The Language of Stones

by Robert Carter

  It is interesting to reflect that a fifteenth-century king of England, say Henry VI, would have had a wholly different concept of his country’s history and geography to that which we know. We have accurate maps that illustrate the land we live in and show how its parts relate one to another. We can travel easily to all parts of our Realm. And we are the beneficiaries of over three hundred years of scholarly enquiry and scientific investigation into our past. No mediaeval monarch was ever enriched with such a treasure. Spread before Henry would have been a curious mixture of religion, garbled chronicle and sovereign-serving myths such as the ‘Historia Regum Britanniae’ composed by Geoffrey of Monmouth in the mid twelfth century. Geoffrey’s mythic history sought to construct a proud heritage for England, and in doing so to offer an exalted pedigree to its monarchs. The perhaps puzzling name ‘Trinovant’ is mentioned many times in The Language of Stones. It refers to a great, walled city on the banks of the River Iesis, apparently the seat of government. In Geoffrey’s ‘Historia’ it is related how a certain Brutus, fleeing the fall of Troy, set up a new capital in the island he had conquered and named, after himself, Britain. That capital was called ‘Troy Novant’, or New Troy, and so – almost – is Will’s.

  Finally, it is worth remembering that in those longvanished days of the high mediaeval, it was quite usual to believe in magic and giants and dragons. Twin spectres of fear and wonder stalked England’s leafy byways, and who can say at this remove whether the one was worth the other? Will’s world has been deliberately imagined as the one in which the outlandish fancies of the mediaeval mind were not only deemed to be likely, but were actually true.

  APPENDIX I

  ON THE AGES OF THE WORLD

  The Affirmation of the Druida

  ‘The world is as we behold it.’ Thus says the rede. Before there were eyes to see the world, and minds to comprehend, there was no world to speak of. And later, much took place in the time of the fae when there was only the Ice. About this we have no certain knowledge, therefore those who seek to chronicle the world begin by saying, ‘First, came the Ice…’

  From the Book of Ages

  And when the power of the Sun waxed stronger and the Ice withdrew, it was seen that the Drowned Lands had become ocean and the land of Albion was made an island. And after this came the Age of Trees, and here, among their towers of glass, dwelt the noble fae in a time out of memory, and these are the same who planted the trees when the Ice departed.

  And soon after this time there came men into the land, and these First Men were unlike the men who came afterwards, for they were tall and strong and spoke softly and laughed much. They lived long and wanted for nothing, for their lives were counted out in a time of magic when the world was kinder.

  But as magic declined in the world so, after a time, harm grew and the first Age of the world ended. The fae chose to leave the land of Albion, and went down into the Realm Below, bequeathing the realm of light and air to the First Men, who were made sad, as a child is made sad at the departure of kind parents.

  But thereafter, the men of Albion lived in peace with the land and knew much that was wise that the fae had vouchsafed to them. Even so, after many generations, there came a great calamity and these First Men declined in their turn, and there came a time of desolation in the Isles. And in this Age the years went uncounted, for the land was stalked by wyrm and wyvern, dragon and drake. Hideous giants lived in the mountains then, ogres and half-men, and dread wights infested the doom-rings of the mountainous North, and all was darkness.

  And these Isles were put under a pall of fear, for no man of the eastern lands dared set sail for the Wight Cliffs, lest he be snatched from the deck of his ship and eaten by the monsters that then lived in these Isles, and this was called the Age of Giants.

  But then came a hero, a man named Brea, who, having made himself an exile in his own land, was then searching for a new place in which to dwell. He came into the Isles from the East, some said from the kingdom called Amor, and with his band of brothers and their brave families, he came into Albion and defeated the giants and took possession of the Isles for men once again and this was called the Age of Iron.

  The line of Brea ruled for more than a thousand years, until the Age of Iron ended and that of Slavery and War began…It continued a thousand years, but ended when Gillan came as conqueror. Thus began the fifth Age of the World, the present Age, which is uncertain and called therefore the Age of Dispute.

  Age of Trees

  Age of Giants

  Age of Iron

  Age of Slavery and War

  Age of Dispute

  APPENDIX II

  THE BREAN KINGS

  The First Thirteen Sceptred Monarchs

  1 Brea Triumphed over the giants Magog and Gogmagog

  2 Loegrin Brea’s son

  3 Queen Gwendolin Loegrin’s scorned wife

  4 Maddan Son of Loegrin and Gwendolin

  5 Memprax Son of Maddan, a tyrant

  6 Ibrax Son of Memprax

  7 Ibron Called ‘Brea Scathgiree’, son of Ibrax

  8 Liele Son of Brea Scathgiree

  9 Hudibrax Son of Liele

  10 Bladud Called ‘Bladud the Leper’

  11 Leir Only son of Bladud, called ‘the Great’

  12 Queen Cordelin Third daughter of Leir

  13 Queen Goneril and Queen Regan First and second daughters of Leir, who ruled jointly

  Brean Kings at the time of the coming of the Slavers

  77 Hely Son of Dagwen

  78 Ludd First son of Hely, a famous king

  79 Caswalan Second son of Hely, repulsed the Slavers

  80 Tervan Third son of Hely

  81 Cunobelin Son of Tervan

  82 Carutax Eldest son of Cunobelin, beaten by the Slavers

  83 Avirax Youngest son of Cunobelin

  84 Maric Son of Avirax, called ‘Avirax the Traitor’

  Brean Kings around the time of Arthur

  99 Orelin Called ‘the Old’, succeeded his brother

  100 Uther Great-nephew of Orelin

  101 Arthur Son of Uther, Great Arthur

  Preview

  THE STORY CONTINUES IN

  THE GIANTS’ DANCE

  CHAPTER ONE

  THE BLAZING

  Flames leapt up from the fire, throwing long shadows across the green and dappling the cottages of Nether Norton with a mellow light. This year’s Blazing was a fine one. Tonight was what the wizard, Gwydion, called in the true tongue ‘Lughnasad’, the feast of Lugh, Lord of Light, the first day of autumn, when the first-cut sheaves of wheat were gathered in to the village and threshed with great ceremony. On Loaf Day, grain was ground, and loaves of Lammas bread toasted on long forks and eaten with fresh butter. On Loaf Day, Valesfolk thought of the good earth and what it gave them.

  Today the weather had almost been as good as Lammas two years ago when Will had taken Willow’s hand and they had circled the fire together three times sunwise, and so given notice that henceforth they were to be regarded as husband and wife.

  He put his arm around Willow’s shoulders as she cradled their sleeping daughter in her arms. It was a delight to see Bethe’s small head nestled in the crook of her mother’s elbow, her small hand resting on the blanket that covered her, and despite the dullness in the pit of his stomach, it felt good to be a husband and a father tonight. Life’s good here, he thought, so good it’s hard to see how it could be much better. If only that dull feeling would go away, tonight would be just about perfect.

  But it would not go away – he knew that something was going to happen, that it was going to happen soon, and that it was not going to be anything pleasant. The foreboding had echoed in the marrow of his bones all day but, unlike a real echo, it had refused to die away. Which meant that it was a warning.

  He brushed back the two thick braids of hair that hung at his left cheek and stared into the depths of the bonfire. Slowly he let his thoughts drift away from Nether Norton and slip into the fire-pictur
es that the flames made for him. He opened his mind and a dozen memories rushed upon him, memories of great days, terrible days, and worse nights. But the most insistent image was still of the moment when the sorcerer, Maskull, had raised him up in a blaze of fire above the stone circle called the Giant’s Ring. That night he had seen Gwydion blasted by Maskull’s magic, and afterwards, as Gwydion had tried to drain the harm from a battlestone, the future of the Realm had balanced on the edge of a knife…

  It had been more than four years ago, but the dread he had felt on that night and the redeeming day that had followed remained alive in him. It always would.

  ‘Will?’ Willow asked, searching his face. ‘What are you thinking?’

  He broached a smile. ‘Maybe I’ve taken a little too much to drink,’ he said and touched his wife’s hair. It was gold in the firelight and about as long as his own. He looked at her, then down at the child whose small hand had first clasped his finger just over a year ago. How she had begun to look like her mother.

  ‘Ah, but she’s a beautiful child!’ said old Baldgood the Brewster, his red face glowing from the day’s sunshine. He had begun to clear up and was carrying one end of a table back into the parlour of the Green Man. The other end of the table was carried by Baldram, one of Baldgood’s grown sons.

  ‘Seems like Bethe was born only yesterday,’Will told the older man.

  ‘She’ll be a year and a quarter old tomorrow, won’t you, my lovely?’ Willow said dreamily.

  ‘Aye, and she’ll be grown up before you can say “Jack o’ Lantern”. Look at this big lumpkin of mine! Get a move on, Baldram my son, or we’ll be out here all night!’

  ‘My, but he’s a bossy old dad, ain’t he?’ Baldram said, grinning.

  Will smiled back at the alehouse-keeper’s son as they disappeared into the Green Man. It was hard to imagine Baldram as a babe-in-arms – nowadays he could carry a barrel of ale under each arm all the way down to Pannage and still not break into a sweat.

  ‘Hey-ho, Will,’ one of the lads from Overmast said as he went by.

  ‘Hathra. How goes it?’

  ‘Very well. The hay’s in from Suckener’s Field and all’s ready for the morrow. Did you settle with Gunwold for them weaners?’

  ‘He offered me a dozen chickens each, but I beat him down to ten in the end. Seemed fairer.’

  Hathra laughed. ‘Quite right, too!’

  ‘Show us a magic trick, Willand!’ one of the youngsters cried. It was Leomar, Leoftan the Smith’s boy, with three of his friends. He had eyes of piercing blue like his father and just as direct a manner.

  Will asked for the ring from Leomar’s finger, but when the boy looked for it, it was not there. Then Will took a plum from the pouch at his own belt and offered it.

  ‘Go on. Bite into it. But be careful of the stone.’

  The boy did as he was told and found his ring tight around the plumstone. He gasped. His friends wrinkled their noses and then laughed uncertainly.

  ‘How’d ya do that?’ they asked.

  ‘It’s magic.’

  ‘No t’ain’t. It’s just conjuring!’

  ‘Away with you, now, and enjoy the Blazing!’ he said, ruffling the lad’s hair. ‘And you’re right – that was only conjuring. Real magic is not to be trifled with!’

  Two more passers-by nodded their heads at Will, and he nodded back. The Vale was a place where everybody knew everybody else, and all were glad of that. Nobody from the outside ever came in, and nobody from the inside ever went out. Months and years passed by without anything out the ordinary happening, and that was how everybody liked it. Everybody except Will.

  Though the Valesmen did not know it, it was Gwydion who had made their lives run so quietly. Long ago he had cast a spell of concealment so that those passing by the Vale could not find it – and those living inside would never want to leave. The wizard had made it so that any man who wandered the path down from Nether Norton towards Great Norton would only get as far as Middle Norton before he found himself walking back into Nether Norton again. Only Tilwin the Tinker, knife-grinder and seller of necessaries, had ever come into the Vale from outside, but now even his visits had stopped. Apart from Tilwin, only the Sightless Ones, the ‘red hands’, with their withered eyes and love of gold, had ever had the knack of seeing through the cloak. But the Fellows were only interested in payment, and so long as the tithe carts were sent down to Middle Norton for collection they had always let the Valesmen be. Four years ago, Will’s service to King Hal in ending the battle at Verlamion had won him a secret royal warrant that paid Nether Norton’s tithe out of the king’s own coffers, so now the Vale was truly cut off.

  And I’m the reason Gwydion’s kept us all hidden, Will thought uncomfortably as he stared again into the depths of the fire. He must believe the danger’s not yet fully passed. But with Maskull sent into exile and the Doomstone broken, is there still a need to hide us away?

  Maskull’s defeat had given Gwydion the upper hand, but he had shown scant joy at his victory. He and Maskull had once been part of the Ogdoad, the council of nine earth guardians whose job it had been to steer the fate of the world along the true path. But then Maskull had given himself over to selfishness, and though a great betrayal had been prophesied all along, that had not made it any easier for Gwydion to swallow.

  Will sighed, roused himself from his thoughts and looked around at the familiar surroundings. It was strange – in all his months of wandering he had thought there was nothing better than home. And now he had a family of his own there was even more reason to love the way life was in the Vale. And yet…when a man had extraordinary adventures they changed him…

  It’s easy for a man to go to war, he thought. But having seen it, can he so easily settle down behind a plough once more?

  It hardly seemed so. Occasionally, a yearning would steal over Will’s heart. At such times he would go alone into the woods and practise with his quarterstaff until his body shone with sweat and his muscles ached. There was wanderlust in him, and at the root of it was a mess of unanswered questions.

  He stirred himself and kissed Willow on the cheek. ‘Happy Lammas,’ he said.

  ‘And a happy Lammas to you too,’ she said and kissed him back. ‘I guess we’re just about finished with the Blazing. Looks like everyone’s had a good time.’

  ‘As usual.’

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘Me?’ he asked, his eyebrows lifting. ‘I enjoyed it.’

  ‘It looks like you did,’ she said, a strange little half-smile on her lips.

  ‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’

  She fingered the manly braid that hung beside his ear. ‘I saw you looking into the bonfire just then. What were you thinking?’

  ‘I was thinking that only a fool would want to be anywhere else today.’

  She smiled. ‘Truly?’

  ‘Truly.’

  It was good to see everyone so happy. They had watched the lads and lasses circling the fire. They had listened to the vows that had brought the night’s celebration to a fitting close. Some had plighted their troths, and others had made final handfasting vows. Now couples were slipping off into the shadows, heading for home.

  There was no doubt about it, since the ending of the tithe the Vale had prospered as never before. They had put up three new cottages in the summer. They had filled the new granary too, and all this from the working of less land. Now the surpluses were not being taken away to make others rich, the plenty was such that Valesmen’s families had already forgotten what it was to feel the pinch of hunger.

  ‘About time this little one was abed,’ Willow said.

  ‘Yes, it’s been a long day.’

  They walked up the dark path to their cottage, his arm about her in the warm, calm night. In the paddock, Avon, the white war-horse that Duke Richard of Ebor had given him, moved like a ghost in the darkness. Away from the fire the stars glittered brightly – Brigita’s Star, sinking now in the west, Arondiel risin
g in the east; and to the south Iolirn Fireunha, the Golden Eagle.

  An owl called. Will remembered the Lammastide he had spent six years ago sitting with a wizard on top of Dumhacan Nadir, the Dragon’s Mound, close by the turfcut figure of an ancient white horse. Together they had watched a thousand stars and a hundred bonfires dying red across the Plains of Barklea.

  He sighed again.

  ‘What’s that for?’ Willow asked.

  He scrubbed fingers through his hair. ‘Oh…I was just thinking. You know – about old times. About Gwydion.’

  It seemed a long time since Will and the wizard had last set eyes on one another. How good it would be to wander the ways as they had once done. To walk abroad again among summer hedgerows, enjoying the sun and the rain, or feeling the bite of an icy wind on their cheeks.

  ‘I wonder what he’s doing right now?’ Will muttered.

  ‘Unless I miss my guess, he’ll be striding the green hills of the Blessed Isle,’ Willow said. ‘Or sitting in a high tower somewhere out in the wilds of Albanay.’

  Will’s eyes wandered the dark gulfs between the stars. ‘Hmmm. Probably.’

  ‘Wilds?’ he could almost hear Gwydion chuckle. ‘It is not wild here. See! These trees in a line show where a hedge once grew. And what of those ancient furrow marks? The Realm has been loved and tended for a hundred generations of men. It is almost, you might say, a garden.’

  While Willow went indoors to put Bethe into her cradle, Will lingered in the yard at the back of their cottage. He could smell the herbs, all the green leaf he had grown in the good soil – plants ripe and ready to offer the sweetness of the earth’s bounty. The scents of the orchard were keen on the still air. He heard Avon whinny again, and tried to recall where he had felt the elusive feeling in his belly before, but when he looked inside himself he was shocked.