‘I didn’t sleep much last night,’ Will said wearily. ‘Do you have a draught for me? One that settles a person down?’
‘Oh, yes, yes, yes. Plenty of draughts for anger.’ Gort broke off the unpacking of a large mortar and pestle to examine his pouches. ‘Draughts for lots of other things too. Melancholy, sloth and falling out of bed and – ah, and what’s this?’ He sniffed at it. ‘Jealousy, or maybe envy. Hard to say. Both probably! Very popular at this time of year among the boys and girls.’ He began to crawl under a table. ‘Have you seen Osric? Hmmm?’
‘No, but yesterday I saw Death again.’
The Wortmaster got up too quickly and bumped his head. ‘Death? You mean…’ He made a meaningless gesture. ‘The…apparition? He’s followed you here?’
Will nodded, unable to meet Gort’s eye. ‘It was standing on the gatehouse. And I’ve been having nightmares again. I need something from your leech garden to calm me down. Please, Wortmaster.’
‘Last night you were jumping around, frisky as a Cuckootide hare. Crossed words with Willow too, did you not? What was all that about?’
‘Please, Wortmaster, no more questions.’
‘You just go and soak your head in a pail of water then, and perhaps that will dampen your spirits, hey?’
‘But I need a draught! I feel terrible.’ He considered telling Gort his conclusions concerning the Dragon Stone. Instead, he said, ‘Maybe it’s the winter solstice approaching – I can feel something gnawing at my bones.’
‘Well, I don’t have a draught for gnawed bones or even for solstices.’ When Gort looked at him his little piggy eyes were unsmiling. ‘And, you know what? If I did have one I wouldn’t give it to you. Grumpiness is most often its own cause and its own reward. Now you keep away from other folk in case what you’ve got is catching!’
‘Stubborn old man!’
Will turned on his heel and slammed the door as he left, but he heeded Gort’s advice. He spent the morning pilfering from the kitchens or up on the walls and towers, skulking around the jacks who wished he’d go away so they could get on with their crafty games of dice.
In the afternoon a dreary procession of Fellows led the marking of Ewletide’s Eve. It was no jollier than the Ewle that Will had suffered at Foderingham. Three Sightless Ones came to the castle and walked about with lit tapers. There was a vigil and solemn rites, and good wishes expressed for the health of Grand High Warden Isnar, but it was a mirthless and numbing occasion. There was no laughing and no dancing, and all the songs were droning, melancholy chants. Afterwards there was a meagre breaking of dry bread, and then the ladies began to talk together across the table, and some moved away to plot the marriages of their daughters, while the lords began to gather at the other end of the Great Hall to sit about the fire with flagons of wine and slices of meat on their dagger points.
Will was sent to sit several places away from Edward, who was excluded from none of the lords’ councils. He did as he was told, but knew he must guard his feelings with care. His brittleness went unnoticed as the lords debated their great matters above his head. But as he sat among the duke’s blood relatives Will began to fear for himself. The madness that had blossomed inside his head like a hideous grey flower was growing beyond his power to control. It was a terrible urge to endure and nothing short of a dagger plunged into his own heart, it seemed, would save him.
He sweated, not daring to move. He did not know why, but the idea of stabbing himself had become as attractive as it usually was repugnant. He tried to fight back against the strange manner of thinking that was turning his thoughts against themselves. Was it something to do with the solstice? Or something to do with a solstice happening at new moon? Had the duke really brought the battlestone secretly out of bondage? Had he been fool enough to fetch it from Foderingham like some possession, like some prize?
Of course he has…
The duke thinks it can be his weapon. He thinks he can use it against his enemies. He doesn’t understand that the holding and binding-spells that keep the harm from rushing out are geomantic and will only work properly in one place. Without those spells the stone will turn the mind of anyone and everyone.
Will felt his defences slipping. Opening wide. Being opened forcibly it seemed…
He warned himself that he was, even now, being chosen by the battlestone. He was to be its spokesman, its agent, its weapon. His special sensitivity had caused it to choose him. A plague on the wizard for having taken him away, for ever having turned on such a talent in his head!
But no! This is an honour…
He felt a sudden tremendous clarity of mind. The feeling was overpowering, exciting. He felt certainty bathe him like brilliance, and it seemed that he could see truths with crystal sharpness, vivid truths, bright and bold. His new sharpness enabled him to see the evidence that truths carried inside them. For the first time he could determine what was real and what was not. All his previous thoughts were shown to be mere confusion and doubt. They no longer made sense, for now he had seen the real truth. And he knew what he must do.
His eyes flickered to left and right. These lords and knights around him, drinking and laughing, they disputed over the smallest trifles, their minds were consumed by petty rivalries and the plotting of fruitless alliances. Things here were just as they had been at Clarendon. Here was Duke Richard, owner of six strong castles, and all the lands of the Dukedom of Ebor. Over there sat the Earl of Sarum, another man of vast wealth, whom thirty thousand men called lord. And there – his son, the Earl Warrewyk, still in his twenties yet richer even than his father if servants’ gossip was to be believed, the richest man in the Realm, Warrewyk, Captain of the port of Callas across the Narrow Seas, and possessor of fabulous wealth that had come to him through marriage. Together these great magnates and their allies accounted for fully half the land that made up the Realm and five-ninths of its riches, yet here they were arguing over who should have the last leg of roast Ewletide swan, and questioning the quality of the wine. Was it not obvious what must be done?
Will reached forward and pulled the long knife from a haunch of mutton on the table before him. The blade seemed to glitter with deadly encouragement as he turned it over in his hand. Light ran along its edge like the moonlight frosting a dead deserter’s skull. Sweat seethed in Will’s scalp. He watched the noble sons listening avidly as their fathers and uncles fell to debating the parts of the Realm that might be added to their estates, how the lands confiscated from Duke Edgar and sundry other allies of the queen would be divided up among themselves once the power was theirs. They seemed to Will to be no better than a pack of dogs, snatching bones back and forth. It seemed that their lives had been swallowed up into a monstrous game in which the fortunes of lordly families were all that mattered, and in which fellow feeling and the common good had no place at all.
Which of them can live in more than one castle at a time? he asked himself, feeling anger boil over inside him. Which of these earls can even stand straight under the weight of all the furs and fine velvets he possesses? They are all as bad as each another – except this duke who is their foremost! He will not rest until he is pronounced king! Such greed as his deserves to be repaid in steel!
Duke Richard turned to the windows as the great castle clock began to strike the hour of midnight. The long carvingknife with the plain wooden handle invited Will’s hand. He saw his fingers close on the handle. ‘You will die!’ he shouted, rising. ‘Die!’
‘Die he must in time, but not at your hand, Willand.’
And Will felt his wrist caught in an invisible grip as a familiar voice resounded in his head. The chimes of the castle clock had ceased at the sixth strike. It was as if time itself had stopped, for all was frozen.
Then Gwydion danced elegantly into the hall, his gestures and words of magic crystallizing the air except that which spun and twisted in colours about him. His robes flowed and flew, blurring like flame, then all Will could see was the wizard’s unutterably mysterious
smile.
The knife dropped slowly from his palm. The wizard laid a steadying hand on his shoulder, then everything came alive at once.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
IN THE HALL OF KING LUDD
The moment the duke saw Gwydion he rose to his feet and drew back like one who has seen a ghost. The other lords stared and muttered oaths, offended that their privacy had been so rudely invaded. Gasps and gestures of surprise came from the ladies at the far end of the hall, then a threatening quiet fell.
‘Master Gwydion,’ Duke Richard said, cutting the silence at last. He glanced from face to face before returning his gaze to the wizard. ‘You gave no warning that you would come among us. May I ask how long you have been skulking here? And why you have seen fit to enter this place by magic when a simple knock at the door would have won you your usual welcome?’
Gwydion’s expression was uncompromising. ‘I did not come here seeking a welcome, Friend Richard. And you will forgive me if I have disturbed your conversation.’
‘Tell us how long have you been sitting among us unannounced!’ the Lord Warrewyk demanded angrily.
‘Long enough to hear what you mean to do.’ Gwydion raised his arms but then let them fall like one who is much wearied. ‘After all the warnings I have given you, Richard, I find you here preparing for war.’
The duke’s fists balled and the golden signet ring on his little finger glittered. ‘War is our business! I was appointed Lord Protector of this Realm, not you! How dare you tell me what I may and may not do?’
The wizard drew a blazing forefinger through the air and left behind a hanging hoop of fire. Then he spoke to Edward, ‘Lad, tell me: what is the best way to fight fire?’
‘With fire,’ Edward said straight away, though there was mistrust and perhaps even a little fear in his voice.
Gwydion spread his hands. ‘Do you see? Do you see how this favourite firstborn son betrays his father’s style?’
Now the wizard’s arm made the motion of a serpent reaching forward to strike. Tongues of orange flame spewed from his palm. Fire engulfed the burning circle, which drew strength from the new flame and burned up all the brighter. The lords flinched back as the fire billowed out towards them. The fiery circle gave off a crackling noise now, a palpable heat, and thin black smoke that curled up into the dark timbers of the roof. These were not the paltry sorcerer’s powder fireworks that Will remembered the conjurer Jarred producing in the hall at Clarendon. These were great, coloured tongues of flame, fires that seemed to make the shapes of living things, vital flames that writhed and fed upon themselves with a roaring intensity.
Gwydion held the hall spellbound with his flamecraft. Mighty as these lords were, they had no answer to his accusing finger as it wavered fire over them, nor to his compelling voice. ‘I ask again: what is the best way to fight fire?’
The eyes of the lords were fast upon the flaming circle, and none dared to give an answer.
‘Then you had better tell them, Willand!’
Will found himself standing up and saying, ‘With a pail of water, Master Gwydion.’
‘Indeed, lad!’ All at once a pail appeared in Gwydion’s hands, and as the water was dashed from it the circle of fire was quenched. ‘Indeed so! With a pail of water!’
The circle turned to vapour as water and pail both vanished away. The rich carpets that were laid over the flagged floor had not been wetted at all. Gwydion moved to stand beside Will and put a hand on his shoulder.
‘You see, my friends? This lad knows.’ He turned to the duke. ‘Tread softly and go lightly upon the earth, Friend Richard. Be honest in your dealings. Conduct yourself nobly and champion justice. Do not lose sight of your chivalric promises, for if you do all your loyalty to one another, all your prowess in battle, all your indomitable courage will avail you nothing.’ He turned. ‘Come with me, Willand. We must take our leave, we have something important to attend to. And Shail fadah hugat to you all!’
The guards opened the doors as if falling back from a terrible curse, though Gwydion had merely wished a long life on those in the hall. Then they were out in the cold darkness and Will was exhilarated. He could feel Edward staring at him as if he had been betrayed by Will’s leaving with the wizard. But it did not matter. It seemed as if a great weight had been lifted, for the madness had gone from him and his mind was clear again.
‘Now tell me what has been ailing you,’ Gwydion said as they crossed the inner ward.
‘It’s the Dragon Stone, Master Gwydion. It’s been freed. I knew nothing about their plans to move it here, I swear! And I couldn’t have stopped them even if I had.’
Gwydion turned on his heel. ‘You are talking nonsense, lad. The Dragon Stone is safe in its coffin at Foderingham. I have just come from there.’
‘But I felt its power last night. And again just now. That’s what made me want to…’ he looked around and lowered his voice ‘…want to kill the duke.’
‘It was not the Dragon Stone that made you want to do that.’
Will stopped stock still. ‘Then what?’
‘A part of you wants it.’
‘But I like the duke. And I respect him. And—’
‘Do you? Do you really?’ Gwydion turned a dark eye on him, then he placed a hand on each shoulder. ‘Plainly, Willand, there must be another battlestone buried near here. One that is working on your unrealized weaknesses.’
Will felt the blood drain from him. ‘Another battlestone…’
‘I can see no other explanation. Can you?’
‘But…’ Will’s eyes danced wildly from tower to tower and across the battlements. ‘What about the journey? All the way here I felt something gnawing at me. If it wasn’t the Dragon Stone hidden in one of the carts, where did that feeling come from?’
Gwydion smiled a secret smile. ‘A most important rede of magic is this: “First, know thyself.”’
What the wizard said seemed to make little sense. Will pushed the conundrum away impatiently. ‘I do know myself.’
‘Hah! You have been doing a lot of changing since last we met, Willand. For two shakes of a lamb’s tail you have inhabited a man’s body and already you are an expert on how it is with men, is that it?’
The wizard waited but Will made no argument. He could think of nothing to say. And what would be the point? It was a hopeless task arguing with wizards at the best of times – and this was far from being the best of times.
When Gwydion spoke again, he was more kindly, and in the subtle way he often showed he crept upon Will’s concerns almost as if he had read his mind. ‘You are stronger than you think. Let me tell you so for the sake of all our futures. Far stronger. You must begin to believe that.’
He forced a smile. ‘Do you think so?’
‘Oh, Willand. Ewle may be the darkest night, but it is also the most promising of times. Come! We should make merry! We have seen six months of the dying of the light, but tonight the light begins to return! Can you feel the sleeping spring? It is waiting green and furious inside every seed and root that lies cold in the earth? From this night the sun begins his journey back! Now isn’t he worth a small celebration?’
A celebration! Sudden joy leapt up inside Will. It was good to be back in the wizard’s company once more, so strange and powerful was he.
He stretched like a cat. ‘Master Gwydion, I feel as if a great pain has been taken away.’
‘Of course you do. The moment of solstice is past and the power subsides. The sun and the moon have now begun to move away from one another. Ewle is come!’
‘But how can we celebrate? They don’t know what Ewle is among the duke’s household. Last year, at Foderingham, for all their wealth there was no dancing and no feasting. It was as dead as a door nail.’
‘The lives these lords lead are killing them from the inside, and they are too blinkered to see it. They strive and connive, they rend and contend, but have you ever seen one of them dance? Agh! They cannot dance to save their lives!’
<
br /> Will shuddered, thinking of Edward’s narrowness of spirit. He reflected that a lord’s wealth and power were all that he possessed. In their way they were as crippled as the Sightless Ones, and as impoverished as the poorest peasant. How foolish he felt now for having envied Edward his lot.
‘You haven’t changed a bit, Master Gwydion.’
The wizard gave him a penetrating look. ‘But you have.’
He blushed at that, though he did not know why. ‘I…I thought you’d put me among them so I could learn their ways,’ he stammered. ‘I thought you wanted me to become like them.’
The wizard snorted. ‘You? When does any of them feel the good earth between his toes? They ride often and walk seldom. And when they do walk it is on stone-laid paths with their feet cased in great spurred boots. They look for the harm in others before they look for kindnesses. They enslave with chains of silver and gold just as binding as the manacles of iron that the Slavers of old used. And they try to chop time into pieces with their foolish machines. You cannot measure all there is in the world against gold when the veriest fool knows in his heart that anything worth the having cannot be so measured. I hoped you would learn a lesson or two of this kind at the lordly hearth, Willand. Perhaps you have.’
Will’s head was in a whirl now. ‘But doesn’t a lord have to behave that way? Someone has to impose order.’
Gwydion spread his hands. ‘Does order come from men imposing their wills upon others? Every time a man surrenders his true self, Will, there is born a new problem into the world. I would that the hearts of our great men may one day be renewed with a saner sort of courage than they possess at present, but until that time comes I fear that talking to lords is like talking to tree stumps.’
As they reached Will’s quarters a shrouded figure moved in the shadows, shocking him as it emerged. He started, and a gasp escaped him.
Gwydion gripped his arm. ‘What is it you fear, lad?’
The Language of Stones Page 33
