The Grand Tour Read online

  In fact, Thomas’s supplies took a bit longer to procure than he’d anticipated. Such a ritual required a clean, quiet place, which our bedchamber provided, a pitcher of spring-water, which Thomas insisted on fetching himself, a basin, a great many candles, a chicken feather, a broom, and a pound of salt, all of which the innkeeper provided without betraying the slightest curiosity. The ways of the English, it seemed, had long ceased to interest him.

  Thomas rolled back the carpet and swept the chamber floor twice, once to get the floor clean and once to go with his soft incantation. He made a ring of salt on the bare floor and spaced the candles carefully about the ring. He put me in the center of the circle, cross-legged before the basin, and lit the candles. He poured springwater as I washed my hands. When that was done, I took the feather he handed me and held it over the basin.

  Thomas said some words, and I repeated what he said. I tried to capture not only his pronunciation but his pitch and intonation as well. The words might have been Chinese for all I knew. Despite my ignorance, I could tell that each word had its own music, a tone below the sound, low notes I strove to echo.

  “Fiat,” said Thomas. Even if I hadn’t known that must be his final command, the curious sensation the word provoked would have alerted me. As he finished the ritual chant, the ring on my finger pulsed with a cool energy, which rippled away to stillness.

  I stared at Thomas. Thomas nodded encouragingly to prompt me. “Fiat,” I said. The ring pulsed again, and this time Thomas stared at me, mouth ajar.

  Silence hung between us for a long time. At last, Thomas swallowed audibly, cleared his throat, and said, “Just hand me the feather and stay where you are. I’ll tidy up.”

  With utter serenity, I watched as Thomas took the feather from me and set about with deftness and care to remove every trace of the ritual from the chamber. At last, when all was cleared away, he drew me to my feet.

  “I’d forgotten what it’s like to be properly focused,” Thomas said. “Quite a powerful sensation.”

  “It worked.” I had no doubts at all.

  Thomas rolled the carpet back into place. “You felt it, too?”

  “I felt—a sort of throb. When you said that last word.” I thought it might be wise not to say fiat aloud for fear of setting the ring to pulsing again.

  “And when you said—that last word?” Thomas looked first at the ring on my finger, then into my eyes. “What did you feel then?”

  “The same, except—” I put my hand over his heart. “I think that time, I felt you feel it, too.”

  From the deposition of Mrs. James Tarleton, &c.

  The morning after we reached Amiens was clear and sunny—the perfect day for visiting some of Papa’s antiquities. Lady Sylvia had arrangements of her own, and Kate and Thomas elected to take the opportunity to re-create a focus for Thomas’s magic, so in the end it was only James and me. Although I would have enjoyed assisting Thomas, or even watching the spell casting, I was not unpleased by this outcome. Dearly as I love Kate, I expected to enjoy having James to myself for a few hours.

  I should have known better. The first thing he said once we were alone in the hack was, “Cecy, you are not to badger Kate into telling you what Thomas has decided to use as his new focus.”

  “I had no intention of doing any such thing,” I said indignantly. “And even if I had, Kate wouldn’t tell me.”

  James gave me a skeptical look. “Kate follows your lead.”

  “Not where Thomas is concerned,” I pointed out. “And, in any case, there is no point whatever in badgering her. If she doesn’t want to explain something, she simply fobs people off with some tale.”

  “Thomas did mention something of the sort,” James said. “I thought he was exaggerating. He does that, you know.”

  I blinked. My own experience of Thomas might be limited, but Kate had written me quite detailed reports of her acquaintance with him, and I think I can safely say that exaggerating is not a word that either of us would ever use in connection with him. I quite saw that he might well behave differently when he was with James, but I had never thought that the difference might be so extreme. “Whatever he told you, he wasn’t exaggerating about Kate. She can make the most outrageous bouncers sound utterly convincing. Once she persuaded the Reverend Fitzwilliam that the reason Aunt Charlotte hadn’t come to tea was that she was at home taking wine for her gout.”

  James frowned. “Wine isn’t good for the gout; on the contrary.”

  “Aunt Charlotte doesn’t have the gout,” I explained patiently. “And she doesn’t even drink ratafia. But Reverend Fitz believed every word.”

  “Well, if you weren’t planning on badgering Kate, what were you planning?” James demanded, returning to the original subject. “And don’t try to fob me off. I know that expression. You were planning something.”

  “Planning something?” I was quite bewildered. “I wasn’t planning anything. It was just that Kate and Thomas going on like that at breakfast made me think—”

  “I knew it!”

  “—about what I should use as my magic focus.”

  James looked at me in some alarm. “Cecy! You aren’t to attempt that until a qualified magician says you are ready. Look at all the trouble that came of Thomas’s first try—and he’d spent years studying.”

  “He didn’t have trouble with the spell,” I pointed out. “He had trouble with Sir Hilary, afterward. That’s the sort of thing that could happen to anyone—well, to anyone who crossed Sir Hilary. I had trouble with him myself, and so did you, though of course nothing to compare with Thomas’s.”

  “So you don’t know quite everything,” James said. “If you want the whole story, ask Thomas sometime when he’s in a forthcoming mood. Meanwhile, I want your promise that you won’t try creating a focus until someone else says you’re ready. Someone qualified. And don’t pretend to think I don’t know what I’m talking about. I learned as much of the basics as any other Oxford student who wasn’t specializing.”

  “I don’t think—” Fortunately, the hack chose that moment to arrive, so I was able to avoid either extending the argument or making promises that might be inconvenient later. We found ourselves standing in front of a large manor house in the rather ornate style favored by the French nobility of the last century. Half a dozen grubby schoolboys burst from the doors and pelted toward us; from what little of their French I could make out, they were offering their services as guides.

  I looked at James. “This cannot be the right place,” I said.

  The hack driver overheard me. “Madame wished to view the Temple of Minerva Victrix, yes?” he said. His French was rather good—much easier to understand than most of the people we had so far encountered. “The temple is in the gardens behind the house. See, you are not the only visitors.” He pointed at a large diligence and a smart but mud-spattered traveling carriage drawn up a little farther down the drive.

  “Yes!” one of the schoolboys cried. “To the rear of the school. I will show Monsieur and Madame l’Anglais; two francs!”

  “One franc!” another boy cried, and they fell to arguing over what price would be appropriate for their services. The hack driver grinned. James nodded, and took my arm, and we slipped around the boys and off into the gardens.

  The Temple of Minerva Victrix proved to be a small, rather unimpressive ruin on a low hill about a quarter of a mile from the house. We could see a small group of ladies and gentlemen strolling along ahead of us, about halfway to the ruins, presumably the occupants of the diligence and the traveling carriage. As they were strolling, and we were walking briskly (in case the schoolboys should return), we reached the shrine only a little after they did. We paused at the foot of the hill, not wishing to add to the crowd. Voices floated down to us from above.

  “But, Rupert, you said we would have fun!” a female voice whined in French-accented English. “Old rocks are not at all fun.”

  “Hush, Jeannette, ma belle,” a rather young-sounding man r
eplied. “Old Toothpick Legs is always dragging poor Theo off and lecturing him about something or other; I think Theo’s father is paying extra for it. They’re bound to head off in a minute—yes, there, see? Now, we’ll just slip off this way…”

  The voice faded, and I caught a glimpse of a dark coat and a shocking dress in a gaudy yellow color fleeing toward the woods off to the left. I frowned and shook my head.

  James looked at me a trifle uncertainly. “I would offer to fetch them back, but I doubt that my interference would be welcomed. If you are concerned for the lady’s virtue…”

  “I don’t think that young woman has any virtue left to be endangered,” I said.

  “I suspect you are right,” James said, relaxing. “What were you shaking your head over, then?”

  “That gown.” I saw that James did not understand, and I sighed. “If one is going to go sneaking about in the woods, it is the height of foolishness to wear bright yellow. It shows up miles away.”

  “I suppose you are speaking from personal experience?” James sounded amused.

  “As a matter of fact, yes,” I told him. “The first time I tried to follow Oliver when he sneaked away from one of Aunt Charlotte’s picnics, I was caught almost immediately for just that reason. I was about nine.”

  “I can see that I shall have to have a long talk with your brother when we get back to England,” James said. “In the meantime, Mrs. Tarleton, shall we proceed to this temple? The crowd seems to be thinning rapidly.”

  Sure enough, by the time we reached the hilltop, there was only one couple visible. The young man looked about sixteen; his companion was at least twice his age, and seemed just the sort of female Aunt Charlotte was always warning Oliver about. They took one look at James and me and fled. This time, it was James who frowned.

  “Those boys can’t be here alone. Whoever is bear-leading them isn’t doing his job.” His frown deepened. “I’ve half a mind to have a word with him.”

  “He’s probably around somewhere with ‘poor Theo,’ ” I said. “If we see him, you can tell him what you think. Meanwhile, we really should look at this temple. Papa will be terribly disappointed if I don’t send him a proper description.”

  The temple appeared, originally, to have consisted of a long, thin building with an altar at one end and a small, round room behind the altar. The roof and most of the walls of the main building were gone, and grass grew around the base of the broken pillars that had held up the center beam. The altar had sunk on one side, and tilted crazily. The little room behind it seemed intact, though its stone walls looked even older and more worn than the altar.

  “Your father actually recommended this?” James said, looking at the fallen pillars.

  “Oh, yes,” I said. “Papa hasn’t much regard for appearances. He’s only interested in history. I think this place had something to do with the ancient Frankish chieftains, before the Romans came and took it over. I suppose I had better look at all of it.”

  We strolled down the edge of the building, toward the skewed altar stone. The opening to the little room behind it was dark and doorless; there were no windows in the near walls, and evidently there were none on the far side, either. I thought it must have been some sort of storeroom, but as we came closer, I heard the muffled murmur of voices.

  Puzzled, I let go of James’s arm and peered through the low doorway. The room inside was quite dark, except for one corner that seemed lit from below. “James!” I said. “There’s some sort of cellar!”

  “I suppose you want to investigate,” James said.

  “It’s where the voices are coming from, and you did say you wanted a word with the boys’ tutor,” I said. “Besides, I promised Papa.”

  James rolled his eyes, but he did not object. Carefully, we made our way inside and down a short, narrow flight of stairs. As we did, the voices grew louder.

  “—left their offerings for the chieftainship rite,” a man said in a pedantic tone. “Just to the right, there, under the statue.”

  “Gold?” a younger voice said with interest.

  “No, it had to be personal. Something the man had made himself, representing his skills and abilities. A hunter would leave a claw or tooth from his kill; a warrior, the ears of an enemy. A lover”—the tone dropped and became almost lascivious—“some personal token from his lady. Then they touched the statue for luck, said their prayers, and left.”

  James stopped short at the foot of the stairs, and I peered over his shoulder. We had come out into a round, cavelike room. The walls seemed to be carved from stone, and the air felt damp. A tall, thin man in rather shabby clerical dress stood a little in front of us, holding a lantern in one hand; by its light, we could see a niche about three feet high carved into the far wall. The right side of the niche had been extended and deepened to make a sort of bowl. The left side held a statue. Its nose had broken off long ago, the features were worn, and its stone robes covered it from neck to heel so that it was impossible to tell whether the figure had been intended as a man or a woman. Except for its feet, the statue was rough-carved; the feet had been polished to a glossy smoothness, probably by centuries of visitors touching them “for luck.”

  A young man, about sixteen, stood in front of the statue.

  His hair was dark, and his expression was very serious. “Do you think I might—”

  “There’s no harm in it; go on,” the thin man said. A trick of the light made him seem for a moment like some bird of prey, an effect heightened by the fact that his nose had plainly been broken at some time in the past, though he was clearly not the sort of person one would expect to indulge in fisticuffs.

  As the youth leaned forward, the thin man made a surreptitious gesture with his free hand toward the niche, and I saw something drop from his fingers into the bowl beside the statue. The student did not seem to notice. His hand touched the statue’s feet, and he shivered. I felt a frisson of magic ripple through the air, and caught my breath in surprise.

  The older man turned and saw us. His eyes narrowed. “Ah, more visitors to the shrine of Mithras,” he said with a sort of oily, insincere politeness.

  “Mithras?” I could hear the skepticism in James’s tone; it was clear that he had taken the man in instant dislike. “The Temple of Minerva Victrix seems an odd place to find a Mithraeum.”

  “You are a scholar, Sir?” the boy said eagerly, turning.

  “Of a desultory sort only,” James said. “I cannot claim more than the most rudimentary knowledge.”

  “Yes, quite so,” the thin man said patronizingly. “Make your bow, Theodore; it is time we were going.”

  The young man drew himself up. “Theodore Daventer, at your service, Sir, Madam.”

  “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” James replied automatically. “My name is Tarleton, and this is my wife.”

  He drew me forward, forcing Theodore and the thin gentleman to move aside. There was a moment of shuffling around the small space, and I found myself next to the niche. James and Theodore continued exchanging polite small talk under the tutor’s increasingly disapproving eye; no one was paying the least heed to me. Turning slightly to hide what I was doing, I felt behind me until my fingers found the rough bowl-shape carved into the wall. There was something in it; it felt round and rough, like a walnut shell, but very light. I scooped it up, along with what felt like a few pebbles, and hid my hand in my skirt.

  “I think that you have taken enough of Mr. Tarleton’s time, Theodore,” the thin man said.

  “Oh, there’s no harm in it,” James said. He looked at the man and added pointedly, “Not compared to the things he could he doing.”

  The thin man gave him a sharp look. “Nevertheless, it is time we rejoined the others.”

  “High time,” James muttered, quite audibly.

  The thin man’s expression turned sour, and he looked at James with dislike, but all he said was, “Master Theodore.”

  The boy turned to me. “Mrs. Tarleton? Have
you seen enough? I suppose we could leave you the lantern, but—”

  “I am quite satisfied,” I declared quickly, and made my way to the stairs. James shoved in behind me, and to my surprise, the boy and his tutor followed directly. Above, they took themselves off in search of their vanished companions; James suggested helpfully that they search the east wood.

  “Now, Cecy,” James said when they had gone, “what were you up to down there?”

  “I’m not sure,” I said. “Something magical happened when that boy touched the statue; I felt it. It wasn’t like any other spell I’ve sensed, though. And that tutor dropped something beside the statue just before. What was his name?”

  “He never said.” James looked after the vanished pair with another frown. “I suppose you expect me to go and retrieve your mysterious object.”

  “No need; I picked it up while you were distracting Theodore and what’s-his-name.” I pulled my hand out and opened it. I held two rather damp stones and a tightly crumpled wad of paper. I dropped the stones and uncrumpled the page. James and I stared at it in surprise. It was written in neat Latin, all but the signature: Theodore Daventer.

  “James—”

  “It’s an essay on the Druids, as described by Caesar and Strabo,” James replied after a moment of concentration. “Apart from the subject matter, it’s a fairly typical schoolboy composition.” He grinned suddenly. “Right down to the phrases that are unexceptionable when properly translated, but that sound thoroughly vulgar if one simply reads the Latin aloud. Clever lad; he doesn’t even seem to have reached hard for them.”

  “What phrases?”

  James looked at me with an expression of exaggerated shock. “Cecy! Do you really expect me to sully my wife’s ears with vulgarities?”

  I widened my eyes at him. “But the exact Latin might be of great magical importance.”

  “Very true; I’ll have to show it to Thomas.” He reached for the page, but I snatched it away just in time and stuffed it into my reticule.