by John M. Ford
The Dragon Waiting
A Masque of History
John M. Ford
Fantasy Masterworks Volume 29
eGod
flyboy707
To those who were there at the crisis.
The Empire lay in the imposed order; around
the throne the visionary zone of clear light
hummed with celestial action; there the forms
of chamberlains, logothetes, nuncios, went and came...
These dwelled in Byzantium....
But also in the mind of the Empire another kind
of tale lay than that of the Grail.
—Charles Williams
The Region of the Summer Stars
A Historical
Note
IN the second century c.e., Loukianos of Samosata wrote, "Everyone's writing history now, and I don't want to be left out of the furore." Loukianos, who was also known as Lucian the Scoffer, then produced a fantasy story called the True History.
What follows is a work of fiction, which makes use of historical characters and settings in the manner usual to drama. Some events, and all dialogues, are invented, as of course are the overtly fantastic elements. There are as few technical anachronisms as could be managed, though some of the technologies given were not known in the story's locales at the time it is set.
The quotations heading each section are from Shakespeare's Richard III. It, and many other works historical and otherwise, have provided atmosphere and detail for the present book, but all interpretations of character, especially of that most reinterpreted of English kings, are naturally my own.
My purpose has been to entertain, not to raise issues to the dignity of a historical controversy. As Nennius wrote twelve centuries ago, if there was such a person and that was when he wrote, "I yield to him who knows more of these things than I do".
JMF/1982
Contents
Cover
Title
A HISTORICAL NOTE
HISTORICAL CHARACTERS
Part One: CHILDREN OF THE EMPIRE
1. GWYNEDD
2. GAUL
3. FIORENZA
Part Two: COMPANIONS OF THE STORM
4. ARRIVALS
5. DEPARTURES
6. PASSAGES
Part Three: DIRECTIONS OF THE ROAD
7. UP
8. DOWN
9. ACROSS
Part Four: TURNINGS OF THE WHEEL
10. TRANSITIONS
11. TRANSGRESSIONS
12. TRANSFORMATIONS
Part Five: ENDS OF THE GAME
13. DRAGON
HISTORICAL NOTES
About the Author
Shadows As
They Pass:
HISTORICAL CHARACTERS
For those who have some difficulty following the large array of titles common to the nobility of the period, or are simply interested in such lists, the following is a non-exhaustive summary of the real historical figures appearing in the novel. Absence of a name does not necessarily mean the character is not historical, and as explained previously, some liberties have been taken with those who do appear below.
ENGLISH AND SCOTS
Cecily, Duchess of York,
and her three surviving sons:
Richard Plantagenet, Duke of Gloucester, later King Richard III
George Plantagenet, Duke of Clarence
King Edward IV
Richard, Duke of York
Anne Neville, Richard Gloucester’s wife
Elizabeth Woodville, Edward IV’s Queen
James Tyrell, Henchman to Richard
Richard Ratcliffe, ditto
Francis Lovell, ditto
Alexander Stuart, Duke of Albany, Brother to King James III of Scotland
Anthony Woodville, Lord Scales, Earl Rivers, Brother to Queen Elizabeth
Edward, Prince of Wales, later King Edward V
Doctor John Morton
Henry Stafford, Duke of Buckingham
William Hastings, Lord Hastings, King’s Chamberlain to Edward IV
Edward of Middleham, son to Richard of Gloucester
Henry Tydder (i.e. "Tudor," given its correct period pronunciation)
FRENCH
King Louis XI
Franqois Villon, poet and ne'er-do-well
Margaret of Anjou, Queen to King Henry VI of England
ITALIANS
Luigi Pulci, Poet
Marsilio Ficino, Poet and philosopher
Giuliano de’ Medici, brother to
Lorenzo de’ Medici, called ‘The Magnificent’ (official title of the current head of the Medici Bank)
Alessandra Scala, theatrical designer
Girolamo Savonarola
Galeazzo Maria Sforza, Duke of Milan
Federigo da Montefeltro, Mercenary Commander, Duke of Urbino
Dominic Mancini, Diplomat
Doctor John Argentine, Physician
PART ONE
Children
of the
Empire
Lo, at their births good starts were opposite....
All unavoided is the doom of destiny..
—Act IV, Scene 4
Chapter One
GWYNEDD
THE road the Romans made traversed North Wales a little way inland, between the weather off the Irish Sea and the mountains of Gwynedd and Powys; past the copper and the lead that the travel-hungry Empire craved. The road crossed the Conwy at Caerhun, the Clwyd at Asaph sacred to Esus, and the Roman engineers passed it through the hills, above the shore and below the peaks, never penetrating the spine of the country. Which is not to say that there were no ways in; only that the Romans did not find them.
From Caernarfon to Chester the road remained, and at Caerhun in the Vale of Conwy there were pieces of walls and straight ditches left where the legionary fort had held the river crossing. Roman stones, but no Romans; not for a thousand years.
Beyond Caerhun the road wound upslope for a mile, to an inn called The White Hart. Hywel Peredur lived there in this his eleventh year, the nine hundred tenth year of Arthur's Triumph, the one thousand ninety-fifth year of Constantine's City. This March afternoon, Hywel stood on the Roman paving below the innyard, and was King of the Romans.
Fields all his dominion rolled out forever before and below him, lined and set with trees that from the height were no more than tufts on a cloth of patchwork greens and browns. Conwy water was a broad ribbon stitched in easy curves across the cloth. The March air smelled of peat and moisture and nothing at all but its own cold cleanness on the sharp edge of spring.
The place Hywel stood was called Pen-y-Gaer, Head of the Fortress. There had been a fortress, even before the legions came; but of its builders too only stones were left, bits of wall and rampart. And the defense of the slope, a field of sharp-edged boulders set in ranks down the hill.
Hywel stood on the road and commanded the stones, soldiers without death or fear, like the warriors grown from dragon's teeth in the story; any assault against them would break and be scattered. Then, at Hywel's signal, his legion of horse would gallop forth from Caerhun and cut down the discomfited enemy, sparing only the nobles for ransom and tribute. His captains, in purple and gold, mounted on white horses, would drive the captive lords before him, shouting Peredur, Peredur! that all might know who was conqueror here
Not far up the road was a milestone; it was worn and half-legible, and Hywel knew no Latin, but he could read the name constant!. Constantine. Emperor. Founder of the Beautiful City. And now a god, like Julius Caesar, like Arthur King of Britain. Hywel would run his fingers in the carved letters of the name when he passed the marker, touching the figure of the god.
Three years ago, on the May kalend, he had stunn
ed a sparrow with a sling pellet, bound its wings, and taken it to the milestone. It had trembled within his shirt, and then, when he set it down, become curiously still, as if waiting. But Hywel had had no knife, and was afraid to use his naked hands. By the time he had found two flat stones and done the thing, he could no longer remember his intended prayer.
Now, clouds drifted across the low sun, making shadow patterns on the ground. The river dulled to slate, then flashed blue-silver. The standing stones seemed to move, to march, beat spears on shields in salute. Sparrows were forgotten as Hywel moved his cohorts, as soldier and king and god.
Until dust rose, and men moved crosswise to the dream, light flashing on steel: real soldiers, on the road to the inn. Hywel watched and listened, knowing that if he were quite still they could not detect him. He heard the scrape of pikes on the paving stones, the stamp of booted feet, chains dragging. He let the breeze bring him their voices, not distinguishable words but rhythms: English voices, not Welsh. As they turned the last bend in the road, Hywel's eyes picked out the badge they wore. Then he turned and ran lightly to the gate of The White Hart. As he crossed the innyard, a dog sniffed and raised its head for a pat that was not coming; sparrows fluttered up from the eaves.
The cruck-beamed serving hall was dim with afternoon. A little peat smoke hung in the air. Dafydd, the innkeeper, was working at the fire while Glynis, the pretty barmaid, wiped mugs. Both looked up, Glynis smiling, Dafydd not. "Well, my lord of the north, come in, do! While you've been with your councillors, this fire nearly—"
"Soldiers on the road," Hywel said, in Welsh. "My lord of Ireland's men, from Caernarfon." He knew Dafydd's anger was only mocking; when the innkeeper was truly angry he became deadly quiet and small-spoken.
"Well, then," said Dafydd, "they'll be wanting ale. Go you and draw a kettleful."
Hywel, grinning, said "And shall I fetch some butter?"
The innkeeper smiled back. "We've none that rancid. Now draw you the ale; they'll not care to wait."
"Ie."
"And speak English when the soldiers can hear you."
"Ie."
"And give yourself a whipping, lad—I haven't time!"
Hywel paused at the top of the cellar stairs. "There's a prisoner with them. A wizard."
Dafydd put the poker down, wiped his hands on his apron. "Well then," he said quietly, "that's bad news for someone."
Hywel nodded without understanding and clumped downstairs. He drew the ale into a black iron kettle, put it on the lift and hoisted it up; and only then, standing in the quiet cellar, did he realize just what he'd said. He had heard the chains, right enough, but never once seen what was in them.
Eight men, and something else, stood in the innyard.
The men wore leather jackets, carried swords and pole axes; two had longbows across their backs. One, helmeted and officious, had a long leather pouch at his side, and a baldric from which little wooden bottles hung on strings. Charges of powder, Hywel knew, for the hand-cannon in the pouch.
The badge on the soldiers' sleeves was a snarling dog on its hind legs; a talbot-hound, for Sir John Talbot, the latest Lieutenant of Ireland. Talbot had smashed the Cotentin rebels at Henry V's order; it was said the mothers of Anjou quieted their children with threats of Jehan Talbo. Now that Henry was dead, long live Henry VI, and the advisors to the three-year-old King hoped the War Hound could quiet the Irish as well.
Four soldiers held chains that led to the other thing, which crouched on the ground, black and shapeless. Hywel thought it must be some great hunting-hound, a namesake Talbot, perhaps, or a beast from Ireland across the sea; then it put out a pale paw, spread long fingers, and Hywel saw it was a man on hands and knees, in fantastically ruined clothes and a black cloak.
The thin hands left blood on the earth. There was a shackle, engraved with something, on each wrist and each ankle, linked to the leash-chains. The head turned, and the black hood fell back, showing dull iron around the man's neck. The collar was engraved as well. Next to it was a straggly gray beard, a nostril with blood dry around it.
Hywel stared at a dark eye, glassy as with fever, or madness. The eye did not blink. The cracked lips moved.
"None of that, now!" shouted a soldier, and pulled the chain he held, dropping the man flat; another soldier swung the butt of his axe into the man's ribs, and there was a hint of a groan. The first soldier bent halfway down and shook the chain. "'Tain't beyond th' law for us to have your tongue, an you try any chanteries." To Hywel he sounded exactly like Dafydd's wife Nansi scolding a hen that would not lay. The prone man was very still.
"Ale! Where's ale!" cried the others, turning away from the prisoner, and Dafydd came behind Hywel with a tray of tankards, hot mulled ale topped with brown foam and steaming. "Here, Hywel. And Ogmius send us all the right words to say." Hywel took the tray into the yard. A cheer went up—for him, he realized, and for one passing instant he was Caesar again—then the mugs were snatched from him.
"Here, boy, here."
"Jove's beard, that's good!"
"Jove strike you down, it ain't English beer." The speaker winked at Hywel. "But it's good anyway, eh, boy."
Hywel barely noticed. He was staring again at the chained man, who still did not move except to breathe raggedly. A little of the cloak had blown back, showing the man's shirt sleeve. The fabric was embroidered in complex patterns—not the Celtic work he knew, but similar, interlocking designs.
And The White Hart was an inn with good trade; Hywel had seen silk twice before, on the wives of lords.
"You have a care of our dog, there, lad," said the soldier who had winked. His tone was friendly. "He's an eastern sorcerer, a Bezant. From the City itself, they say."
The City of Constantine. "What... did he do?"
"Why, he magicked, lad, what else? Magicked for th' Irish rebels 'gainst King Harry, rest him. Five years he hid up in them Irish hills, sorcellin' and afflictin'. But we ketched him, anyway. Lord Jack ketched him, an' now he's Talbot's dog."
"Tom," the serjeant said sharply, and the soldier stood to attention for a moment. Then he winked at Hywel again and tossed his empty tankard into Hywel's hands.
"Have a look here, boy," Tom said. The soldier reached down and grasped the manacle around the wizard's left wrist, pulled it up as if there were no man attached to it. "See that serpent, cut there in th' iron? That's a Druid serpent, as has power t' bind wizards. Old Irish Patrick drove all the snakes out of Ireland, for the good of his magic fellows. But we took some snakes with us. Snakes of leather, an' iron." The soldier let the shackle fall with a hollow clunk. The prisoner made no sound. Hywel stood fascinated, wondering.
"Innkeeper!" the serjeant said.
Dafydd came out, wiping his hands on his apron. "Yes, Captain?"
The serjeant did not correct his rank. "Have you a blacksmith here? This rebel's harmless enough, but he'll crawl off with half a chance given him. We'll want him fixed to something with weight."
"You'll be staying here for a time, then?"
"We're in no hurry. The prisoner's to be taken to York for execution."
A soldier said "The Irish Sea were deep enough."
"Not to bury his curse, man," said the serjeant curtly. "Leave killing him to his own sort of worker." He turned back to Dafydd. "Don't worry about the lads, innkeeper; they're good and they'll obey me." He weighted the last word slightly. "And they're bloody tired of minding this rebel."
"Hywel," said the innkeeper, "run you and tell Sion Mawr he's wanted, with hammer and tongs."
A high-voiced young soldier called after Hywel, "And you tell 'im this aren't no horse wanting shod! A hammer on them chains—"
Hywel ran. He did not look back. He was afraid to. Under all the soldiers' voices, under Dafydd's, under his own breathing, he could hear another voice, whispering, insistent, like the beat of blood in his ears when all was still. He had heard it without pause since the sorcerer's lips had moved without sound.
You who
can hear me, it said, come to me. Follow my voice.
And as Hywel ran through the gathering dark, it seemed that hands reached after him, grasping at his limbs, his throat, trying to draw him back.
Nansi touched the spit-dog's collar; it stopped walking its treadle, and Nansi carved a bit of mutton from the roasting haunch. The dog resumed turning the meat. Nansi put the mutton on a wooden plate with a spoonful of boiled corn, added a piece of soft brown bread.
"The soldiers didn't pay for no meat for him," said Dai, the kitchen boy.
"You needn't tell me what they've not paid for," Nansi said, tenting a napkin over the plate. "I hope he has his teeth; I daren't send a knife. Here, Dai, go you quick, ere it's cold."
"Why do they beat him, if he can't magic?"
"I'm sure I don't know, Dai," Nansi said, with a bitter look. "Take it, now."
"I'll take his dinner," Hywel said, from the kitchen door.
Dai's mouth opened, then shut. Nansi turned away.
"I've drawn his water," Hywel said. "And I'm not afraid of him. You're afraid, aren't you, Dai?"
Dai's pudgy hands tightened. He was a year or so older than Hywel, and also an orphan. Dafydd and Nansi, who had no children, had taken them in together, and tried to bring them up as brothers. Hywel could no longer remember what that was like, even when he tried.
Dai said "Ie, feared enough. You feed him." He handed the covered plate to Hywel, who took it with a nod. Hywel did not hate Dai; usually he liked Dai. But they were not brothers.
Just outside the kitchen, he picked up the hooded lantern and pot of ale he had set by the door, and crossed to the barn. Moonlight slanted across the interior. The wizard was sitting up against a post, all white and black in the light. His head turned slightly; Hywel held very still. The face was a skull's, with tiny glints in the eye- sockets.
