The Clerk nodded, pursing his lips pensively. “And the boy? Presumably he is agreeable?”

  “Oh, he loves the life! Fresh faces; fresh places. Why this last six weeks a whole new window has opened in Tom’s world!”

  “Then there would seem to be no problem.”

  “On the face of it, you are right, cousin. But the truth of the matter is it’s not quite so simple. For one thing there’s still the lad’s mother.”

  “You mean you haven’t discussed it with her?”

  “Well, until the lad expressed his desire to join up with me, the question didn’t arise. Since then we’ve got along like a house a-fire. But it’s only natural he should feel a good son’s duty to abide by his mother’s wish.”

  A gleam of belated understanding kindled in the Clerk’s eye. “Ah, I see,” he murmured. “So it would suit you if we could make this delay ‘official’?”

  Peter slipped his hand beneath his cloak, fumbled for a moment, then drew out a soft leather bag which clinked faintly as he laid it on the table. “What harm could there be in gratifying an old man’s whim, cousin? I will cherish that boy as if he were my own son. I’ll even undertake to school him in his letters. And I shall return him here to you, safe and sound, before the Midsummer High Mass. All I’m asking of you is that you write a letter to Margot explaining that the place you had bespoken for the lad will not be open to him till the summer; and that when I bring Tom along here you say the same to him. That done we can all go our ways contented.”

  The Clerk reached out, uncorked the wine bottle and poured out a second careful measure into the two cups. “There is but one thing troubles me,” he said. “I have only your word for it that the boy is happy with you. I would have to speak to him alone before I could agree.”

  “You would not tell him that I have spoken with you, Cousin Seymour?”

  “Naturally not,” said the Clerk, lifting his cup and touching it against Peter’s. “That is clearly understood. Nevertheless, for his mother’s sake, I feel bound to insist upon it as a condition of our confidential ‘arrangement’.”

  “Agreed then,” said Peter, and with his free hand he gathered up the bag of coins and shook it gently. “The moment you have satisfied yourself that matters are as I say, these will be yours to distribute as you think fit. To your health, cousin.”

  At the very moment when the Clerk to the Chapter was chatting so amiably to the old tale-spinner, a very different sort of discussion was taking place in a tall gray tower block at the far end of the Minster Close. This building, which was known locally as “The Falconry,” was the headquarters of the whole Secular Arm of the Church Militant throughout the Seven Kingdoms. Its reputation was just as bleak as its appearance. Cold, functional, efficient; the only sign of decoration on the walls of The Falconry was an inscription in burnished steel characters riveted fast to the stonework above the main door: Hic et Ubique. This, when translated from its archaic tongue, read simply: “Here and Everywhere.” Nothing further was needed.

  The man responsible for overseeing all the multifarious activities of the Secular Arm had the official title of “Chief Falconer” though he was more generally spoken of as “the Black Bishop.” Born in 2951, the illegitimate son of a Cornish tax-collector, he had been brought up by the Black Fathers and had risen to his high eminence by dint of great intellectual ability, an outstanding capacity for organization, and an appetite for sheer hard work which had already become something of a legend before he had reached the age of twenty-five. In the seven years since he had been appointed to his present office he had completely re-vitalized the moribund structure he had inherited and rumor had it that his heart was set on doing the same throughout the whole of Europe. Others maintained, sotto voce, that here rumor lied, since it was a proven fact that the Black Bishop had no heart at all.

  What he did have was a fanatical sense of dedication and a will that brooked no obstacle. It was not ambition in the commonly accepted sense of that word, rather a kind of steely conviction that he and he alone was privy to the Truth. Long ago he had been vouchsafed a vision that would have struck a responsive chord in the imagination of many a nineteenth-century engineer, for he had dreamed of the Church Militant as a vast and complex machine in which every moving part functioned to perfection, and all to the greater’ glory of God. In such a machine, with fallible men as its components, fear was the essential lubricant, and none knew better than the Black Bishop when and where to apply the oil can. Yet he derived no particular pleasure from watching men tremble-indeed it was debatable whether he derived particular pleasure from anything-but if he deemed it necessary he did it, and he deemed it necessary quite often.

  Besides the Bishop there were four other men present in the Council Chamber high up on the fifth floor of The Falconry. They were seated two to each side of a long table. The Bishop himself sat at the head. For the past half an hour he had listened in silence while his four District Marshals gave him their verbal reports and now, with the last one concluded, he simply sat there, his left elbow resting on the arm of his chair, his chin resting on the knuckles of his left hand, and slowly looked at each of them in turn. And one by one they quailed before his eyes, their own glances seeking the shelter of the table top or the candlelit corners of the room.

  “So,” he said quietly, “I ask for facts and you bring me rumors: I ask for the firebrand and all you can offer me is a cloud of smoke. Meanwhile every road into York is choked with credulous fools hurrying in to witness the miraculous advent of … of what? A goose? A swan? A seagull? What is it they’re expecting? Surely one of you has discovered!”

  The four officers continued to stare down at the table top. Not one of them cared to risk opening his mouth.

  The Bishop thrust back his chair, stood up and walked over to the wall where a map of The Seven Kingdoms was hanging. He stood for a moment, with his hands clasped behind his back, contemplating it in silence. Finally he said: “And why here? Why York? Why not Carlisle? Edinboro? Newcastle? Belfast, even? There must be a reason.”

  One of the Marshals, Barran by name, observed tentatively: “In the legend, my Lord, the White Bird-”

  “Yes, yes, I know all that, Barran. Lions and unicorns. Fairytale nonsense. But I sense a guiding hand behind it. I feel it here, in my bones.” He turned away from the map and moved back restlessly toward his chair. “Why do men and women need miracles?” he asked. “Can any of you tell me that?” They shook their heads.

  “It is really very simple. If the life they know already is all there is for them to believe in, then most of them would be better off dead.”

  The marshals’ eyes widened as each one wondered whether the perilous boundary which demarcated heresy from orthodoxy was about to be re-drawn.

  “It has always been so,” continued the Bishop somberly. “And what happens ultimately is that they are driven to create their own. Miracles born out of sheer necessity-out of spiritual starvation! Our danger is that unless we are very careful they may do it here. The time is full ripe and there are sufficient gathered for the purpose.”

  “We could disperse them, my Lord.”

  “You think so, Thomas? That would be a miracle indeed! By tomorrow night, at the rate things are going, they will outnumber us by hundreds to our one.”

  “So many, my Lord?”

  “I have it on the Mayor’s authority. And there’s another thing. So far there’s been no whisper of civil trouble in the city. They’re meek as sheep, all of them. Most have even brought in their own provisions for the week. All they do is wander up and down gawping at the Minster. Quiet as mice. Waiting. Just waiting. But for what?”

  The Marshal called Barran cleared his throat and murmured: “I have heard it referred to as ‘the forthcoming,’ my Lord.”

  “Go on.”

  “It is said that at the start of each millennium mankind is given another chance. They would have it that the Drowning in 2000 wiped the slate clean so that a new message could be written on it in the year 3000.” He tailed off apologetically and turned his hands palm upwards on the table as if to disclaim any responsibility for what he had said.

  The Bishop snorted. “The Drowning was the direct result of humanity’s corporate failure to see beyond the end of its own nose. By 1985 it was already quite obvious that the global climate had been modified to the point where the polar ice caps were affected. Besides, the process itself lasted until well into the 21st Century. Such dates are purely arbitrary.”

  “But, my Lord,” Barran protested, “the teachings of Jos-”

  “Yes, yes,” cut in the Bishop irritably, “because it suited the Church’s purpose to denounce it as a Divine Judgement upon the Materialists-which of course it was. But that does not mean that the Church was not fully aware of the physical causes which underlay it. At the end of the 20th Century disaster could have struck in any one of a dozen different ways. By allowing us just time enough in which to adjust to it, the Drowning proved to be the most fortunate thing that could have happened. So five billions perished. When you consider the alternatives you can only allow that God was exceedingly merciful.”

  The Marshals, back once more on firm ground, nodded in agreement.

  “So,” said the Bishop, “let us discard speculation and concentrate upon the practical aspects of our present situation. The one thing to be avoided at all costs is any sort of direct confrontation. The symbolic features of this ridiculous legend must on no account be permitted to gain a hold over their imaginations. Five days from now, Deo volente, they will all have dispersed to their homes, hopefully a good deal wiser than when they left them. In the meantime I wish our men to be seen, but nothing more. They must keep themselves in the background. Let them lend their assistance to the Civil Watch. But tell them to keep their eyes and ears open. At the first sign of anything out of the ordinary-anything which might conceivably be exaggerated into some spurious ‘miracle’-get word back to me at once, and leave it to me to decide what action should be taken. Is that understood?”

  The Marshals nodded, relieved that it had been no worse.

  “Have you any further questions, gentlemen?” There were none.

  Two days after Christmas Clerk Seymour sent a message to “The Duke’s Arms” that he wished to speak with Tom. Old Peter accompanied the boy to the Chapter House. Of the two visitors there was no question who was the more nervous. Hardly had the introductions been made than Peter, pleading the afflictions of advanced age, scuttled off to relieve his bladder. It took him rather longer than might have been expected. When he reappeared it was to learn, to his well-simulated dismay, that Tom would not be joining the Chapter School until the summer.

  He clucked his tongue and shook his head dolefully, then brightened up. “No matter, lad!” he cried. “It’s not the end of the world, is it? And the days twixt now and then will pass in an eyeblink, eh, Cousin Seymour?”

  The Clerk nodded. “I have been suggesting to Thomas that he might do a great deal worse than to keep you company on your spring travels, Tale-Spinner. Would such an arrangement be acceptable to you?”

  “Nothing could please me better!” exclaimed the old man. “Why, Tom, we’ll make that round tour of the Seven Kingdoms I spoke of. That’ll give you something to brag about to your school-fellows, eh? What do you say, lad?”

  Tom smiled. “It’s very kind of you, Peter.”

  “Pooh! Stuff!” cried the old man, clapping an arm round the boy’s shoulders and hugging him tight. “We’re a team, you and I. We stand together against the world, Tom. Artists both, eh? A few days more in York then off down the high road to Doncaster. We’ll follow the coast as far south as Nottingham, then, if the wind’s fair, take ship to Norwich. How does that like you?”

  “It likes me very well,” said Tom.

  “I shall be writing to your mother, Thomas,” said the Clerk, “to let her know that you are in good hands. As soon as you have decided what your plans are, Tale-Spinner, I will be happy to include the information in my letter. We have a Church messenger leaving for Carlisle next Wednesday. I will see that he delivers it into her own hand.”

  “That’s most civil of you, Cousin Seymour. Most civil.”

  “Myself I depart for Malton directly,” continued the Clerk, “but I shall be back on the eve of the New Year. Perhaps you would drop in on me then?”

  “Indeed I shall. In the meantime I’ll have roughed out some details of our trip.”

  The Clerk accompanied them to the door of the Chapter House where they shook hands before making their way through the crowds which thronged the Minster Close. As they were passing The Falconry a man emerged from beneath the overshadowing porch and caught sight of them. He paused a moment, watching them through narrowed eyes, then ran lightly down the steps and plucked the old man by his sleeve. “Greetings, old Tale-Spinner,” he murmured. “Dost remember me?”

  Peter turned. “Aye, sir,” he said. “Even without the casque. How goes it with you, Falcon Gyre?”

  The man glanced back over his shoulder. “I was at the telling last night,” he said.

  “I am indeed honored,” returned Peter, with the merest hint of irony in his voice. “Didst prefer it to the other?”

  “I would talk with you, old man. But not here.”

  Peter flicked a quick glance at Tom who appeared supremely unconcerned. “Aye, well,” he muttered uneasily. ” ‘Tis not the best of times, friend Gyre. We have a telling billed within the hour. Would not tomorrow be-”

  “Tomorrow would be too late,” said Gyre. “I know of a place hard by.” As he spoke he tightened his grip perceptibly on the old man’s arm and steered him, gently but firmly, toward a narrow alley.

  By a series of twists and turns they were conducted into a courtyard which fronted on to a backstreet market. There in a dingy shop which was part ale house, part general store, Gyre ordered up three mugs of spiced wine, guided the old man and the boy into a corner settle and said: “You must quit York tonight.”

  For some seconds Peter was too taken aback to say anything at all, then he managed to stutter: “By whose authority comes this? We break no law.”

  Gyre shook his head. “I, Gyre, tell you this, old man. For three nights past I have had the same dream. I wish no harm to befall you. Stay not in York.” He spoke in little impetuous rushes, like one who has run hard and snatches for his breath.

  Old Peter gazed at him, noted the unnatural brightness of eyes which he had first seen cold as the pennies on a dead man’s sockets, and he remembered the way this licensed bird of prey had stood up in his stirrups and stared back along the sunlit road to Hammerton Bridge. “A dream, eh, friend?” he murmured mildly. “And three nights running. Is that all you can tell us?”

  Gyre looked from the old man to the boy and back again. “I noose my own neck by speaking of it with you,” he said. “Will you not be warned?”

  “Aye, man, we are truly grateful. Think not otherwise. But this dream of yours. Could it not have some other reading?”

  “Perhaps,” said Gyre, and all the urgency had suddenly drained from his voice. He sounded almost indifferent.

  “You cannot tell us?”

  “It comes and goes again,” said Gyre and frowned. “I know when it has been, but I know nothing of its nature.”

  “And yet you sought us out to warn us?”

  “Aye, well.” Gyre shrugged. “Something came over me.” He got up and, without another word to them, walked out of the shop and disappeared, leaving his drink untasted on the table.

  Old Peter stared after him, kneading his chin with his thumb knuckle. “What make you of that?” he asked.

  “He meant it,” said Tom.

  “Yes. But meant what, lad? Did you see his eyes?”

  Tom sipped his drink and said nothing.

  “I’ll warrant he’d been chewing ‘drasil root.”

  “But we could go, couldn’t we, Peter? We don’t have to stay now, do we?”

  “Ah, you’re forgetting your Cousin Seymour. He won’t be back from Malton till Monday. Besides, lad, this place is a regular gold mine for us. Close on twenty royal a day we’re taking. A day! And I can recall plenty of times when I’ve not taken one in a week!”

  “All right,” said Tom. “So we’ll stay.”

  “Me I’m not superstitious,” said Peter. “I can’t afford to be. Still I wouldn’t like you to feel that I…”

  Tom laughed. “And abandon a gold mine? Never!”

  “Ah, I thought you’d see it my way,” said Peter complacently, and catching up Gyre’s abandoned mug he swigged it off in a single draught.

  At the tenth hour of the New Year’s Eve, Old Peter shrugged on his heavy cloak and set out to keep his appointment at the Chapter House. That afternoon he had totted up the sum of their takings over the past fortnight and found it came to the staggering total of one hundred and seventy eight royal. Even allowing for the fifty he had pledged to the Clerk this was still a golden harvest the like of which he had never known. It had driven him, for the first time in his life, to seek the services of the bankers. Now, folded flat and stowed away in a concealed pocket within the lining of his doublet, he carried a letter of credit which would see them both round the Seven Kingdoms and back again to York even if they never took another quarter. Truly, as far as Peter was concerned, the advent of the millennium had already proved wholly miraculous.

  As he approached the Chapter House he was astonished to find the Minster Close almost deserted. On this night of all nights he had expected to see the crowds milling in readiness to celebrate the midnight chimes. Then he recalled how an Order had been promulgated from The Falconry that very morning banning all such gatherings within the city walls on account of a case of plague which had been discovered. He looked about him. Over the roofs to the south he saw the low clouds already tinted a coppery red from the flames of invisible bonfires that had presumably been kindled on the open ground beyond the southern gate. He decided that as soon as his business with the Clerk was concluded he would take a stroll along the walls to watch the sport.