Lord Sarum laughed. ‘So many? To show us the futility of resistance?’
Gwydion cut him a dark glance. ‘And you, my lord, mean to see your sons again, whatever the cost to Ludford and your allies’ cause!’
Lord Sarum bristled and took a step forward. ‘Explain yourself.’
‘Your men were guarding the walls over which Lord Dudlea escaped, were they not?’
Lord Sarum’s hand went to his sword hilt. ‘Speak plainly, Old Crow!’
‘Let us be civil,’ the duke muttered. ‘Let us agree that it is the way of wizards to talk in riddles.’
‘And it is my way to make them speak their minds,’ Lord Sarum growled.
Gwydion struck back. ‘If Lord Dudlea had not found his way unaided over the ramparts, then we might have persuaded him to speak plainly – of the secret weapons the queen is reputed to be keeping.’
Lord Sarum’s teeth gritted and he began to inch out his sword, but Gwydion stayed his arm with a compelling gesture that was made in a moment. ‘Do not presume upon my patience, my little lord!’
‘You dare to call me—’
‘Enough!’ The duke stepped between them. ‘My Lord of Sarum, be easy with my wizard, I beg you. You know well the power he disposes. And you, Master Gwydion, it would please me if you would speak politely to my friends. I have never seen you behave like this. Are you not forever telling us that you are a guardian of the land and a peacemaker?’
‘Friend Richard, I do not make peace in this Realm. Peace is your king’s concern. I simply offer my counsel which warns of the disaster that will swallow you up if you do not agree to parley with Friend Hal.’
As the wizard let his words hang, the duke’s fears stood revealed. His face flushed and his jaw clenched as it so often did when his thoughts turned to King Hal or his queen. Still he waved a dismissive hand towards the enemy’s tents. ‘It takes no wizard to see that those who serve the she-wolf have chosen to put their trust in a vain show of arms. Tell me, Crowmaster, what proof do you have of the queen’s triumph if I decide not to talk with her husband?’
‘Dudlea was poised to tell about her secret weapons—’
‘Dudlea?’ Lord Warrewyk exploded. ‘He’s nothing! There are no secret weapons! He was only trying to buy himself time with lies!’
Gwydion faced him down. ‘And what if I have lately gained definite knowledge concerning the nature of these weapons?’
‘Can they smash down walls such as these?’ Lord Warrewyk scoffed.
Gwydion’s hands produced a hard-to-see gesture in the air, ending with a snap of his fingers. ‘One of them can sail over a wall as if it was not there at all.’
‘He speaks once again of magic,’ Lord Sarum said. ‘Nothing he says may be proved.’
But the wizard shook his head. ‘The queen’s secret weapon does not rely on magic of any kind. Come, Willand. Let us withdraw a little way and allow our gracious host to talk with his friends.’
Will watched as the duke and his kinsmen looked to one another and deliberated. The duke put a mailed hand to his chin. Indecision weighed upon him heavily. Will knew that, as ever, Gwydion was knocking heads together with infinite care.
When at last the wizard judged the matter sufficiently debated he rejoined the duke. ‘Will you not speak with the king, Richard? For the sake of the Realm, of all you love, and of all who love you?’
‘How can I treat with Hal when that she-wolf uses him as her stool-servant? I do not see why I should oblige her. She wants only to have the fight over and done with. She knows that every day our forces glare at one another, hers must needs grow the weaker. Her army will bleed away. Ours, on the other hand, has nowhere to desert to. Therefore, let them come to us, cap-in-hand, to parley terms if they desire to undo what they have begun.’
Sarum and Warrewyk brayed with laughter at that. Their warrior hearts were lifted to see their leader continue blithe and unconcerned in the face of a fearsome and numerous enemy, and stand so solid against the subtle manoeuvrings of a wizard.
‘Then that is settled,’ Gwydion said, gathering in the vital point. ‘I have your word that you do agree to meet in a parley.’
The duke gripped his ivory rod and spread his arm wide. ‘Crowmaster, let me show you why I have such faith in our position. Do you see how well prepared we are? I have kept our town walls in good repair. We are well gated and strongly defended. Our flanks are covered by water. At our back stands my mighty castle. See there! Double trenches dug on our right. Lord Strange’s good men have made a moat to protect our centre. And look where those parapets of timber are set above it – an archers’ bank now stands there so that the enemy cannot charge suddenly upon us. A stream of death will pour down upon any fool, mounted or afoot, who dares to approach any of our breastworks. And greatest of all, see here – these are the pride of my lordly kinsman: my Lord Warrewyk’s three bombards!’
‘Ah, the bombards…’ Gwydion allowed the hint of a scowl to show. Earlier he had pointed out the guns to Gort, saying, ‘Those filthy rods of iron have the reek of eastern sorcery about them!’
‘Meet my three spokesmen: “Trinovant”, “Toune” and “Tom o’ Linton”! They have mouths of fire.’ The Earl Warrewyk offered his flat smile, then turned and called out, ‘Master Gunner! Are we ready to speak to the foe?’
‘Aye, we are, my lord!’ The gunner, stocky and round as a powder barrel, swept off his leather hat and bowed his head.
‘And what is the surprise you have for the queen’s horsemen?’
The gunner grinned. ‘These three are full-charged with nails and horseshoes and other pieces of sharp iron that will harvest the enemy by the bushel if they come near!’
Gwydion made a gesture the uninitiated would have seen as no more than a shrug of his robes, but he drew close to the duke and took him aside, his voice persuasive and low. ‘Richard, I accept your pledge. What hostages do you care to exchange that are sufficient to guarantee your parley with the king? Give me their names.’
But now pride welled up in the duke’s breast and he fought the subtle words. ‘The time is…past when talking…can heal the wounds…the insults I have suffered…’
‘But if mere words alone could make this great host retire from your walls, then would it not be worth an insult or two? Remember what I have told you,
‘Beside Lugh’s ford and the risen tower,
By his word alone, a false king
Shall drive his enemy the waters over,
And the Lord of the West shall come home.’
The duke’s private struggle went on for a long moment. His glance fell upon his lordly captains, then he turned back to Gwydion and opened his hands in a broad gesture. ‘It matters not to me. Let them come a-begging. Let them go away with their tails between their legs. We shall tell the she-wolf that if her people try to approach us in arms they will be taken off at the ankles by the reaper’s blade!’
‘Then give me a horse. I shall do as you have bid. I shall go now to see the king and speak with him in such terms that a parley cannot be avoided.’
The duke summoned an attendant who wore an expectant face as he rose from his bow. ‘Give him whatever he wants!’
‘Yes, your grace.’
Will watched as a good destrier was brought. Gwydion mounted up and galloped down the lane of grass that stood between the hosts. Clods flew up from the killing ground. It seemed to Will that the duke’s words were correct – no easy approach to Ludford was possible, and any attack that came this way would fast become entrapped and put to a murderous rout.
And in the trap lies our best hope, he thought. For Ludford must seem to any experienced eye a very tough nut to crack. The queen has schooled her henchmen to hate Gwydion and to pour scorn on all he proposes, but still there should be enough cool heads among her retinue who understand the massacre that awaits them…
Will caught his thoughts and grounded them savagely. He was thinking like a lord, not like a wizard’s helper. For all the
strategies and preparations, the underlying trouble remained. He bent his mind to consider the battlestone, fizzing and fuming undisturbed in its pit. Wherever it was, it had brought this calamity. And it would drive coming events forward, no matter what the lords had planned and despite whatever game Gwydion chose to play.
The wizard returned within the hour and gave his report that the king had agreed. Duke Richard was not pleased, but he nodded all the same.
‘That weaseling wizard!’ Lord Sarum jeered. ‘It’s because they’ve found us so strong that they dare do no other now than flap their chins at us.’
The king’s heralds came up with the six hostages that had been agreed from each side. They were exchanged, these sons of noblemen, and paraded in plain view under a guard of drawn blades. If treachery was attempted in the parley tent they would be slaughtered at a word. They sat in camp chairs, drinking and chatting among themselves as if in the secure knowledge that all would go well, but their faces were pale in the morning light and their thin laughter betrayed them.
The waiting among the soldiery was also tense. Will saw the fear, the impatience, the grim whetting of daggers and the tightening of buckles by those convinced that the fighting must soon come.
Will found himself approached by six troopers.
‘Off with his coat!’ one said, and took him by the shoulder.
‘Who are you?’ he said, instantly on guard.
‘Who are we, he says! We do his grace’s bidding, and we need to have them rags off you.’
‘Rags?’ He threw the men off roughly, spat on his knuckles and prepared himself for a fight.
‘Now, then!’ one of them said, grinning. ‘No need for struggles! You’re to be shaved, and your hair cut.’
‘When Ludford Castle falls in a heap I will!’ he warned them. ‘Or it’s a fight you’ve got!’
‘It is to be done. We have our orders!’ they cried.
‘Well, I’m nobody’s man. And I’ll make you eat your orders before I give up my braids!’
‘Be easy there!’ Gwydion called to him. ‘Let them dress you as they will. They know their business.’
‘Dress me?’ he said indignantly. ‘Why should I?’
‘Because I have a task for you, and you must look the part.’
‘But my braids, Gwydion! By the moon and stars!’
‘The braids will be no great loss. You have lost them before and doubtless you will again.’
‘Last time you called me a young savage for doing it!’
‘That was not for what you did, but for the reasons you did it.’
‘And I suppose your subterfuges are a better reason!’
‘Willand, be easy with the barber now. You can have your braids or you can be a peacemaker. Make your choice.’
‘Then hand me your secret knife, Gwydion,’ he said, half out of a wish to make the wizard pay a price also. ‘If it’s to be done, it’s better that it be done by me.’
The wizard drew forth the sheath that contained the precious star-iron blade, and passed it across without a word.
Will let the duke’s men seat him on a stool. The barber shrugged an apology as he watched Will lop off both braids in one sawing cut, then he set to bobbing Will’s hair in lordly style. He shaved his cheeks and the back of his neck close, up as far as the tops of his ears. Then he was shown rich clothes and shoes of soft leather and dressed up as a minor knight’s esquire, a proper junior member of the Ebor household.
‘This is ridiculous!’ he told the wizard. ‘I feel like a…I feel like an idiot! You changed your own appearance back at the Plough, why couldn’t you apply a magical disguise to me?’
‘We must not condone the unnecessary use of magic.’
‘Unnecessary?’
‘You’re to be attached to the duke’s retinue. Now put this on and stop complaining.’
Will ignored the proffered scabbard of dark leather. There was a steel blade within. He said, ‘After all you’ve warned against the carrying of steel? What’s this in aid of, anyway?’ For the sake of the disguise he allowed the sword to be girt on at his waist. ‘Gwydion, will you answer me?’
‘You’re to come to the parley, of course. Everyone gives up their weapons before a royal audience. A great show is made of it, so you must have a blade to give up.’ The wizard put a sly finger alongside his nose. ‘Remember: eyes of a hawk, ears of a hare.’
Then he was gone.
The parley itself was in a great painted tent that had been hastily put up a bowshot and a half from the town walls and halfway between the facing armies. It was in a place that Gwydion had chosen, near a big oak tree that had not yet shed its leaves. It felt like a place of good aspect.
When the herald’s signal told that all was ready, the duke’s party rode out at an unhurried pace. There was a haggling with the heralds over the weapons. At first, the duke’s party refused to recognize the custom and Gwydion had to intervene. Eventually a royal permission was issued concerning weapons, and each man was allowed to go armed with the symbol of his rank, but was to surrender his helmet and throat-guard.
Will managed to speak an indignant word to the wizard. ‘What are you thinking of? Trying to broker a peace while the Ludford Stone is still in the ground? It’s impossible.’
‘I have learned an important lesson,’ Gwydion said archly.
‘What lesson?’
The wizard stooped near. ‘That these battlestones contain a malicious intelligence that may be played at their own game!’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You will see.’
‘I just hope you know what you’re doing.’
‘Trust me.’
‘I always do – fool that I am.’
The parley tent was ruled by the formality of royal protocol, and it was decked like a throne room prepared for audience. Because the nobles of the duke’s party had insisted on carrying broadsword and dagger, they were not allowed to approach the king’s person beyond a double rope of red and gold which was strung six paces in front of a pair of high-backed chairs.
Will’s eyes swept across the important men in the ranks opposite. Dozens of knights and squires and pages crowded to the rear, many with the badge of a white swan on their chest, or in enamelled pewter on a ribbon. Will wondered what it signified, for it was no badge that he recognized.
Royal attendants stood in a line, holding cushions on which sword and helm and gilded crown were set. Many of the noblemen present, Will knew, had fought at Verlamion, and thoughts of revenge clouded their faces. He watched the king as he took his place in one of the ornate thrones. He was sickly, pale-faced and with downcast eyes.
Beside him his queen, his consort and keeper, sat upon a throne of equal measure. Her blemishless, chalk-white face shone in the muted light of the tent. She was striking – dark eyes, raven hair, ruby lips, and clad all in crimson velvet. Her gloved hands glittered with gold rings, each set with a black diamond. And never far from her, Henry, Duke of Mells, stood proudly in his dark-burnished armour. On the far side also stood the king’s generals, foremost among them the commander of his great host, Duke Humphrey of Rockingham, grim-faced, for his son had been slain at Verlamion by a Warrewyk arrow.
All wore the white swan device, and as Will came forward and his eyes reached further he found the reason; for there, in a child’s seat or little boat, shaped into the likeness of a white swan, sat a sturdy lad of six years – the heir.
That’s his badge, Will thought, imagining how this new fashion, this new way of showing loyalty, must have swept through the court. But he did not have long to think about it, for as his eyes left the heir his heart skipped a beat – the bearded brute nearby with fierce eyes and five yellow rings on his scarlet surcoat was the mad baron, the one whose murderous semblance had cut Will’s arm off. He looked away before those crazy eyes latched onto his own, tried to steal a reassuring glance at Gwydion, but then thought better of it. His hand clutched at his arm, and he realized that it was no e
asy thing to set aside the power of illusion.
Wherever Will looked now it seemed that a new surprise lay in ambush for him. Over there, bold as brass, stood Lord Dudlea. He smirked at his erstwhile captors, enjoying the moment and eager to show off.
Will looked away again, hoping he would not be spotted. This time he fixed his eyes on the walls of the tent itself. Seen from inside, the painted canvas showed the heraldry and mottoes that adorned it as if in a looking glass. He tried to idle his mind, reading the crisply lettered words as they rippled gently in the breeze, blanking out what his heightened senses insisted on bringing to him. Even so, he could hear the barking of dogs in the distance. The smell of bruised grass was keen on the air. The play of sunlight passing through the branches of the big oak tree gave the tent a curious, dreamlike quality that paralleled the murderous undercurrents of the moment. The palms of Will’s hands sweated. He caught hold of his thoughts as they began to slide – his mind’s eye had glimpsed a mass of archers surrounding the tent, making ready to shoot a volley of arrows through the wavering canvas into unseen targets. It was clear nonsense, he knew, for how could archers mark their targets blindly? But all the same the fear was exact and inexplicable and hard to dispel. It seemed to have the force of premonition about it, or perhaps it was just the stone reaching out to him again in its eerie way.
By now the tent was half-filled with Duke Richard’s henchmen. It was time for him to make his entry. At the king’s command, the audience would begin. Duke Richard carried with him his customary rod of unicorn ivory. His men came forward gravely and, to Will’s surprise, they approached the king immediately and knelt, as one, before him.
It was a gesture calculated to unsettle the queen and her advisors. Among the duke’s retinue were Earl Sarum, Earl Warrewyk and the softly grunting Lord Strange. Seeing them, Will suddenly remembered Edward. He was not here. A chill ran down his back. Perhaps Edward had ridden out earlier, to be exchanged as one of the hostages. It was not impossible, given the importance of the parley.
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