The Prince in Waiting

SEVEN

THE HIGH SEERS

THAT YEAR WE HAD STRANGE and distinguished guests at the Autumn Fair: the High Seers came to the city.

They came, three of them, black-cloaked on pure white horses, and the city turned out to greet them at the North Gate. It was not a greeting such as had been given to the army when we returned with the spoils of Petersfield. Then the people had shouted their acclamations for the Prince and his followers, and even I, riding with Burke at the head of the camp followers, had heard my name echo from the city’s walls. The High Seers were received in silence, but a silence that was perhaps more impressive than any noise, having reverence in it.

The crazy Christians on one side, there had been always some who were skeptical concerning the Spirits, and Ezzard’s powers as mediator and interpreter of their will. Many, possibly a majority, contrived to hold belief and disbelief in dubious balance. There was something there, they thought, but they did not quite know what, or what the extent and limitations of its authority might be. I think I was among them. Even though I had been angry with Martin for expressing blasphemy, it had been chiefly through anxiety over men’s response to it, not fear of what the Spirits might do. In part I believed in the Spirits—after all, they had named my father Prince and myself his heir, a Prince to be—in part, I doubted.

But it was hard for any to go on doubting after the fall of Petersfield. My father, calling on the Spirits for aid, had led his men in an attack against walls which, strong in themselves, carried also diabolical machines capable of throwing death from great distances: the camp, on which steel first fell, had been almost half a mile away. If there were no Spirits, or they had no power to help, the project was ridiculous, scarcely sane. But the Spirits had shown their presence and their strength, destroying the machine at the very moment that it belched out death, and by that destruction opening a way for our men to pour through and overcome the shocked and demoralized defenders.

In thankfulness my father had decreed the building of a new Seance Hall, three times the size of the old one. The High Seers were come to consecrate its foundation, and the city greeted them in awe. Each city had its Seer, with his attendant Acolytes, but the High Seers had always stayed in their Sanctuary beyond Salisbury, the holy place. There, it was said, they communicated with the Spirits not just fitfully, for an hour at a time, as Ezzard did, but continuously, even passing through from our substantial world to that strange invisible plane in which the Spirits had their being. It was wonderful that they should have left the Sanctuary and come so far, thirty-five miles at least, to honor us.

That evening the High Seers sat at the long table in the Great Hall, on my father’s right hand. Facing them were other Seers: Ezzard and the Seers of Petersfield and Romsey. It was a great concentration of holiness and the banquet was not, at first at any rate, as banquets usually are, noisy with jests and rowdy laughter. Men ate and drank in a solemn hush; heads turned at the sudden squeaking of a chair, reproving the one who sat there.

The Seers ate and drank sparingly, the High Seers eating least of all. I heard it whispered that the little they took was only for politeness’ sake, that usually they supped on the food of the Spirits that could be neither touched nor seen by ordinary people. Whatever their customary food was, it plainly nourished them; they themselves were solid enough and one at least, sitting between the other two, was big indeed and amply stomached.

They left the table before the sweets were brought and all, my father included, stood in respect as they walked together from the Hall. When they had gone there was a kind of sigh that rippled down the line of guests, followed by noisy chatter that burst out in relief. The clowns came with the sweets, and serving maids filled the pots with the strong dark brew of ale, itself sweet to the tongue, which was drunk after meat. I took some myself but only sipped it. I had seen enough heads fuddled with ale to be careful in drinking. I could never see what pleasure men got from being made silly and stupid by it. To me it was a hateful thing not to have control of one’s mind and body.

My father swallowed down his pot and called for another but he had a good head for liquor: even when drinking heavily he never seemed to me the worse for it. Tonight, after his second pot, he rose. The guests that remained rose also but he bade them sit down and continue with their feast; he was excusing himself because he had things to attend to. He left, as they toasted him yet again: Prince of Winchester, conqueror of Petersfield! Not long after a servant came to me quietly. My father wanted to see me in his private room.

I found him sitting in the old wooden armchair. His boots were off and he was toasting his feet at the fire. He nodded as I came in and bobbed my head to him.

“Sit down, Luke. I hope you don’t mind that I took you from the feast.”

I said: “No, sir.”

“You are young still but there are things about which I would like to talk with you. Partly because they are your concern as well as mine.” He shrugged. “And partly, I suppose, because there is no one else to say them to.”

In the past there had been my mother, who would smile, half listening, and tell him she was sure that everything he did was right, and would succeed because he did it. And my aunt, who would comment more shrewdly. And Peter. Peter had spoken up for him before the walls of Winchester and gained great glory in the battle that followed, fighting with a reckless courage that everyone praised. But I knew he could not talk to Peter any more than I could—could not look at him without remembering that which he wished with all his heart to forget. There was Wilson, but old and trusted colleague as he was, some things could not be said to him.

I waited. He said:

“I saw your face when I spoke to the Captains before the attack on the walls. Did you think me mad, son?”

“Why, no, sir . . .”

He shook his head impatiently. “Or reckless, or what you will. At any rate, you thought we could not succeed. As the others did. They came with me because I shamed them into doing so. None of you had faith in the Spirits.”

I began to speak again and again he bore me down.

“Let us talk about faith,” he said. “It is a strange thing. Before you have faith you must believe, and before you believe there must be evidence of some sort to persuade the mind. Faith is remembering that evidence and holding to it against all that seems to challenge or contradict it. And some evidences are stronger than others, and more important. I have faith that my dinner will be brought to me tomorrow, but not such faith that I would sit long at an empty table.”

He paused. I was not sure if he wanted me to say something and anyway had nothing to say. He went on slowly:

“You know what my mood was last winter, and you know the reasons for it. I think I went on living because it was too much trouble to seek death. Ezzard tried to give me comfort, telling me that your mother was a Spirit now, with the other Spirits, that she lived still in their world and that one day I would meet her again. He brought me messages that he said came from her. There was no comfort in them. Time after time I sent him away.

“Then at last, as winter ended, he persuaded me to visit him in the Seance Hall. None knew of it and no other was present, not even an Acolyte. Just the Seer and I. And there, in the darkness, I heard her voice. She talked to me, in human speech.”

He looked at me and his face lightened into a smile, so rare now.

“I do not ask you to believe this because you did not hear it, and a man can be deceived by his ears. But I know I was not deceived. I could never mistake that voice. I heard her speak.”

I asked: “What did she say, sir?”

“That she was well, that I must not brood over losing her, that we would meet again. It was not what she said but that she said it. I knew then that Ezzard had told me the truth: that there was a world of Spirits and she was in it.

“There is still more. Before I led the army against Petersfield, Ezzard told me how things would go. He said they would fight us in the field and then retire behind their walls. He said their Prince was a man who defied the Spirits, who had found old machines of war and would use them. So I was not surprised when thunder broke from their walls that morning. He said if we fought against them we would win.”

He looked a long time at Margry’s painting of my mother which hung on the wall opposite his chair. It showed her smiling, a shaft of sunlight on her hair and face, puppies in a basket at her feet and flowers behind her head: accompanied by all the things she loved best. He said:

“One thing Ezzard did not promise me: that I myself would come back safe. He did not say I would not, but I thought that was his meaning. He spoke strongly of the need to protect you, my heir. But perhaps it was my own desire that misled me there. Because to die in such a way, fighting on behalf of the Spirits, must mean that I would join her, at once, in the Spirit world.”

He hunched back in his chair, letting his shoulders droop, and for the first time I saw him as old, a man with a burden in which there was now no trace of joy.

“All happened as Ezzard foretold. And I returned in triumph, and I do not think either the Blaines or Hardings will trouble us in the future. I do not know how many years I have to live”—he spoke as a man contemplating a long and wearisome journey—“but when I die the people will call for a Perry to succeed a Perry. You will be Prince of this city. It is something else Ezzard has told us, at the bidding of the Spirits, but even without their aid it would be so. And because you are the Prince in Waiting, I have another thing to tell you. Ezzard has spoken to me about Petersfield. It is the wish of the Spirits that we do not exact ransom but annex this city, making it and all its lands part of our realm of Winchester.”

Despite what he had already told me, I was astonished. The cities were the cities, individual and sovereign. One might defeat another in war and take tribute, outlying land perhaps, as we had done from Alton, but at the end of each campaign the armies withdrew behind their own walls.

I asked: “Is it possible?”

“The Spirits command it.”

“But will the men of Petersfield accept? Or will you keep an army there all winter?”

“If necessary; but it will not be necessary. Their Seer agrees with Ezzard on this. He will proclaim it to them and his power is great since their city was taken through defiance of the Spirits. I shall appoint one of their own Captains as my lieutenant. The Seer of Petersfield has given me good advice on choosing him.”

The Seers, it seemed, were taking a larger hand in our affairs: much larger. I was not sure I cared for it. But it was true they spoke for the Spirits and that the Spirits had showed their powers. True also that so far their powers had been exercised to our benefit. It would not be wise to offend them.

• • •

I was at Edmund’s house on the day the proclamation about Petersfield was made. It was his mother’s birthday and I had taken her a present, a set of pink ribbons made up into a shape something like a rose, to pin on a dress. As soon as I gave it to her I realized I had made a mistake. It was the sort of frivolous thing which would have suited my mother but Edmund’s mother had been, even as the Prince’s Lady, a homely woman not given to fripperies, and now was content to dress dowdily in browns and dark blues. It occurred to me that choosing a rose shape made things worse. Her one great joy when she lived in the palace had been the rose garden. I think it was the only thing of luxury she missed when she went to live on Salt Street. The present might remind her of it; she might even think I had meant it to.

She thanked me warmly but I was embarrassed and uneasy. My mood was not improved by Edmund’s sister, who was also there. She was a year older than Edmund, a thin, sharp-tongued girl. I was never, at the best of times, at ease with girls, but those who used sarcasm bothered me even more than the ones who giggled together in corners. She said something now about the gift I had brought, which I did not fully understand but which sounded mocking. Then she spoke about the proclamation. What a great Prince I would be one day. Who knew how many more cities my father might not conquer?

“Who knows?” I said. “Maybe Romsey, too. If so, I will bring you a gift from there. A lily, perhaps.”

I saw her thin face flush. She had been betrothed to the son of Romsey’s Prince but this had been annulled, of course, following her father’s deposition and death. Lilies were what brides carried at their weddings. She said:

“I know one thing you will never bring to any lady: that is courtesy. It requires breeding, and if you become Prince of all the cities in the world you will always lack that.”

Her words cut like knives, reducing me to tongue-tied silence. Her mother intervened, saying:

“That will do, Jenny. You have been teasing him.”

“Does a gentleman insult a lady, even if he is teased?”

“It has nothing to do with that,” her mother said. “Some men are at ease with womenfolk, some not. You know Luke is of the latter, and you should not provoke him.”

I said: “I am sorry, ma’am.”

She smiled. “I know you are.”

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.