The Giants' Dance

by Robert Carter

  ‘What purpose?’ Will roared, looking at his own strange hands and again at the stranger who was his wife. ‘Whose purpose?’

  The booming of the ram and the cracking of huge timbers forestalled the wizard’s answer. Gwydion took him by the shoulders. ‘Do not blame me, Willand. I have done this to save your lives. I must have eyes and ears at this crucial moment. You will be an ambassador. Seek out Morann, he will know what to do.’

  ‘No! Gwydion! Not that wretched trick again! You can’t leave us like this!’

  But Gwydion had already withdrawn from the cell and was sliding the great iron bolt across that locked them in. His face appeared at the small, barred window.

  ‘I am sorry not to be able to stay with you longer, but Gort needs my help now and this is no time to tarry. I warn you against exercising magic while you are in the guise of the Maceugh. Any cast, no matter how trivial, will put your life in jeopardy and swiftly bring enemies down upon you.’

  The wizard’s face vanished.

  ‘We cannot pass for folk from the Blessed Isle!’ Will shouted. He reached a vain arm through the bars. But his words already betrayed themselves, for they were spoken in the accents of another shore.

  ‘Do not seek for me, Willand. I promise that I will come to you before the spring turns to summer. Until we meet again, tread softly!’

  The wisp of wavering magelight faded to become steady, fire-reddened darkness. He pulled his arm back inside the cell and sat down.

  ‘Deoheir gathe, ar Saille,’ he said at last, marvelling as he did so that he knew the speech of the Isle. It sounded to him straight away very comfortable and somewhat like the true tongue only a great deal more straightforward.

  ‘Deohshen muire gath, ar Gillan,’ Willow said, returning the greeting. Then she asked, ‘Ceornaise teuh teone?’

  ‘You might well ask how I am! In truth, I am so angry I could spit blood!’ He put a hand to his chin and was dismayed to find a neatly-trimmed beard had sprouted there. ‘He talks about bringing about the best of all possible futures, yet he’s taken away my child, he’s made a stranger out of my own wife and a different man out of my own self too. And if that’s not enough he’s left us locked in a dark dungeon with the enemy about to begin rapping on the door! Oh, Gwydion, you call yourself our friend. How could you have done this to us?’

  PART FOUR

  THE TURNING OF THE TIDE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  TURLOCH’S RING

  Of all the lords who surrounded the king, Henry de Bowforde, Duke of Mells, was the most powerful and the most dangerous. The old Duke of Mells, Duke Edgar, had died in the fighting at Verlamion, after which his son, Henry, had inherited both the dukedom and the queen’s special favour. And now he had granted Will an audience.

  ‘We must be very careful with Duke Henry,’ Will warned his wife in a murmur as they waited in their cell to be interviewed for their lives. ‘He’s no fool. He recognized me once before, just as the battle was starting at Verlamion. He was nearly the death of me then, though I might say that his catching sight of me at that moment separated him from his father and probably saved his life. However, I doubt he’d see it that way if it came to it.’

  Willow took his hand. ‘Have faith. If Gwydion’s magical disguises are strong enough to serve against Maskull, they’ll deceive Henry de Bowforde.’

  He laced his fingers with hers. ‘If only magic worked as reliably as you suppose. I’m tired of sitting in this filthy cell. I’ll murder Gwydion when I see him next.’

  ‘Oh, don’t say such things, Will. It’s uncomfortable, but it could have been worse, and Morann told me that Gwydion has a knack for finding the best path forward.’

  ‘He told that to me too.’

  He sighed, wishing there was a little more of their water left. They had been in the dungeon three days now, confined all the while as a riot of looting raged through the castle. Since their discovery by drunken soldiers from whose sight Will had hidden his wife, they had lived on a diet of stale bread and cistern water. The next day he had shouted angrily through the cell door to the soldiers who ventured near. After being discovered they had waited again while more important matters were attended to.

  Will looked at Willow in the dim daylight that crept into the cell. She, at least, seemed unrecognizable. The change was astonishing: she was taller, had fuller lips and more prominent cheekbones and she now had a curling mass of auburn hair.

  When she saw him studying her she looked back penetratingly with green eyes and shook her head at last, saying, ‘I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to you looking the way you do.’

  ‘What’s wrong with me?’ he asked.

  ‘That long, russet hair and that beard! A straight nose and piercing olive eyes. You look like a fox!’

  ‘A fox, is it?’

  ‘You’re far too handsome to be my Willand.’

  ‘Well, thank you for that kind thought!’ He grinned. ‘You’re not so bad to look at yourself, I might say. I could almost forgive Gwydion his high-handedness if I was not so angry.’

  His shirt was a leine dyed a pale saffron yellow, and his garb was of the same brown and black woollen broadweave as Willow’s dress, being pinned in place by a silver delch, a brooch which had a lustrous brown stone set in it. He knew – though he could not say how he knew – that it was a form of dress made after the fashion of the Clan Maceugh. The brooch signified his leadership of that clan. He was the man known simply as ‘the Maceugh’.

  Approaching footsteps sounded. This time they were purposeful and disciplined. Then came the sound of the stiff, rusty bolt being slipped. Will stood as the soldiers entered the cell, and suddenly he and Willow were being brought out into strong morning light by men wearing blue and white livery.

  They marched out of the keep and took their charges down through the inner ward. The light hurt Will’s eyes, but he strove to take in everything he saw. A thin wisp of smoke was issuing from the bakehouse chimney. The castle was now in good order, showing that men of rank had taken control once more. Will knew what to expect. For a day now the engine that called forth the castle chimes had been ringing the bells regularly once again. The bells sounded now, and Will counted the hours – twelve noon. The device borne on the chests of the escort was the silver portcullis – badge of the dukedom of Mells.

  As they waited under guard, Will watched lines of soldiers being ordered hither and thither. Gort’s fears about Lord Warrewyk’s guns being used to slight the castle had so far proved unfounded, making Will suspect that Ludford Castle had already been marked down for new ownership. If so, there was still much clearing up to be done, and a great deal else to be set in train.

  Will pondered the coming interview and wondered what his best approach might be. Willow took his hand during much of the long wait, but as the castle chimes marked the second hour of the afternoon, two dozen men in black sallets and blue and white iron-studded jackets appeared and stood to arms near the Round House. A procession of nobles emerged from it and was escorted through the inner ward towards the doors of the Great Hall. Among them was Duke Henry. It was not long before Will’s guard ordered him to follow.

  The sergeant said that Willow must remain outside, so Will took his leave and walked on alone, with conscious dignity despite his dishevelled and unwashed state. The Great Hall had been partly stripped, but it smelled as it always did, an odd mix of stale food smells, woodsmoke and beeswax. Autumn light slanted through the tall windows, sending diamond-shaped splashes of colour across the scrubbed floorboards. The side tables had been pushed back against walls that no longer displayed their great tapestries. Much had been taken away and much assembled here from other parts of the castle ready to be taken away.

  A dozen or so men sat at the high table – scribes and others sitting among parchments and papers. Henry de Bowforde had seated himself in Duke Richard’s favourite chair. His eyes were flickering to left and right over his documents like a viper’s tongue. He was a long-n
osed, unsmiling man with an unhealthy pallor, twenty-one years old and dressed in a suit of blue with ermine trim and a blue hat which hid most of his straight, dark hair. The back of his pale neck was shaved high from ear to ear in lordly fashion, and now the burnished armour he had worn in the parley tent was gone he seemed less of a soldier and more like a sheriff’s clerk, except that two gold and enamel chains of office clanked against the fluted velvet breast of his doublet. It was his habit to play with his dagger, which he turned over now in gloved fingers.

  A recorder in legal green spoke quietly at the duke’s side, but the cutting tones of his voice carried to Will’s ears. ‘The captive claims to have been travelling in embassy from the Blessed Isle, your grace, and to have been illegally detained by the Duke of Ebor and imprisoned by him. He was discovered by your men along with a woman whom he claims is his wife. They were both locked in the oubliette.’

  ‘Locked in, you say?’

  ‘That is so, your grace.’

  Henry’s eye fell on Will and searched his unfamiliar clothing critically. ‘Who are you, my good man?’

  ‘Whoever I may be, I am not your good man,’ Will said, astonished at his own effrontery and his own heavily accented words. He brushed a piece of straw from his cloak and added, ‘As for how my friends know me, I am called by them the Maceugh, Lord of Eochaidhan.’

  ‘The “Muck You of Yokee-an”?’ Henry repeated. His voice was soft and dangerous. A smirk fleeted across his mouth, then vanished. ‘Quite a mouthful.’

  Will made no reply, but stood unmoved as the intimidating silence stretched out.

  ‘And…who are you?’

  Will’s blood ran chill. His back straightened and his eyes kept their challenge. ‘Do you say that I am not the Maceugh?’

  The duke rearranged his papers and muttered, ‘The man appears unable to understand what I’m saying to him.’

  ‘I own that I speak your language less than perfectly,’ Will said quickly, ‘but I dare say I speak it better than you speak mine.’

  Henry’s eyes dwelt upon him for a long time, then cut away. ‘Well…whoever you are, I’ve had you brought before me to enquire as to the reason the Duke of Ebor did not kill you, or at least take you with him when he left.’

  ‘You must ask Richard of Ebor that.’

  ‘Yes, well, I am asking you.’ Henry leaned forward, resting his chin on the heel of his hand. ‘So hazard a guess.’

  ‘Duke Richard did not strike me as a cold-blooded murderer,’ Will said evenly. ‘And perhaps he did not relish landing me back whence I came for fear that I might blame him for his actions.’

  ‘Blame him?’

  ‘Aye. For his incivility to me and mine. And for his interference in my mission, which was to bring news to your sovereign lord.’

  Duke Henry shifted and he consulted his papers once more. ‘Oh, yes, I’m forgetting. You claim to be an ambassador of some kind. Well…what is it you want to say to our gracious king?’

  ‘I am ambassador to your king – and to no other.’ Will spoke the words pointedly and the duke stirred with irritation.

  ‘We do things a little differently here. Those who would speak with his grace must speak through me. And I warn you that if you speak to me insolently again you will be taken to the top of the keep and shown the quickest way down. Now is that clear enough for you?’

  Will held the duke’s gaze proudly. The man dressed in legal green whispered, and again Will’s keen ears caught what was said. ‘He claims to have vital news for your grace.’

  The duke gave a nod of understanding, then said, ‘What vital news do you have for me?’

  ‘That would be best told in private.’

  In truth, Will had no idea what news he was supposed to have. He had made the claim when he had been at his most desperate to get out of the dungeon.

  ‘We are among friends. You may speak freely.’

  Will’s mind raced as he looked from face to face. He saw no one he would have regarded as a friend. Nor did free speaking seem like a particularly good idea. Yet he knew he must say something, and something convincing.

  ‘I wanted to inform you of the port that Duke Richard was making for, that you might have intercepted him.’

  That jolted the duke and his eyes narrowed. ‘You know the port? Then tell me the name of it.’

  ‘It is called by the princes of Cambray, Caerwathen.’

  The duke sat up stiffly as he recognized the name. Beside him, the recorder nodded slightly. ‘Sadly, Ebor has already sailed from there. It’s a great pity you did not speak up sooner.’

  ‘You cannot with justice blame the Maceugh if his news has gone stale. Your men were too busy ransacking the wine cellars to listen to a foreign voice pleading to be released from a dark cell.’

  There was absolute stillness in the hall and the guards that flanked the doors seemed to be straining to make stones of themselves. The duke had cultivated a reputation for ruthlessness. He sat back, his dark eyes appraising the difficult upstart who stood alone before him. Whispers passed between the duke and his men. Papers were shuffled, pointed to, amendments made by the scribes. Will heard himself debated, the Blessed Isle referred to, and many a glance came his way. Throughout the ordeal he stood patiently.

  At last the duke said, ‘I have a surprise for you.’

  ‘A surprise, your grace?’

  ‘Yes. It’s in the nature of a little test.’ The duke laid down his dagger and spun it about like a pointer. It came to rest point outwards. ‘A test that will determine what we are to do with you. I need to know what truth there may be in your story. You see…I cannot quite put my finger on where I’ve seen you before. But I’m sure I know you from another place, and that worries me.’

  Will’s blood ran cold, but he did not let a flicker of doubt escape him. ‘You do not know me, your grace. You have never met the Maceugh before.’

  ‘You sound rather too definite about that.’

  ‘I am wholly certain of it. I would have remembered you.’

  The duke glanced at him sharply, winnowing the remark for the trace of an insult. He seemed about to speak again when a man in the robe of the Isles appeared at the far end of the hall. He walked briskly down the hall, his cadath cloak billowing black and green in his wake. ‘You asked for me, your grace?’

  ‘Yes.’ Henry picked up his dagger again and pointed the tip at Will. ‘This…captive…says he’s a lord of the Blessed Isle. Speak to him in his own tongue. Explain that we’re undecided what to do with him. Invite him to give proof of his claim, for without proof we cannot admit him and must put him back where we found him at the very least.’

  Morann, for it was he, bowed shortly and turned to Will.

  ‘Now look at the fix you’re in,’ he said in the tongue of the Isle. ‘Did I not tell you you’re no better than you should be?’

  Will allowed himself the hint of a smile, for in the tongue of the Isle the expression made perfect sense. ‘That you did, Morann. And I’m very pleased to see you’re in the same boat with me.’

  ‘Well, try not to look as pleased as all that, my friend.’

  ‘How did you know me?’

  ‘I thought I heard an owl in the early hours three mornings ago. Gwydion paid me a visit. He said he was away to Trinovant, and that I was to look after you as best I could. Though what I’ve done to deserve such a cruel fate I don’t dare to think. Play along with me now.’

  ‘That I will.’

  Morann strutted back and forth all the while talking in the tongue of the Isle. He kept up the pretence of a full and searching interrogation, knowing that all eyes were on him. But Morann’s questions were flippant and Will began to enjoy himself.

  ‘I’m away myself soon to the Blessed Isle,’ Morann said. ‘So you’ll have to fend for yourselves here. I’ll give you silver enough for your needs, and the court are obliged to offer you a place to stay if they do not send you packing.’

  ‘That’s if Black Harry here doesn�
��t have me flying from the battlements instead.’

  ‘He won’t do that. He’ll think you the dearest friend he ever had by the time I’ve finished with you.’

  ‘There’s no need to go quite as far as that. But listen, if you’re going across the water will you fetch us news from Richard’s camp of what has become of our daughter? Willow has been beside herself with worry.’

  ‘I will, my good friend. You may depend upon me!’

  Will smiled. It was wonderful to speak so fluently in a language which he had never learned, and to understand every word that was spoken in return. But the enjoyment stopped short when Morann suddenly turned in front of him and punched him hard in the face.

  The blow was powerful enough not only to wipe away his smile, but to lay him on his back also. He found it hard not to react. ‘Moon and stars! What was that for?’ he said angrily, getting up. He began dabbing blood off his mouth.

  Seeing that Will was preparing to give as good as he got, Morann thrust out his arm and spoke quickly. ‘Have you forgotten what I told you about the ring of Turloch of Connat? It’s a tale I related to the young duke here a couple of nights ago. Now do what you must with it!’

  Will shook the stars from his vision and tried to bring to mind the story that Morann had once told. It was that Turloch would strike anyone suspected of being a traitor, and if the accused could not bring himself to kiss the ring then he was guilty.

  As the duke watched, Will knelt, seized Morann’s hand and pressed his lips to the big smaragd stone. Morann laid a hand on the top of his head, keeping his lips there. He muttered, ‘Well, we do have to make it look good now, don’t we?’

  As soon as Will was let go he murmured, ‘It’s nice to know who your friends are.’

  Morann turned to the duke and said, ‘You may trust the Maceugh as deeply as you trust me, your grace. He is a friend. Of that, I am full sure.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CASTLE CORBEN

  And so, as winter came and the season of Ewle approached, the men who had joined the army of Queen Mag to see their sovereign’s will done at Ludford began to melt away. Vaunting oaths were offered against the Duke of Ebor’s name, his war banners were torn down and the royal standard raised in their stead. The troublemaker himself had been driven over the seas, so in many men’s eyes there was no further cause to stay. Through what remained of the autumn the royal host that had amazed the Middle Shires with its great size and strength steadily dwindled. While lord, knight and churl alike returned to distant estates well pleased with the lesson they had taught to a rebel and a traitor, others were better satisfied with the booty they had taken.