Then Edmund came in with Charles, whose arm was still in a sling from a wound he had got at Petersfield. She turned to them, smiling again, but the smile was different. It transformed her plain face into great beauty. I had never seen such a look as that in my mother’s face. They grinned back at her, and I knew where Edmund had gained the strength to overcome his disappointments and resentment. I was jealous of him.
It was near dinner time. They asked me to stay and share the meal with them but my awkwardness, the consciousness of having put myself in the wrong, was so great that I refused. I realized, from the quick look of scorn Jenny gave me, that I had made things worse. She thought, and probably so did the others, that I was refusing out of a feeling of superiority.
I knew that was not true but could do nothing to remedy it. I was in a black mood as I walked away down Salt Street. It was not superiority, I insisted to myself, but awkwardness. And jealousy? I did not want to look at that. I went back to dinner at the palace and my father and I sat opposite each other in silence. His thoughts these days were far away except when he was concerned with war or statesmanship. And my gloom continued, no less oppressive for being a condition to which I was well accustomed. I expected it would last all day, and it did.
• • •
Before the High Seers left the city I was called to private audience. Ezzard took me to them in a parlor of his house behind the Seance Hall. From the window one could see the workmen, dwarfs and men, busy on the new Hall which was already beginning to rise beside the old one. My eyes, though, were on the High Seers whom I was seeing for the first time at close quarters.
My neck, as I made obeisance to them, prickled with unease. I reminded myself that they would not harm me: I had not, as far as I knew, offended the Spirits and my father had been highly favored by them. I had been summoned in good will. And yet my flesh crawled as the chief High Seer, a small, very wrinkled man, his face spotted brown with age, held out his hand for me to kiss the ring on his little finger. It was a band of gold, set with seven emeralds: Ezzard’s ring had only a single green stone in it. These were the great ones, the true familiars and servants of the Spirits. Even though I knew they wished me well, I feared them.
“So you are Luke,” he said, “the Prince in Waiting, heir to Winchester and Petersfield.”
“Yes, sire.”
“You have learned your catechism from Ezzard? Tell me, boy, what are the Spirits?”
“They are of two kinds, sire: the Spirits of Men, and the Eternals.”
“Describe them.”
“The Spirits of Men are those who have lived on earth. Their duty is to watch over their descendants who are still in the body. They are the lower order. The higher order is the Eternals, who have always been, will always be. Both orders serve the Great Spirit whose name and being are a mystery.”
“What is the duty of man?”
“To obey the commands of the Great Spirit in all things.”
“How is a man to know these commands?”
“They are revealed by the Spirits through the Seers.”
He nodded, bobbing his head, and I saw a little of the bare head under the black cowl, the skin smooth and taut in contrast to the wrinkled face.
“Well enough. Are the Spirits good or evil?”
I hesitated. It was not an easy question and not among those in the catechism which one answered by rote. I said:
“Some seem evil to men whom they punish. But it is men’s wickedness that is at fault. The Spirits only do the Great Spirit’s bidding.”
“And is the Great Spirit good or evil?”
The catechism came to my aid again. “He is beyond good and evil. He is, and all things serve him.”
“And you, Luke, do you obey the Spirits and worship the Great Spirit?”
“Yes, sire.”
“The Spirits are good to those who serve them. Like your father. They have rewarded him well. Is that not so?”
I thought of him as he had been when he was no more than a Captain, remembering his laugh which had seemed to come from deep in the belly, and as I had seen him that morning, silent in his chair staring at the picture on the wall. But it was true he had been given wealth and power, rule over not just one city but two. And he himself made no complaint against the Spirits.
I nodded. The High Seer said:
“Remember this always. All men are serfs to the Spirits, but they choose some to fulfill their will in special ways. Your father is such, and you are another. The Spirits have a mission for you to perform.”
I asked, curiosity overcoming my unease: “What is that, sire?”
“It is not time for it to be revealed. But the time will come. And when it does you must obey, unhesitatingly, with all your heart and soul. Do you promise this?”
“Yes, sire.”
“You must obey whatever the orders may be. Some will seem strange. Remember that while men are bound by the laws of the Spirits, the Spirits are bound only by the commands of the Great Spirit himself. They can change the laws they have made if that seems good to them.”
“I will remember, sire.”
“Good. Your destiny is a great one. The Spirits will aid you but much depends on yourself. We are glad to have seen you, and that you promise well. We take good news back to the Sanctuary.”
If the Seers knew all things and they were such intimates of the Spirits, I did not see that they could take back any news that was not known already. Perhaps, though, it was not meant literally but just as a vague commendation for my having made the right responses. I kissed his hand again before I left, and the hands of the other High Seers. The big one I had noticed at the feast looked bigger than ever, like an over-prosperous farmer, and I wondered again that he could nourish such a bulk on Spirits’ food. To my amazement he smiled at me.
“Are you a swordsman, Luke?”
I said cautiously: “I have learned sword play, and am still learning.”
“You will have a sword to be proud of one day. A sword of the Spirits.” I suppose I looked uncertain, and he went on: “No, but a real one—tougher and harder and sharper than anything the dwarfs can make. A sword for a Prince of Princes.” He smiled again. “We go back to see to the forging of it.”
• • •
I was to meet Edmund and Martin afterward. They asked me how it had gone and I told them some of what had passed, but nothing of the talk of great destinies or a sword of the Spirits. Edmund said:
“The usual mumbo jumbo, in fact. It is a pity, since the Spirits have such great powers, that they talk such rubbish.”
I did not chide him for blaspheming, as I had once chided Martin. I knew that, half believing in the Spirits, he wholly hated them; that remained even though he was now apparently reconciled to what had happened, to my father’s being Prince and me his heir. I was sorry that he took such risks but knew that argument would only make him worse. I expected Martin to say something less positive but indicating a measure of agreement: they infected each other in this. To my surprise, he said:
“I saw a Seer today also. Not a High Seer. Only Ezzard.”
I asked: “Why?”
“I am to be an Acolyte.”
“You’re joking!”
That was Edmund, incredulous. Martin said:
“No, it’s true.”
“You mean—you believe all this, you want to spend your life praying to the Spirits? Because a machine blew up and Luke’s father took Petersfield instead of getting himself killed and his army scattered as should have happened?”
“No,” Martin said, “because I want to find out.”
“Find out what?”
“The truth about the Spirits. Whatever it is, the Seers must know it.”
“And if there’s nothing to find out?”
He smiled. “Well, I’ll know that, won’t I?”
“Will you tell us?”
“Perhaps.”
I said sharply: “An Acolyte is bound by deep oaths. If he breaks them
his life is forfeit, and in torture.”
Martin smiled again. “Or perhaps not. It depends.”
“You should not talk like that. It is dangerous even to have such thoughts.”
They both laughed. Edmund said:
“Poor Luke, you must remember he takes his Spirits very seriously. And why not? Perhaps we would if they looked after us as well as they do him. Shall I turn Acolyte with you, Martin? I don’t think so. I’d look an even bigger fool with a shaved head than you will.”
• • •
Another thing happened before the Christmas Feast: my cousin Peter married. He married a girl from the Christians, whom he had still been seeing. But he did not become a Christian himself and his marriage caused no great stir. A woman’s beliefs were not thought to be of much importance, and she was not one of the fanatical sort but a quiet, well-behaved girl. Not a beauty, either, but he seemed content with her.
It did not affect his standing with the other Captains, rather the reverse. With marriage his manner changed back to his old amiability and he was at his ease again and put them at theirs. To the reputation as a warrior he had gained in the summer was added popularity. He was thought a good fellow, no longer under the cloud of his mother’s crime and execution.
But when my father offered him a house as a wedding gift he refused it, politely enough, saying he preferred to go on living on the River Road. And when he and I met, although we gave each other greetings, we did not stop to speak.
EIGHT
A HEAD ON THE EAST GATE
IN DECEMBER THERE WAS A state visit from Prince Jeremy of Romsey, in return for that of my father’s which had been cut short a year before. He brought his eldest son with him, and they stayed for the Christmas Feast.
Prince Jeremy was a fattish, small, ineffectual-seeming man with a gingery mustache and beard, both delicately trimmed. His polymuf barber was one of the party and he spent an hour closeted with him each morning and came out oiled and scented. To my father he was deferential, almost obsequious, continually seeking his opinion and only offering his own when it was requested. In fact, his opinions were often worth having. Although he looked weak and effeminate his mind was shrewd.
The son, James, was a little older than I but a good deal taller and more adult in appearance; when he sometimes missed being shaved (as I think he did by design rather than accident or slovenliness) his chin was blue-stubbled with whiskers. I was astonished by his attitude to his father, which was one of condescension, almost of contempt, and by the father’s acceptance of it.
To me he offered at first the same condescension. I made it clear that I would not stand for it, and his manner changed to a rather oily affability. I found that he followed me around; little as I cared for his company I could not without rudeness be rid of it for long. And it was not possible to be rude: this was a state visit and I had a duty to perform. I cut him short in his criticisms of his father but had to tolerate the rest of his whinings. He was envious of Winchester’s wealth and prosperity and under cover of praising it continually bemoaned the poverty of his own city and of his father’s palace. They had no painter to compare with Margry, their musicians were inferior, their buildings small and mean against ours—even the dogs no match for our Winchester breed. All this, with its barely concealed jealousy and resentment, was increasingly irritating as the days passed and I grew more and more familiar with his complaints.
But if it was bad enough having to endure his company on my own, it was worse when Martin and Edmund were there. Martin he practically ignored, except for a faint air of surprise that I should associate with a commoner. He gloated over Edmund. It was not done openly—there was no particular thing said to which one could take exception—but there was no mistaking it. He had known Edmund, after all, as the Prince’s son, and he was plainly delighted by the reversal in his fortunes and the family’s present poverty.
Edmund for a time tolerated it, returning an equal but silent contempt which I think James was too stupid to notice. The break in his composure only came when one day in the street we met Edmund’s sister, Jenny. She did not notice James right away and stopped to say something to her brother about a domestic matter: a drain at the house that needed unblocking. It was only after some moments that she saw James and her words faltered. Her face, already pricked to color by the frost in the air, crimsoned further.
James said, his voice cool and it seemed to me with an edge of mockery:
“Greetings, lady. We have met before, I believe.”
The meeting, as we all knew, had been two years earlier and had been the occasion of their betrothal: the daughter of the Prince of Winchester and the heir to Romsey.
She said: “Yes, sir.”
He smiled at her. “Should you ever come to Romsey, you must call on us.”
The tone of insult was unmistakable. Their eyes met and his, in cruel arrogance, bore her gaze down. I had not thought I could be sorry for her but I was. She mumbled something and turned, walking away quickly over the packed snow. James called after her:
“Present my compliments to your lady mother.” Jenny did not reply or look back. “Tell her I regret that I shall not be able to visit her in her new home.”
Edmund, stung at last beyond endurance, started moving toward him, his fist doubling for a punch. I caught his arm and Martin did so from the other side. No provocation could be held to justify striking the son of a Prince who was a guest of the city: the offender must be charged and convicted and publicly lashed. James had seen his move and was smiling.
Edmund said: “Let me go. I’ll . . .”
“No.” I tightened my grip on his arm, making sure I hurt him. “It’s not worth it.” Our eyes locked. He was angry with me as well and I could see why. I said: “Go after Jenny. I’ll see to this.” He still struggled to get free. I whispered: “If you hit him, I must defend him. I have no choice. And then . . . do you want to have him watching while they take the lash to your naked back?”
He gave me a single look. I let go and he walked away. I motioned to Martin to go with him. James said:
“A pity you did not let him try.”
I turned on him fiercely, so fiercely that he started back. I said:
“I did it for his sake, not yours. But if you insult a friend of mine in my presence again it will be I that cracks you, state visit or no state visit.”
I walked away toward the palace. He followed, protesting that it was all an error: he had meant no insult. I did not answer. He caught up with me, and said:
“All the same, do you think you are wise to make a friend of such as him?”
I said sharply: “I do not need advice on choosing my friends.”
He laughed, high and thin. “Of course! But I worry about you, Luke. You are too trusting.”
I kept silent. I wanted no counsel from him, of any kind. Nor was it true. I knew myself well enough to know that with me trust was never constant but something which ebbed and flowed. I might trust a few in my good humor but when my mind was black clouded I trusted no one. This one, though, I would not trust under any conditions.
• • •
That evening, talking alone with my father, I asked how much longer they would stay. He said:
“Do you find that young James tries you?”
I gritted my teeth. “Almost beyond bearing.”
He smiled, “I have noticed the effort you made and been proud of you for it. One can see why some lads are unpleasant—this one has ruled his father since he was in the cradle—but one does not dislike them less for the knowledge. But it may prove to have been worth it.”
“I do not see how, sir.”
“No, but I will tell you. The father is a soft man in some ways but at the same time cunning. He has been impressed by our success the last two summers. He realizes that we have the aid and blessing of the Spirits. He wants an alliance.”
“For fear that we might attack him next?”
“In part, but not only through
fear. He looks for advantages.”
“What advantages?”
“This, like all things said in this room, is not to be spoken of.” I nodded. “He proposes that next summer we join together in an attack on Andover.”
Andover was due north of Romsey, about fifteen miles distant. The cities were old rivals but in recent years the northerners had been greatly the stronger. Romsey had paid much in tribute and yielded valuable land. I said:
“I can see why he wants our help. But there is not much honor for us in defeating Andover with Romsey’s help.”
“I felt the same. But there is more to it than honor. Or a shared ransom. Ambitions have grown all round since we took Petersfield. He says he can take Andover, as well.”
“How?”
“There is a Sergeant in Andover who will see to it that one of the gates is opened. For a price.”
“But that is treachery! There would be no honor . . .”
“Listen,” my father said. “There are times when the world changes, when the customs of generations shatter and things are no longer fixed. Ezzard has told me we are in such a time. Because of this a man born a commoner became Prince of Winchester. Andrew of Petersfield used machines against us. We in turn took his city; and on the Spirits’ command have kept it. The changes are not yet ended. If Prince of two cities, why not three?”
“But if Jeremy’s army fights alongside ours, if it is he who has the key to the gates . . .”
“He is a timid man. He is shrewd enough but lacks courage. He is a little dog who wants a big dog to run with and will therefore let the big dog take what he wants and be content with the scraps. He offered me the city without my asking; he will be content with Stockbridge and the land around it. And with our friendship.”
I said: “I can think of others I would sooner have as friends.”
“So can I. But a Prince is bound by policy, not by liking. And by the Spirits. Ezzard supports this plan. He has told me: I will be Prince of many cities—you, if you are guided by the Spirits, Prince of all the cities in the land.”
I was silent. I thought of asking: did we want such an empire? But I guessed the answer I would get—that our wanting or not wanting was unimportant. The Spirits required it. They had served us well so far but their wrath, if we failed them, could destroy us as quickly as their benevolence had raised us. We had no choice.