That I assure you is the reason why he has brought her to Court. Now what say you to sending for Damian?”
“If it so please my lord, then let it be.”
“I’ll send for him tomorrow. Now my bed calls . . . and it would seem it does for many of our friends.”
The King stood up, and the company rose with him.
He bade them all a good and safe night; then with Marion he went to his bedchamber.
Damian appeared the next day. The Abbot of Tungsland had come far since he had attracted the attention of the King and this he had done through what he proclaimed to be knowledge of the art of magic.
He was an astrologer, but there were other astrologers. Damian had special gifts. He could tell the King what was about to happen. He could tell him what to avoid. He had had some luck in those respects and James, who wanted to believe, was inclined to pass over Damian’s mistakes and remember his successes.
Marion had once said: “You help Damian when he is groping for messages and things from the unknown. You supply him with little bits of information, which help him make the right guess.”
James had been really displeased. Easy-going as he normally was he could be angry if anyone spoke disparagingly of something so near his heart as the effectiveness of the occult. Marion was quick to learn lessons. She would have to be careful; her association with James had been dangerously long and she saw the look in his eyes when they strayed to Janet Kennedy—mistress of old Bell-the-Cat though she might be. Kings were not all that averse to taking what Earls regarded as theirs; and James in his passionate pursuit of a mistress would be more determined than he had shown himself to be pursuing an enemy in war.
So Marion said no more about Damian and feigned an interest in his work, which she did not really feel, and when Damian arrived she was with the King.
“Damian . . . my good friend,” cried the King, embracing the abbot. “I am right glad to see you here.”
“My lord’s wish is his command as far as I am concerned. I am always at your service, Sire.”
“Well, have you looked at the stars of late?”
“I search them continuously.”
“On my behalf I hope.”
“My lord King is never far from my mind.”
“Well, Damian, well . . . what sex is the child my dear Marion carries so proudly? Is he the King’s son?”
Marion cried: “James! How could he be another’s!”
“Impossible, impossible dear lady. All know your fidelity to their sorrow . . . some declare I am sure. I was about to say, is he the King’s son . . . or daughter?”
This was the sort of question which Damian liked least. One could so easily . . . and so quickly . . . be proved wrong. If one predicted some things it was easy to adjust one’s meaning if the need arose, but the sex of a child—a plain yes or no—that was tricky.
He placed his hands on the girl. She was large. The manner in which she carried the child indicated it might be a boy. The last was a girl. What the King wanted to hear was that it was a boy and his reward would probably be greater if he made the King happy. It was a chance he had to take in any case so why not take the happy chance?
“I think I can say with certainty that the child my lady carries is a boy . . . and your son, my lord.”
“Bless you, Damian. That’s good hearing, eh, Marion?”
“The best, my lord.”
“And will he grow up to be a good boy to his father?”
“He will,” said Marion. “
“There, Damian, you have a rival. The lady is looking into the future and finding the answer before you do.”
“The lady will indeed do all she says. I can confirm that.”
“What a pair of comforters I have! Now tell me of my old enemy below the Border. What trials can you search out for him, Damian?”
“He is beset by them. His eldest boy is sickly.”
“Is he going to die?”
“Not yet . . . but later . . .”
“Ah, there’s another though. A sprightly little fellow by all accounts . . . recently made Duke of York by his doting father.”
“To show, my lord, that there should be but one Duke of York.”
“Well, there is, eh? The other is the true King of England.”
Perkin Warbeck. Here was dangerous ground for Damian. He was always very well informed of affairs so that he knew exactly what was happening. That enabled him to give a considered judgment and once again he had been lucky in being right more often than wrong.
He had the gift of making his prophecies vague. That was the secret. A good sorcerer couched his words in clever obscurity so that when a certain thing happened people said, “Oh that was what Damian meant!”
It was very helpful.
