The Grand Tour Page 30

  “Yes, Theodore said you’d listen,” he replied, half to himself.

  I stared at him for a moment, feeling very odd. Theodore had persuaded us to talk to his uncle, and he had apparently persuaded his uncle to talk to us. His arguments, now that I thought of it, had not been strong—indeed, he had scarcely offered any. Yet here we all were. I had not sensed anything magical about him, but it seemed extremely odd.

  Lord Mountjoy shook himself and leaned forward. In an earnest tone, he said, “It’s like this—,” and began his explanation.

  Cavalier Coducci and his Roman friend had not been moved to create their plot against Napoleon Bonaparte until late in his reign. They had still been polishing up the rough edges of their imperial ritual when Bonaparte was defeated and exiled, first to Elba and then to St. Helena. Since there seemed no further need for it, and since Cavalier Pescara was ill, they had abandoned their efforts, though neither of them destroyed their records.

  When Cavalier Pescara died, the Conte di Capodoro had purchased most of his movable estate. Lord Mountjoy had been staying in Milan with the Conte and his wife then, and he had made no secret of his peculiar views. He felt that England had been foolish not to take advantage of what he saw as Napoleon’s work toward unifying Europe.

  “Unifying!” Thomas said. “Is that what you call—” He broke off, because I nudged his ankle again.

  “Do continue, Lord Mountjoy,” I said.

  “When the Contessa discovered that spell among Pescara’s papers, she naturally approached me for advice,” Lord Mountjoy said. “I saw the potential at once, and—”

  “The Contessa?” I said. “But, surely, the Conte …”

  “Oh, the Conte,” Lord Mountjoy said with a sniff. “He’s just like Theodore’s father—no head for anything but old statues and moldering ruins. He’d sorted out all the old manuscripts from Cavalier Pescara’s papers and was prepared to burn the rest. It was the Contessa who insisted on going through them. And, of course, when she found the ritual, she knew it would be no good going to him. She needed a man of action, not a woolly-brained scholar.” He puffed up his chest in remembered pride.

  Thomas opened his mouth. I drew my foot back in preparation. He glanced at me and closed his mouth again. Lord Mountjoy, oblivious, continued.

  It was quite plain to me, from everything he said, that it was the Contessa who had been behind the entire plot that evolved. She had questioned him about suitable candidates for the ritual, pointing out the need for someone young and malleable so that she and Mountjoy could continue to control him, and so run all of Europe once it had been united. It had been her idea to enlist the help of the remaining Bonapartists in acquiring the necessary ingredients—the chrism, the ring, the robes, and the rest of the coronation regalia that had been reported stolen from all over Europe—while Theodore’s tutor shepherded the boy from one ancient site to another, activating each of them so as to link them in the final ritual.

  Things had gone very well for some time, right up until the conspirators located the chrism. One of the Bonapartists had absconded with this vital ingredient, and Lord Mountjoy had hurried off to France to track it down. He had experienced some difficulty in doing this, and I wondered if it was not because the supposed “Bonapartist” had actually been one of Lady Sylvia’s mysterious network. It would explain how the chrism came into the hands of the Lady in Blue, and why she took such pains to deliver it to Lady Sylvia at the earliest opportunity.

  Lord Mountjoy’s inability to recover the chrism in Calais led the Contessa to take a hand directly. She had been waiting for him in Paris. When Eve-Marie reported Mountjoy’s failure, the Contessa arranged the holdup on the road to Paris—Sir Hilary Bedrick was indeed another of her unsavory connections, and he made a perfect stalking horse. When Sir Hilary became too importunate, she arranged to have him disposed of and so obtained the chrism. She departed immediately for Milan, leaving Lord Mountjoy and her assistant (the woman we knew as Eve-Marie) to keep an eye on things in Paris.

  I think it was at that point that Lord Mountjoy began to be a little nervous about his situation. It must have occurred to even the meanest intelligence that if the Contessa was capable of arranging Sir Hilary’s demise, she would be equally capable of disposing of Lord Mountjoy. He chose, however, to believe that all would continue according to their agreement.

  Our appearance in Milan, and our subsequent encounter with Mr. Strangle at the garden party, worried the conspirators not a little. Lord Mountjoy had been pleased to see us decoyed to Venice. He had been less pleased with the Contessa’s growing tendency to take the reins of the plot into her own hands.

  “I take it you think she was responsible for the unspeakable Strangle’s, er, mishap,” Thomas said.

  “Well, if she was, I must say I can’t blame her much in that instance,” I said. “Though drowning people in fishponds is a bit extreme.”

  “He didn’t drown,” Thomas reminded me. “He was stabbed to death before he was left in the fishpond. Unnecessarily dramatic, that. Under the circumstances.”

  Lord Mountjoy stared at us as if he did not quite understand what we were saying, then continued as if neither of us had spoken. It was as if, now that he had begun, he felt he had to finish, no matter the interruptions or possible digressions.

  In Milan, or shortly after, Theodore had completed the last of the preparatory rituals. Only Cavalier Coducci’s final ritual, the one in Rome, remained. Lord Mountjoy and Theodore departed for Rome; the Contessa followed shortly after, leaving the Conte, still oblivious to the conspiracy in his household, in Milan.

  At the Contessa’s advice, Lord Mountjoy and Theodore had taken up residence in a small inn in Rome, while she had come to the villa in Nemi. It was only a day or two before the final ritual that she had told Lord Mountjoy that certain changes would be necessary to Cavalier Coducci’s design.

  Thomas leaned forward intently, and this time I did not stop him. “What changes?” he demanded.

  “You already know most of them,” Lord Mountjoy said, frowning. “Ritual at the Temple of Saturn instead of the Basilica Julia, noon instead of midnight, some minor changes to the wording. The main thing, though, is that she claims that wasn’t the end of the matter. I’d thought we were finished, but she says, no, we need one more ceremony. Here at Nemi, at the old grove, the day after tomorrow.”

  “The old grove?” I said.

  “She says it’s another one of these blasted ancient ritual sites,” Lord Mountjoy said. “Some goddess or other this time, and her Sacred King. The Conte dug up a batch of his old pottery there.” He shook his head. “The Roman ritual was the last of Coducci’s; it’s made Theodore dashed persuasive. She says this one will make him irresistible—anything he tells people, they’ll do. I don’t know if that’s a good idea, though. The boy is already getting out of hand with the way he keeps talking people into doing things.”

  “The Sacred King at Nemi,” I said, trying to think what it reminded me of, and then I recalled the museum exhibit. “The King of the Wood at Nemus Dianae?”

  “You are much too clever, Signora Tarleton,” said a voice behind us, and we turned to see the Contessa standing in the doorway. She wore an old walking-dress with stained sleeves, the sort of thing one wears in the country when one has a messy chore to attend to. Her color was high; she did not look tired or drained at all, and there was no trace of the shyness she had aped at that long-ago tea in Milan. She glared at us coldly, then transferred her gaze to Lord Mountjoy. “I might have guessed you would do something this foolish. Did you not think that these two are wizards?”

  “Theodore said it would be all right,” Lord Mountjoy muttered.

  “Ah, yes, Theodore.” The Contessa’s eyes narrowed. “I had not anticipated how much nuisance his new abilities would be. I have dealt with that, however; the sleeping draught I gave him will keep him from causing any further upset before the final ritual is complete, and I have the power to restore the ancient glorie
s of my family.”

  “Ancient glories?” Thomas said. “You mean this drafty pile? It’s Palladian, and a bad imitation of the style at that—can’t be any more ancient than the sixteenth century.”

  The Contessa stiffened. “My family has lived here for centuries,” she said. Her voice took on greater depth of emotion. “Before the Borgias and the Medicis ruled, before the Goths plundered Rome, before Rome itself ever rose, we were here. First as priestesses, then hidden among the lesser folk, until we rose again to fortune. Yet not to glory—that is to be my task, when I wake the old power once more. Then my ancestors’ images will smile from their places in the gallery once more.”

  “Oh, is that what all those bad frescoes in the hall are supposed to be,” I said. “Your ancestors! I took them for visitors waiting to get into a costume ball. Really, paintings would be far more the thing. You would at least have some chance that one of the artists would be good.”

  The Contessa flushed but remained outwardly calm. Only her high color betrayed her anger. “Signora Tarleton, you do not know of what you speak. My ancestors were great; I shall make my house great again.” She smiled coldly. “And you shall be of much help, unwilling as you are.”

  She gestured over her shoulder and spoke in Italian. Her two large henchmen appeared behind her. “These gentlemen will escort you back to your quarters. And just to be sure that you do not attempt anything foolish—” She gestured, and spoke, and once again I felt too ill to resist.

  The two guards took Thomas and me back to our storeroom. Again, the illness evaporated as soon as the door locked behind us. I took several deep breaths, then said, “I thought you told me she would be too drained to work that spell again for at least a day.”

  “I did,” Thomas said. “And so she should have been. I don’t know where she got the strength to do that, but this time she’s been too clever by half.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I heard the whole spell this time,” he said with considerable satisfaction. “And it’s not at all difficult to do. Or to guard against.”

  “Show me how to do both,” I said immediately. “If either one of us can turn the tables on her, we’ll have a better chance of actually doing so.”

  “It’s a pity it only works on wizards,” Thomas commented. “I wouldn’t mind sickening those two bullyboys of hers as well.”

  Learning the spells served to pass the time, and to distract me from my growing hunger. I was starting to wonder whether the Contessa meant to starve us when the door rattled. The two footmen appeared, flanking a maid carrying a tray. The meal she offered was spartan—day-old bread, water, and a bit of cheese—but Thomas and I disposed of it with as much relish as if it had been a French chef’s finest offering.

  When the servants left, I settled back against the wall. The light was fading, and we had already exhausted the possibilities for escaping from the storeroom. All that was left to us to do was to think or to talk. My thoughts continually turned to James and Kate and how dreadfully worried they must be. Despite all my efforts, I could not force them into more productive channels, and so I chose to talk, instead.

  “What can the Contessa mean to do with us?” I said. “And why did she make those changes in Cavalier Coducci’s ritual?”

  Thomas had been staring at his hands, his face drawn and unhappy. When I spoke, he looked up. “I don’t know.”

  “Well, think, then,” I said sharply. I quite understood that he was as worried about Kate as I was about James, but I did not see how falling into a brown study would help matters. “You worked with Cavalier Coducci’s ritual for days, designing that counterspell. Surely you must remember some of it. Can’t you at least guess at what effect her changes would have?”

  Thomas blinked; then his eyes narrowed. “She changed the time and the location,” he said slowly. He frowned in concentration. “The time was theta, multiplied by the sum of the energy derived from alpha-one through…” His voice trailed off, and he stared into the gloom, muttering equations to himself. I held my breath. After a moment he looked over at me.

  “Changing the time creates the linkages but leaves the spell unresolved,” he said. “It needs something more to finish it off and make it permanent.”

  “Then there’s still a chance to stop them,” I said. “What about the location? What would moving the ritual from the Basilica Julia to the Temple of Saturn do?”

  “That’s more difficult to fathom,” Thomas said. “The Basilica Julia was chiefly of symbolic importance. Julius Caesar was not merely the first of the Roman Emperors; he made himself Emperor. Just what you’d want to carry into a spell to make someone Emperor of Europe.” He said the last words as if they left a bad taste in his mouth.

  “But Saturn was a Roman god, not a ruler,” I said. “Surely the Contessa can’t be silly enough to think that a coronation ritual can make someone into a god!”

  “No, and I’ll wager that if she were, it’s she who’d be the candidate for goddesshood and no one else,” Thomas said. A strange expression came over his face.

  “What is it?” I demanded.

  “Saturn became a Roman god, yes,” Thomas said slowly. “But before that he was both god and king of Latium. He founded the first city on the Capitol, where Rome was eventually built. And he was sometimes called the god of the Underworld.”

  “It sounds very ominous,” I said. “But I still don’t see the point of using his temple for the spell instead of Caesar’s.” I considered. “The Contessa changed the spell so that it isn’t finished yet, and changed the symbolism to do something else that we aren’t sure of. She’s going to finish the spell the day after tomorrow in the grove of the King of the Wood at Nemus Dianae.” I sighed. “I still can’t make anything of it. I wish we’d had time to examine that exhibit in the museum in Milan more closely. I’m sure it was important.”

  Thomas shrugged. “Mountjoy said the Conte dug up a lot of old pottery there. The Contessa undoubtedly didn’t want us to know she had any connection to Nemi, that’s all.”

  “No, I’m sure it was more—” I broke off suddenly. “Thomas, what does Nemus Dianae mean?”

  “It’s Latin for ‘Diana’s Wood,’” he replied.

  “Oh,” I said. “Oh, dear.”

  “Oh dear what?” Thomas demanded in tones of exasperation.

  “Papa translated some papers a few years ago about Diana of the Woods,” I said. “He went on about them for some time over dinner, until Aunt Elizabeth made him stop. He said Diana of the Woods encouraged human sacrifice. And that she was the foster daughter of Hecate, who was the goddess of magic and the Underworld.”

  “Hecate is a Greek goddess,” Thomas observed.

  “The Romans borrowed gods and goddesses from all over,” I said impatiently. “The important point is that Diana of the Woods is a bloodthirsty, ancient goddess, and the Contessa has some reason for connecting her to this ritual.”

  “Priestesses,” Thomas said slowly. “Ancient glories. But what good will it do her?”

  “Power,” I said. “She spoke about power.” I was starting to feel ill, and this time it wasn’t because of the Contessa’s spell. “Thomas, I think I know what she’s planning. I know why she didn’t seem drained by all that spell casting last night.”

  Thomas looked at me, waiting.

  “She was drained, but she killed something to replace her power,” I said. “Some animal, probably. That’s why there were stains on her sleeves when she came to the study. All that talk about ancient glories and ancestors—and Cavalier Coducci’s ritual was based on his work re-creating ancient spells. She must have found more extensive notes in those papers the Conte purchased, not just a copy of the ritual itself. She’s going to re-create the ritual of Diana of the Woods. The one that included human sacrifice. She wants to bring back the old magic; that’s what she meant by ‘waking the old power.’ ”

  “Bring it back and use it. It hangs together,” Thomas said after a moment. “Pe
rhaps I wasn’t so far off when I said she wanted to be a goddess. But why would she go through Coducci’s ritual before—” He broke off. “The king was always the most powerful sacrifice the ancients could make,” he said in an altered tone.

  “Theodore!” I said. “He can’t know. But Lord Mountjoy—”

  “He probably doesn’t know, either. He’s too much of a cloth-head to conceal it if he did.”

  We were both silent for a time. Finally I said, “Thomas, what can we do to stop it?”

  “Let me think on it,” Thomas replied.

  I did my best not to disturb him, all that long night and the next day. The servants came twice more with our scanty meal, but we saw no one else. Neither the Contessa nor Lord Mountjoy appeared (after the Contessa’s comments about sleeping draughts, I had no expectation of seeing Theodore). I felt helpless, for it was clear that the Contessa was a wizard of considerable power, quite beyond reach of my meager training. The only way I might possibly be of use would be as a distraction at some crucial moment. The thought was very lowering, and several times I came near demanding that Thomas teach me some spell that I could use against the Contessa, or at least against her henchmen.

  Good sense kept me silent. Thomas was a far more experienced wizard than I. It would have been the height of folly to waste his time teaching me minor spells when he was our best hope for stopping the Contessa.

  My restraint was rewarded shortly after the servants removed the remnant of our evening meal. “I think I have it,” Thomas said. “We’ll have two chances. The Contessa can’t work two spells at once. She’ll have to have Theodore resolve the imperial ritual first. Once that is done, she’ll have to perform whatever ritual she has concocted for her sacrifice. Murder out of hand won’t be any good to her. If we can disrupt either spell, her plans won’t work.”

  “I see,” I said. “I do hope that blocking the spells also involves preventing the murder? Or murders—I can’t think what other ‘use’ she could be planning for us.”