Two

Chapter 2

6 January, 1347

Windsor Castle

King Edward III of England and his Court were merrily celebrating the Feast of Epiphany. With the help of some subtly-applied spells, Bartholomew Selwyn and Aurelius Flint had contrived that one of Queen Philippa's chambermaids and the senior groom of the King's stables were named Lord and Lady of Misrule on this day. Thus it was ensured that the royal couple would stay in the castle's Great Hall for quite some time. Word had been passed to the King that the wizards of the realm desired a meeting with him and as many of the Court's knights that could be spared from the revelries. They'd all be at Windsor until Twelfth Night, but tonight had turned out to be convenient for most, so ... Here they were, gathered in one of the castle's smaller libraries, well away from the festivities.

This meeting was, by necessity, quite clandestine; while witches and wizards often mingled with the Muggle world, the ever-growing influence of the Church made it increasingly problematic for the King to openly associate with his magical subjects. Only his heir and most trusted courtiers even knew about the ties some of the most prominent families had to wizards – hence, Edward of Woodstock, the Prince of Wales, was acting in the monarch's stead. Accompanying him were the Baron of Stafford, two Squib Knights of the Garter - and a Dominican priest who'd tagged along uninvited 'to guard His Highness the Prince's immortal soul'.

"What's afoot, Sire?" John de Grey, Baron of Rotherfield, asked jovially as soon as some footmen had finished providing flagons of ale and wine as well as platters of sweetmeats, nuts and fruit. They then closed the heavy doors and left the small group of nobles and wizards amongst themselves. "What's so important we had to leave before the mummery and dances were done with?"

"I know not, John," Prince Edward replied, with a half-playful scowl at the four richly-robed wizards standing in one corner of the room. He was barely grown into manhood, but still had a presence about him that easily dominated all eight men in the room. "My father's seneschal informed me that Dominus Prewett and his deputy, Magister Wulfric, have asked for this assembly."

"Wulfric?" De Grey asked curiously, turning towards the wizards. "I don't think we've met?"

"Not until today, my lord," a tall man with long greying hair and beard introduced himself, blue eyes twinkling. "Wulfric Dumbledore, at your service. I have the honour of teaching the art of Transfiguration at Hogwarts."

"That school for your kind?" Walter Paveley, one of the Garter Knights, inquired. Like de Grey, he was not magical himself, but as both a Squib and kin by marriage to the Peverel family he was better acquainted with wizards than most. "Isn't that up in Scotland?"

"It is indeed, my lord. Wizards and witches from all over the realm are being educated there. It has been so since the days of King Alfred."

"How, by all the saints, do you manage that, I'd like to know," the cleric wearing the cassock of the Black Friars muttered. "Those woad-stained savages won't even give their neighbours the time of day half the time, and yet your folk can send children up there each year without bloodshed? How?"

"We teach everybody who is magical in Albion, my lord," Dominus Prewett said softly, yet firmly. "English, Scottish, Welsh – even Irish, it matters not to us. We're all the same in the eyes of Magic."

Magister Dumbledore smiled, and the twinkle in his eyes intensified. "Although we must admit, ever since hostilities ceased these ten years hence it has become vastly more easy to travel back and forth."

The priest sneered and seemed about to make a scathing remark, but a look and headshake from Prince Edward made him back down. Instead, he turned towards the refreshments, filling a goblet and gulping the wine down with a scowl.

"Who is that fellow, and what's he doing here?" murmured Paveley to his fellow Garter knight. De Grey grimaced.

"He's one of the Dominicans from Oxford," he replied sotto voce. "Name's Gaston de Nogaret and he accidentally overheard LeStrange passing our message to the King, so he invited himself along. Unfortunately he's just high-ranking enough that we can't kick him out without reason."

Paveley frowned. "De Nogaret? Any relation to ...?"

"Guillaume? Yes. Don't know the degree, but I've heard him brag more than once how his relative was instrumental in bringing down the Knights Templar in '14. Nasty business, that. What's worse, he seems to feel a need to follow in Guillaume's footsteps, seeing heresy in every corner."

"Heresy? It's been a century since the crusade against the Cathars, and after the Templars, even the Beguines were disbanded by the Church decades ago. What other heretics except the occasional malcontent are left?"

John de Grey didn't answer, but sent a telling glance towards the group of wizards in the room. He knew, as did Paveley and the rest of the Prince's trusted men, that Prewett, Dumbledore and their fellows were as law-abiding and as trustworthy as any non-magical, but to people like this Friar Gaston ... if men like him got their way, they'd probably even accuse him of heresy, despite the fact that his magic-less family routinely swapped any magical children to the magical branch, the House of Mavros, merchant princes of Candia.

Walter Paveley saw the look and interpreted it correctly. He rolled his own eyes. "What a cretin," he muttered. "I trust my Peverel connexions as much as, if not more than, members of my own family. An upstart like that should never be allowed to ‒"

"Gentlemen, may I remind you that we're not here to discuss politics?" Prince Edward interrupted firmly. "I believe it's because Dominus Prewett has important information for all of us." The two knights bowed in silent apology, and the Prince turned once more towards the elderly scholar. "To business, then – Jacobus, why have you called this assembly?"

The Headmaster of Hogwarts squared his shoulders and stepped forward, easily drawing all eyes towards him. "As you rightly assume, Sire, it's a matter of portent for all people of this blessèd isle," he said, his voice lowering unhappily. "You see, a prophecy has been made."

"A prophecy? Surely you don't mean the gibberish that chit from Hufflepuff House spewed forth three years ago?" All eyes turned towards the new speaker, one Nicholas Malfoy. He was a relative newcomer to the Court, having risen fast among the King's advisors. The Malfoys had come to Britain with the Conqueror in 1066, but retained a closer connection with their French roots than most. Malicious tongues claimed that the current head of the family openly supported King Edward's claim to the French throne only because their holdings on the river Loire had been ravaged in the war the House of Plantagenet was waging with the House of Valois. There certainly was some truth to that, but Malfoy was a wizard, a rich merchant and consummate politician. He had also lost both his sons in the King's service but recently and therefore was allowed some latitude.

"Indeed I do, Nicholas," Prewett said. "It has taken us until now to decipher it, but there can be no doubt – it is a genuine prophecy."

"What was so complicated about it, I wonder?" De Grey asked. "Apart from the customary cryptic-ness, so to speak?"

Dumbledore coughed. "'Twould've been easier if the lass had at least spoken plain English or French, but no – whatever spirit possessed her felt it necessary to impart the message in Cornish. If it hadn't been for Weasley, here, we'd still be in the dark."

The redheaded man in question smiled. "It was a stroke of luck that one of my retainers recognized it at all. His wife is Cornish, you see, one of the few who still speaks the language. Even so, if it hadn't been for one of the good brethren at Glastonbury Abbey ..." Perceval Weasley stopped short as he noticed the Black Prince raising a regal hand to halt his words.

"Forgive me, Sire. It's a fascinating piece of scholarly endeavor, and I'm afraid I tend to get carried away by the mystery of it all." He shrugged deprecatingly, then drew a deep breath. "In short, the lass spoke the prophecy in her native Cornish, but complicated the matter by applying the grammatical rules of Arabic."

"What? Why?" one of the knights wondered.

"That, we know not. It is only due to Friar Lucas' knowledge of both languages that we managed to unlock the message at all."

"Well, let's hear it, then," commanded the Prince impatiently.

Dominus Prewett sighed and withdrew a small roll of parchment from his sleeve. Knights and wizards gathered closely around him to listen as he read out the formal record.

"On Sunday, the twentieth day of March in the year of Our Lord 1345, the maiden Meliora Warne of Trewortha, near Bodmin Moor in Cornwall, made the following prophecy in the hours between midnight and dawn at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry:

'A great evil will rise in the east. It will not pass until the moon darkens after the summer solstice four turns hence, and it will kill wizard and Muggle alike with no distinction. Four times four moons before that, two knights shall quest to the place where four waters become one to seek out the stern master who is lost to Albion, he who dwells in a threefold house. One knight will be a leader of armies, the other bear the sign of the dragon, and they must leave once the spring equinox has passed. They must first seek the warrior knights' treasure where eleven-score of innocents were slain, then carry it to the master. When truce of fast prevails, star and messenger will join them at the master's house and help with ancient lore. Dragon and warrior must then bring the treasure to Ynis Afallach where they shall bear it through the maze to the Tor's peak on Beltane night, to anoint the land with what was made by master's craft, messenger's skill and star's guidance'."

There were a few minutes of silence as the assembled men tried to parse what they'd heard. At last, Paveley blurted out what the others were clearly thinking. "What in Saint George's name does that mean?"

Magister Dumbledore spread his hands in an 'I-don't-know' gesture and shrugged apologetically. "We cannot be sure. Some of it we've been able to decipher – this great evil may well be a plague of sorts. Reports we've received just a few days ago from our, erm, associates in Bulgaria and Constantinople seem to point in that direction, and a plague would strike indiscriminately." There were grim nods all around. "The time is also rather clear; the prophecy was made three turns – that is, years – ago, so this quest for a preventative, or at best a cure, must start right after the equinox in late March and be finished by Beltane next year."

Prince Edward steepled his fingers against his lips, thinking it over. "That seems ... logical," he mused. "Very well. What else?"

John de Grey had picked up the prophecy transcript and was reading through it again. "A 'quest' ... two knights must go somewhere. 'Where four waters become one' ... what place might that be? A lake, or the sea?"

Headmaster Prewett casually Summoned a large map showing the European mainland from one of the cabinets and unrolled it on a table, adding a light Sticking Charm to keep it open. He didn't notice, or else chose to ignore, the priest's grimace at the minor display of magic. "We've looked at dozens of maps, and the consensus among us is that the prophecy most likely refers to the city of Granada," he explained, pointing at the relevant area of the Iberian peninsula. "Four rivers conjoin there before they reach the sea."

"Which might fit our purpose," Weasley exclaimed. "Doesn't it?"

After perusing Prewett's map, most present nodded.

Magister Dumbledore's blue eyes began to twinkle. "Now that I think of it, there's something else that speaks for Granada," he said. "One of my correspondents, Omar Shafiq, mentioned a few months ago that one Abbas al-Bedali is teaching Alchemy and Healing at the city's madrasa. That is a kind of religious university," he explained for his less-scholarly company's benefit.

"And that concerns us how?" Paveley asked.

"Well ... if my suspicions are correct, some of us might know him under a different name. Or names, rather."

"Stop being cryptic, Wulfric," the Headmaster said with a rare show of irritability. "If you know the man's identity, just tell us!"

Dumbledore gave a slight bow and smiled. "As you wish. However, I need to be rather specific about his background ‒ if I may?" He received an impatient signal to proceed. "The surname al-Bedali in Arabic means 'from Bedale'," he began.

"Bedale? As in our Bedale, up in Yorkshire?" Prince Edward interrupted incredulously.

"I believe so, Sire," Dumbledore said.

"'Lost to Albion'! That's what this part means," John de Grey exclaimed.

Dumbledore inclined his head in assent. "Indeed. Also, Abbas is an Arabic name meaning 'austere', 'stern' ... or even 'severe'," he continued with a sly wink at Weasley, who began to sputter almost immediately.

"Severe? Wulfric, are you telling us that this ... this Abbas al-Bedali might be Severus apElain? That Potions prodigy from ... Yorkshire ..." His voice shifted from incredulity into awed realization. "Oh my."

"He certainly seems to fit the bill, no?"

"Why would a Welshman first move to Yorkshire, then to Andalucìa, though?" de Grey wondered.

"He wasn't born Welsh, nor was his name always apElian," Paveley grumbled. "On the contrary, his father was one Tobias Sneap, a shipwright from Rye. He was caught poaching deer on our lands several times, and was ultimately hanged as a repeat offender. If I remember correctly, the mother, Eliana, then packed up and moved back north to stay with her remaining family."

"Eliana Ha-Nasi, as she called herself before her marriage, was an accomplished witch," Prewett recalled. "She must've passed on her talent to her son."

"He certainly didn't get it from his father; Sneap was as ordinary as they come," Paveley commented.

"The mother's name seems to indicate she was a Jewess," the Prince of Wales said with a frown. As if being a witch wasn't suspect enough these days!

"Not quite; the family had converted during the unpleasantness at York fifty years ago," Dumbledore reassured him. "While I know not how he came to live in Andalucìa, I surmise that it is a certain familiarity with this background which allows Severus, as Abbas, to teach at a Moorish institution. The Emirs of Granada are surprisingly tolerant towards both Christians and Jews because they're all what they call 'Children of the Book'. Strangely, though, only Jews are allowed to attend their schools; I do not know why that is. Thus it might be easy for Abbas/Severus to pass as Jewish due to his family history, even if he did not presume to adopt the name his mother chose – Ha-Nasi means 'the prince', after all."

"It also makes sense out of the 'threefold house' part," Prince Edward said slowly. "A Christian living among Moors, pretending to be a Jew ..."

"By Saint George, it's all coming together," Paveley breathed.

"Yes. And Ynis Afallach is, of course, Avalon – which is reputed to be near Glastonbury Tor," Headmaster Prewett concluded.

More nods of assent from everybody. "Fine. That's when and where sorted. Which leaves us with ... who and what?" asked the Prince.

The third courtier, who'd remained silent until now, spoke up. "Finding two knights should be easy enough – we just have to determine whose arms depict a dragon and for the second, select a likely officer in His Majesty's service."

"My dear Stafford, I could name at least a dozen men offhand who'd fit either of those criteria, if not both," Paveley said dryly. "Somehow, I don't think it'll be easy at all."

Baron Stafford glared at the rather mild rebuke, but chose to take a drink rather than reply.

"I've been thinking about that," Weasley murmured at length. "What if ... what if this part doesn't refer to the knights' arms, but to their names?"

"Names? Hmmm ..." De Grey's face slowly brightened. "Tell me – doesn't 'Harold' mean 'leader of armies' in the Saxon tongue?"

"Yes," Paveley said, nodding in agreement. "And there aren't many knights with that name. In fact, I can think of only one."

"You can?"

The Garter Knight gave a brief bow to the Prince. "My cousin Lionel's grandson, Sire. If you'll recall, His Majesty gave him the accolade two years ago at Yule court." Actually, his relation to Lionel Peverel was more distant and complicated and spanned more than one generation, but Paveley was opting for simplicity over accuracy.

"What, Lionel le Potier?" scoffed Ralph de Stafford. His expression showed that he didn't think much of this man.

"I wish you wouldn't call him that, my lord," Paveley retorted stiffly. "Lionel is hardly a potter."

"He trades in pottery, doesn't he? And even tries to make some? So he may as well claim the name," the baron sneered.

"He's just jealous that the Peverels' trade relations with the Moors, the Venetians and China is creating Lionel a fortune," Malfoy murmured snidely in an aside to Weasley. "The good Baron is trying to duplicate his success with the cobblers on his estates, but they just can't compete. 'Tis nothing but sour grapes, I tell you."

Weasley manfully swallowed a comment that Malfoy was only so dismissive of the Muggle nobleman because he hadn't been awarded a title himself yet and gave only a noncommittal grunt in reply. Whose grapes were the sourest, he couldn't tell.

Meanwhile, the discussion had gone on. "Sir Harold is well-named," Dumbledore explained. "I've taught him at Hogwarts. He is brave, intelligent and resourceful, yet can be quite cunning if need be. If he weren't hampered by weak eyesight, he'd be a formidable asset to any man – King or wizard. As he has so ably demonstrated on the campaign that earned him the accolade."

"Yes, I remember now. Let us assume he's one of the two, then," Prince Edward decided. "We do not have the time to search far and wide – March, and the spring equinox, will come sooner than we wish, and he seems capable enough. Does anyone know who might be the other?"

"If your assumption is correct, it'd be somebody named 'dragon'?" Stafford sneered, his expression openly disdainful. "Of all the ridiculous things! Surely that can't be a proper name – only a fool would saddle his son with such!"

"Mayhap my younger brother was foolish, then," Malfoy said coldly. "His only son – now my heir – was indeed given the name Draco, after the constellation. It has long been a custom in his wife's family and he was pleased to do her the favour." He gave a small bow to John de Grey, who nodded back. Ever since a de Grey ancestor had found Maia Mavros on the island of Candia and made her his bride despite her being a witch, all magical children born to the family were adopted into the Mavros clan and followed the same tradition. In return, the rare Mavros Squib became a de Grey. The younger Malfoy was thus distantly related to them by marriage.

Before Stafford could retaliate, Headmaster Prewett intervened in the brewing argument.

"Splendid – I had the pleasure of teaching young Draco as well, and know that in his own way he's as accomplished as Harold Peverel; let's hope they'll do well together on this quest."

"But the Malfoys are merchants! He's not a knight," Stafford protested.

"That's easily remedied with a word to my father, the King," Prince Edward said quellingly, settling the argument there and then lest Nicholas Malfoy take even bigger umbrage at the deliberate snub.

The baron bowed and subsided, grumbling to himself about unwarranted privileges for the sake of expediency. He contented himself with a sideways glance at the cleric who just shrugged minutely. Each, for his own reasons, mightily disliked the favours shown to the wizards tonight and in general, but they could do nothing against the will of their Prince and liege. For now.

Prewett smiled, seemingly oblivious to the brewing undercurrents. "So, we now must instruct the lads on what they have to do, determine how they shall get to Granada safely, and decide how to convince Master Abbas to help us!"

With everybody in at least nominal agreement, wizards and courtiers put their heads together and discussed stratagems late into the night.

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A/N: The wizarding surnames were taken from JKR's list of the "Sacred Twenty-Eight Families" (see HP wikia). Nicholas Malfoy, who (according to Pottermore) profiteered during the Black Death in Britain, conveniently fits my time period. All the courtiers' names are real and come from the founding Knights of the Order of the Garter – obviously, any wizarding relations are my invention, as is the connection between Peverel(l) and Paveley.

Dominican monks, known as Black Friars because of the colour of their habits, were the main driving force of the Inquisition.

Guillaume de Nogaret was real, and instrumental in building the heresy case that led to the downfall of the Knights Templar.

Meliora Warne is in fact a (made-up) Cornish name (A hint: JKR once stated a fondness for them.)

Maia is a star in the Pleiades constellation, and Mavros is a real Greek word the meaning of which should become obvious later.

Candia is the old name for the Greek island of Crete.

Eliana is a female Hebrew name; the Welsh version Elian means "fawn" and apElian is thus "Son of (the) Fawn". 'Ha-Nasi' is also Hebrew – used as both a (self-styled) title, meaning 'the prince', and as a surname. (See what I did there?) It was created with the help of the good folks at the LJ community Linguaphiles. Thanks, guys!

As for Sneap ... According to Merriam-Webster.com, the word means "to blast; blight with cold" (archaic), or alternatively, is English dialect for "to chide". Sound familiar, anyone?

The "unpleasantness in York" refers to the final expulsion of all Jews from that city in 1290; it was preceded by wholesale massacres and forced conversions to Christianity a century before.

Oh, and King Edward III was actually born at Windsor Castle, and it was one of his favourite residences; he usually held Christmas Court there.

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