Revelations in a Glass of Wine
London, January 1944
"Impressive suntan, Robert," came a familiar voice, as I headed down the corridor to my old office in the Ministry of Defence - limping slightly from the leg injury I had received a couple of weeks before in Italy: by now it was mostly healed, but as I'd received it on Earth Prime, where there wasn't any magical healing, it was taking longer than normal. I turned to see John Graham following up the corridor behind me, and stopped.
"Any cracks about my having been in the wars won't be appreciated," I answered, turning to face Gray as he came down the corridor.
"What happened?" he asked.
"I got careless - took a bullet in the thigh at Ortona."
"Ah, the sunny Mediterranean. That would explain the tan," he answered.
"Not that sunny at the moment," I answered, remembering the driving rain in which we'd been fought to a standstill, "but the desert and Sicily were."
He looked at me and smiled.
"I hadn't realised you were with the Eighth Army - I'd thought that was Andrew. Still, you've been hiding yourself pretty efficiently for the last year and a half."
"You told me to drop out of sight when I got back from Czechoslovakia," I reminded him, recollecting the last conversation we'd had, on July 1st 1942.
"And you answered that by nightfall I wouldn't be able to find you," Gray answered, with a slight smile, "I didn't believe you, given that finding people is my job...but I have to admit you beat me."
"Are the Nazi High Command still after my scalp?"
"I haven't heard otherwise," he answered, "but it certainly isn't the priority with them that it used to be, given they have other things occupying their minds at the moment. We should catch up. Soon."
"I'll be at home later, if you want to drop round," I answered, "I've reopened the Town House."
"I'll see you at eight," he answered, and then turned on his heel and headed back to his office.
* * * * * *
He knocked at the door exactly on time.
"I can't offer you much to eat, but the cellar still looks to be intact," I said as I let him in, "it's a sorry day when a pair of Colonels are faced with cheese sandwiches for dinner, but at least I've still got a couple of bottles of the Châteaunneuf '13 to wash them down with."
"Not to worry, Robert," he answered, lightly, "I didn't come for the refreshments - although the wine sounds superb - I came to find out what the Hell you've been up to since we last met, and how you defeated my best efforts to find you."
We went into the kitchen and I poured a couple of glasses from one of the bottles I'd uncorked earlier, then we ate a meagre supper and discussed day to day irrelevancies. Once we had eaten, we took our glasses and the remaining bottle and a half into the drawing room, and made ourselves comfortable. I offered him the cigar box, took one myself and placed it between us, before lighting both and sitting back in my chair.
"So where have you been for the past eighteen months?" Gray asked, "what mysterious task has taken Robert de Lacy out of the ken of the Intelligence Corps for so long?"
"I've been with Montgomery's staff," I answered, as I sat down in one of the big chairs by the lit fireplace, gesturing for him to take the other. It was actually true, as far as it went - if you lay aside the small issue of it being a different Montgomery, in a different Africa - although I knew that it would fool Gray for about thirty seconds flat.
"Really?" he answered, "and there was I thinking that it was the Duke of Worcester who was acting as Montgomery's aide, not his rather dubiously legal heir."
I looked at him, my first surprised reaction that he would have said that quickly deepening towards anger, until he held his hands up in a gesture of surrender.
"Sorry. That was uncalled for," he said, quickly.
"Yes, it was," I answered, a coldness in my tone which he looked surprised to hear. "Friends don't normally call each other bastard to their faces."
"Of course not," he replied, his tone apologetic.
I relaxed slightly, then shrugged and took a drink of wine.
"Touchy subject," I said, finally.
However his expression was not what I expected: slightly incredulous, perhaps.
"Forgive me saying so, Robert, but is it really?"
"What do you mean?"
"Just that," he answered, "Is it really a touchy subject, given that your family's succession has more than the usual number of irregularities?" He obviously saw me tense, and made a gesture indicating I should hold fast before saying anything. "Some of our conversations around the time that you were nearly killed outside the MoD got me thinking. So why don't you hear me out, before you let loose that temper of yours?"
I looked at him, then shrugged.
"What the Hell," I finally said, more lightly than I felt given the worry I was beginning to feel, "why not?"
"Alright then," he replied. We both took a drink from our respective his wine glasses, and then he put his down on the table beside him and turned to face me, while I relaxed into my chair, balancing mine on the chair arm.
"The previous Duke, your namesake, died in 1938. Worcester passed to his only living relative, an illegitimate son called Andrew, from a mistress he never married, whom no one ever found despite enquiries being made. Then early in 1939, you, his supposed cousin - although there was some debate about that when you were revealed - were legitimised as his heir and declared Marquis of Tewkesbury.
This piqued my curiosity, so I did some digging. The time before that, in 1893, the beneficiary of the then Duke's death was another bastard, Robert du Harcouët, who took the family name and title, until his death in 1938 as previously stated. Duke Andrew - notice how the names repeat - was certified dead by a Doctor John Watson. A little side search threw up the interesting, although I'm not sure how relevant, secondary information that he was the same John Watson MD who was associated with a certain well-known consulting detective of the time.
By then I was intrigued, and kept on looking, and finally I discovered that the last time the Duchy of Worcester passed to a legal heir was in 1775. Since then it's been illegitimate sons, cousins...well, I'm sure you know better than I."
"All very interesting, Gray. But where are you taking this?" I asked, suspicion once again in my tone.
"When you were still far from 100% the morning you did the forensic investigation of the site where Heydrich attacked you, you let slip that you thought you recognised someone you'd seen in the late-nineteenth century. However, given that your birth certificate said 1900, that was, of course, impossible."
"I remember the conversation," I answered, "you commented that it explained a lot, but as you never mentioned it again, I though you'd let that lie."
"I did, then," he replied, with a smile, "but I wouldn't be a good intelligence officer if I'd not followed it up later."
I gave an ironic chuckle.
"Has anyone ever told you you're too good at this?" I asked.
"If I wasn't, I wouldn't be on the list for promotion to Brigadier General," he replied, his eyes twinkling mischievously.
"So what's the question I'm not going to like?"
"Very simple," he answered, "when and where were you born?"
"If you're so clever, why don't you tell me?" I challenged.
"Alright then. Looking through the annals of the Duchy of Worcester, my guess is June 1700, at Millbank Manor."
"Nice try," I answered, hoping I managed to mask my dismay at a completely accurate answer, "except for one small problem. No one lives for over 200 years."
"How did Sherlock Holmes put it? 'When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth'," he replied, although I saw caution in his expression which hadn't been there earlier.
"But you've chosen the impossible solution," I pointed out, uncomfortable that he was making his point by quoting a now-dead friend.
"And yet it's the only one which fits the puzzle," he answered, his tone unrepentant, "I'd further suggest that Andrew - Duke of Worcester and until recently aide to Montgomery, now high up in the command of the forces fighting in Italy - was born in Cambridge, twenty-three years later, and that somehow you've: a) both lived this long, and b) have been playing share and share about with the Worcester Duchy since 1740, flying in the face of all logic and the College of Heralds, who for some reason have allowed the title to continue to exist long after it should have become extinct with Duke Andrew's death in 1808."
I gave him a slow round of applause.
"You can be a very scary person at times," I said, finally.
"Then I am right?" he answered, his expression lightening, and his stress on the word 'am' making me realised that he'd bluffed me beautifully. He had been speaking from suspicion, but not actual proof.
"Oh yes," I replied, "on both counts. Which begs the question is what are you going to do with the information? Should I be worried? Should I kill you as a potential threat to me?"
My last statement obviously startled him, and I saw his eyes narrow. I sat back in my chair, draining my wine glass, and realising that I wasn't completely joking.
"How long have we known each other, Robert?" he said, finally.
"We met in February 1937, as I recall," I replied, "at a dinner at Horse Guards, I think."
"And the moment we were introduced, something clicked, as if we'd known each other for a long time."
"We're both old souls, Gray," I replied, "that has become more and more apparent as we've got to know each other, worked together, and learned of each other's more esoteric interests. While I do not know for sure, it seems likely that our paths have crossed before."
"If you're really as old as this seems to indicate, there may even be earlier incarnations of me who have met you, as you, before" he answered, with a chuckle, "and I'll admit that that is going to take some getting used to." He paused, took a drink and then continued. "Why would you assume that I would use the information against you?"
"My family have been known to exploit such things."
"Yes...you've mentioned them before. In fact, as I recall you agreed to tell me about them one day."
"When?" I asked.
"The same day, in the same conversation."
"I believe I said 'Maybe'," I commented.
"However, as I came through with my half of the deal...I arranged for you take out Heydrich, a decision which I've really only just stopped taking flak for...it only seems fair that you should make that 'maybe' more definite."
I stood up, refilled both our glasses, emptying the first bottle and starting the second, gave us both new cigars, and then sat back down again.
"Alright. Ask away."
"That suggests I know the questions to ask," Gray answered, meeting my gaze unflinching, "however the first one is easy. Are you human?"
I paused for a moment, considering my response.
"Define human? As a race, a species or a point of view."
"Any of the above," came the reply.
"Then I probably have to say 'no' to the first two, but 'yes' to the third."
"But how is that possible?"
"Hell, Gray. I've been trying to work out how to explain this one to you for a long time, and never come up with a good answer. Which is why I hoped you'd forgotten that conversation. Answer me this. When you're on the Second Road, how often do you feel that the insights you get aren't entirely based in this world."
"On occasion," he admitted, his tone guarded.
"And have you ever rationalised why?"
"In one of my more drunken flights of fantasy, after my son died, when I was drowning my sorrows more than I should have been, I conjectured that perhaps the Second Road is a place where different existences intersect."
"So the idea that there are other worlds isn't entirely alien to you."
"Not entirely," he answered, "although I'll admit it seems fantastic."
"And yet you're sitting here, drinking a very good bottle of wine with a man whom you've just told that you think is 243 years old. And who, I'd guess from your choice of quote, you think - among other things - was personal friends with Sherlock Holmes...who, by the way, was the last person to ferret all this out, so you're in good company"
He smiled and raised his glass to me. "Touché."
"My family come from a world a long, long way away from here, Gray. My father - whom your researches will have thrown up as Duke William - is an exiled prince called Delwin, from a Kingdom worlds and worlds away: a place called Amber, ruled by a family who are to all intents and purposes immortal, unless helped to their end."
"Are they helped to their end often?" he asked, his tone impassive.
"More often than is healthy, and regularly by each other or their father," I answered, "they don't get on in any human sense of the word: taking offence at each other's actions, nursing grudges for long enough to serve revenge cold - either that or attacking each other in hot blood which makes mine look positively tepid. And all of them ruled by their Patriarch, Oberon, who likes to keep them divided so that they don't band together to depose him. When I said we had an over-developed sense of vengeance, I really meant it."
"Sounds perfectly charming," Gray retorted, but I could see that the idea was uncomfortable for him, "however, despite all of this, doesn't it make you some kind of universal prince, rather than just English nobility from a superbly bar-sinister line?"
"My parents were married, which makes me legitimate - whatever the official records here say - so I imagine so, yes. It's not a line of investigation I've pursued with any vigour, as I'm quite happy here and abouts, with as few of them as possible taking an interest in me," I replied.
I saw his expression cloud, and for several minutes he sat in silence, studying his glass of wine with determination. I remained silent, savouring the warm, spicy taste of the Châteaunneuf.
"What's wrong?" I asked, finally.
"You've struck a nerve," came his unexpected reply.
"Why?"
"The last time I had a conversation like this, it was also with a prince. One who died untimely a few months later."
"Kent or Clarence?" I said, quietly.
"Clarence," he answered, his voice little more than a whisper.
I nodded, my expression sympathetic. The death of William, Duke of Clarence, in a tragic accident when his launch was holed on an inspection tour in Wales, had shaken a nation already reeling from defeat in the Battle of France. However, I hadn't consciously known that he and Gray had been particularly close, although Gray's son had been on same the launch when the Prince died.
"You were discussing other worlds with a Royal Duke?" I asked, at last, then thought for a moment, "no, I suppose you must have said something to him for him to host the meeting at Laurelgrove where you were drumming up support for the Lammas Working.
"In the last few months of his life, I discussed my extra-curricular activities with him in quite a lot of detail," he answered, "Apart from you, he was one of the few people who knew that I truly believe in the occult matters my department studies for purely propaganda reasons, and that I was a practitioner of a number of esoteric traditions, despite my Talent being sufficiently different from the norm for it to be unacknowledged by most practitioners."
"I'm sorry, Gray. I hadn't realised," I answered, although the comment didn't really seem quite sufficient, "I'd thought you'd just asked him to host the meeting as a favour, and briefed him on who was who, rather than actually involve him."
"Let it pass," he said, finally.
"Of course."
"Any anyway," he continued, snapping back to some semblance of his previous good humour, "you were confessing all."
"That's most of it. My family is immortal, which is why Andrew and I are still here two and a half centuries later. Along the way, I've travelled extensively, been heavily involved in fighting black lodges in England and France, resisted the Committee of Public Safety during the Revolution, fought alongside Wellington in the Peninsula, avoided getting drawn into the Charge of the Light Brigade, and survived the Indian Mutiny and the Western Front."
"And this is all possible because they come from another world, with other rules? Are there many of those worlds?"
"An infinite number," I replied, "and when one of my family comes of age, they are usually initiated into a family mystery which gives them the power to move between them, to influence them."
"And so this happened with you?" he asked.
I chuckled.
"No, I flunked it when I was given the opportunity," I answered.
"You flunked a magical initiation?" he asked, his tone incredulous.
"More I decided not to try it in the first place," I replied, "I took one look at it, decided it was going to kill me, and refused point blank. Strangely, my mentor wasn't amused."
"Not your father?"
"I haven't seen my father since 1740," I answered, "no, I mean my arcane mentor. An uncle of mine called Brand. However, I think that the reason I haven't really fallen into the family mentality, for all my faults, is because I refused that day. This is why I would class myself as human, even if technically I am not. This is my home: I was born and bred here, and it is here I feel I belong. Not in some palace surrounded by relatives engaged in a constant game of lethal one-upmanship."
Gray's expression was pensive, as he rolled the stem of his wine glass between his palms.
"In the end," I concluded, "Brand accepted that I wasn't going to take the opportunity, and worked out a way of giving me limited access to some of their abilities, without letting me walk too far and getting myself killed by a rampaging uncle."
"Which implies that you've visited other worlds..."
"Yes," I concurred, "but not too many."
"What are they like?"
"It varies. The one I've visited most is almost exactly like here: the main difference is that it has technology, where we have magic. Other than that, the history is remarkably similar. All the major historical figures. Even some of the non-historical ones."
"Similar enough that they're in the middle of their Second World War?" Gray asked, mildly.
"Indeed."
"Similar enough, in fact, that the Eighth Army's assault on Italy just got held at Ortona?" he added, and I nodded.
"You really do catch on fast," I said, with a half smile, "you told me to drop out of sight..."
"And no one was going to find you on another world, where you hadn't committed the action that Nazi High Command were hunting you for here," he finished for me, "At least, I presume you hadn't."
"No, I hadn't. But neither was I there to save Lidice or Lezaky," I answered, regret in my tone. I took another drink.
"I presume that even you cannot be in two places at once," he replied, "you did what you could where you were. And from what you've been saying, others of your family would not have tried."
"That's accurate for most of them," I concurred.
"Then despite giving you a hard time you for what you did in Czechoslovakia, I'm glad you're their representative here, and that you were willing to take action in pursuit of the Light. What brought you home?"
"I gave myself eighteen months to let the dust settle. Having spoken to Andrew before I went, I got the idea of mirroring him and a friend there managed to get me a position with the Eighth Army command. Once in place, I worked my way up in Montgomery's staff, fighting in the desert, Sicily and Italy, as I've said. Then, at the end of December, he was recalled to England to help plan an action to get us back into France. It occurred to me that something similar might be occurring here, and I realised that I wanted to be part of it at home, rather than somewhere where I was a visitor. So here I am: assigned as magical liaison to the Operation Overlord planning committee."
I stopped and looked at him "That's pretty much it in a nutshell. I can fill in more details later if you want..." I lifted up the second, now empty bottle of wine then smiled, "...but not tonight. Did it live up to your expectations?"
"The wine, or the story," he answered, with a grin, "Robert, I'm impressed. If it is just a story, it's one of the best I've heard in a long, long time."
"But you're not entirely sure whether I've been spinning you a line or telling you the truth?"
"I'll let you know when I've let it all sink in," he answered, "but I'm inclined to think that this evening I've heard a truth that is truly stranger than fiction."