he could not quite seem to muster enough energy to ask about it.

  'This is just for a little demonstration of the power of your mind," Graham said, answering the unasked question as he sat and moved William's right arm along his side, where he could not see it. "As I stroke your hand with my fingertips, I want you to feel all sensation going out of it. It's becoming completely insensitive to pain—numb and cold, as if you'd plunged it to the wrist in a bucket of ice and held it there for a minute or two. Can you feel that?" he asked, pinching up a fold of skin on the back of the hand, out of William's line of vision. "I'm pinching rather hard."

  William shook his head, looking vaguely puzzled.

  "No."

  "Good. You'll continue to feel nothing. Close your eyes now, and I'll show you something else."

  As William obeyed, Graham swabbed the web of skin at the base of the prince's thumb and forefinger with the wad of alcohol-soaked cotton he had hidden in his hand, then gave another wipe to the fine hypodermic needle he had also brought.

  "You won't feel this, either," Graham said, thrusting the needle deftly through the web of skin.

  William did not even flinch.

  "Very good. It's done. You can open your eyes and look at your hand now. You feel no sensation in your hand, and what you see doesn't bother you at all. That's right. Open your eyes."

  As William turned his head, his eyes opened and then widened momentarily as he raised his hand and saw the needle sticking through his skin. But as he moved the hand closer to examine it, he obviously felt no discomfort.

  "Do you feel anything at all?" Graham asked.

  William shook his head slowly, his expression vaguely incredulous.

  "You can't feel it when I do this, either," Graham said, gently wiggling the nub of the needle and watching as William did not flinch or even blink. "Nor will it bleed when I pull the needle out," he continued, suiting action to words and wiping off the puncture site again. "It's the same kind of thing I did with Michael that time in Dover: blocking pain. To a certain extent, you can also control bleeding. If you need to, you should be able to duplicate this in the future. As you saw with Michael, it can be a very useful talent."

  Only two faint puncture marks were visible as William held the hand closer to his eyes again and peered at it—and no blood at all. Graham laid aside his needle and cotton, then touched the hand lightly again with his fingertips.

  "You'll feel no discomfort as your hand goes back to normal now, and none in the future as it heals. Tell me, though, do you think you could have done what you just did if you hadn't been in a trance?"

  "No."

  "Then you'll agree that you are in a fairly deep trance?"

  William managed a wan smile, laying his hand back on his chest. "I suppose I must be."

  "Good. Close your eyes, then. When I touch your wrist lightly, I want you to go at least twice as deep as you are right now." He touched the wrist. "Are you there?"

  The answer came more thickly. "Yes."

  "Good. Now let's try an easy regression into your memories of childhood just so you can get the feel of what it's like to go back. You can imagine the pages of a calendar flipping backwards or a film running in reverse—whatever seems to carry you in the right direction. Why don't we start when you were a cadet at the Royal Naval College? You pick the specific time. Imagine yourself there now and tell me what you see."

  After a few seconds, William's eyelids began to tremble. Briefly, Graham laid his hand across William's eyes and forehead.

  "Just relax and let it flow," he whispered. "You're perfecUy safe. Tell me what you see."

  William's trembling subsided almost inmiediately, and Graham withdrew.

  "I swamped the boat," William soon murmured in a voice that did not sound quite like his own.

  "What boat was that?"

  "A saihng dinghy."

  "How did it happen?"

  "Some of us were racing. A swell caught me just as I jibed around the downwind marker buoy." He frowned. "I saw some of the upperclassmen laughing."

  Graham nodded sympathetically. He could remember similarly embarrassing moments in his own youth and knew how much more painful they must have been for the far more sensitive and sheltered William.

  "Were you the only one to swamp?" he asked.

  "No, but I'm a prince. I should have known better."

  "Hmmm, perhaps. How old were you?"

  "Sixteen."

  "Well, these things do happen sometimes. Even princes make mistakes. Why don't you go back a little farther and tell me what else you see? Don't just remember it this time. Try to actually be there."

  They worked in trance for nearly half an hour, William eventually recalling incidents from far back in his childhood. He relived the grief-choked winter afternoon his twin had died at Sandringham; the color and pomp of a more joyful day eight years before that when his brother David had been invested as Prince of Wales; his grandfather's fiineral, the coronation of his parents; and even earlier memories from nursery days and his illness-plagued early years, though Graham did not attempt to take him back any farther this first time. After setting up a series of signals to go even deeper when they resumed, he brought William out of trance and let him talk about the experience.

  "I'd forgotten how beautiful my mother looked when she left for the coronation," William mused, hands clasped behind his head as he gazed up at the ceiling. "And those silly sailor suits they made John and me wear when we heard Papa proclaimed as King at St. James' Palace. Of course, I suppose they were quite the thing for five-year-olds. Odd, what one remembers...."

  After a short break to stretch, William settled back on the couch again, this time much more at ease and confident. Quickly, Graham took him in and out of trance several times in rapid succession, each time pushing him deeper than the one before. By the time Graham judged him ready to try for a past life regression, William was so relaxed that he seemed to be detached
from his body, floating, with only Graham's hand on his wrist to anchor him to the room. Graham started him back slowly, but then he went by fits and starts, gradually picking up speed.

  "Look for something in your past which has meaning for what is happening to you now, in this life," he heard Graham say.

  William felt himself tense, his hand twist around to grasp Gray's wrist and cling with an iron grip. With that security, he sensed himself plunging even faster, deep into a before-time that flashed past so quickly it almost took his breath away.

  Suddenly, he was in another body, looking through another man's eyes. He opened his physical eyes, but he was not seeing the familiar room. He was not even in a room at all.

  He stood on a darkened hilltop, his Garter mantle whipping against his ankles in a wind tangy with salt, the heavy velvet almost black in the firelight. His hand was clasped wrist to wrist with Gray's, but both of them wore different faces and different names. At his elbow stood another Garter Knight, also known in both lives, though he could not place the modem one just now.

  "Where are you, William?" a low voice asked out of limbo.

  He ignored the voice, for that was not his name, and tried to see more clearly what was going on around him. He was masked, as was the other Garter Knight beside him, but the people foregathered on the hillside all around knew them by function and office, even if not by name. The garters bound around both men's knees spoke far more eloquently than words. More important, the assembled folk now knew Francis, Hanked by England's chancellor and her lord admiral, for what he was. The royal sanction could not have been more firmly put unless the Queen herself had come to the point above Plymouth Sound.

  "William, try to tell me what you're seeing," came the outside voice again.