Willow put a hand to the nape of her neck and let out a shuddering breath. Her relief was palpable. She said, ‘That wasn’t funny.’
Will sank within himself again, struggling to recall the great insight that had just come to him. Instead he could bring to mind only something that Willow had said to him long ago before the battle at Delamprey. He had remarked that some battlestones were near one another while others stood far off, and she had said that there had to be a pattern in the way they were laid out. And later that night he had dreamed there was a way of picturing the whole Realm, as if he was looking down on it from above…
‘The duke’s split his army,’ Morann said, throwing back his hood and coming forward.
‘Where’s Lotan?’ Willow asked.
‘I’m here.’ He emerged silently from the space between the tents.
‘We skirted the whole town around,’ Morann said. ‘Five thousand men are headed into the north under the duke. And five thousand more have gone up the Wartling.’
Will knew that the Wartling was the old Slaver road that ran north-west from Verlamion. Just as he had thought, Edward was repairing to his castle of Ludford, the fortress which had become his the day he had taken the tide Earl of the Marches.
‘That’s Edward’s army,’ Will said.
Morann blew out his cheeks. ‘He should have known better than that!’
‘He’s angry!’
‘Edward?’ Willow asked. ‘Who with?’
‘With his father. He thinks he’s about to be dispossessed, passed over in favour of his brother.’
Morann screwed up his face. ‘What?’
‘It’s become an obsession with him. “Ebor shall overlook Ebor before the year is out” – remember?’
‘But now Richard has stopped pursuing his son – if that was what he was doing,’ Gwydion said.
Morann shrugged. ‘We don’t know what either of them intends. Richard may have sent messengers to persuade Edward to halt. Don’t you think so?’
Gort said, ‘Maybe there’s no rift at all, hey? The duke might have sent Edward on ahead and across to the Cambray Marches to raise men. He’ll not lack for recruits in the west, especially at Ludford – not after what the royal forces did there a little while ago, with all that burning and looting and murdering and the like.’
‘What is certain,’ Gwydion said, ‘is that Richard and Sarum are making haste into the north together with just five thousand men. That is not nearly enough to meet the host that is coming south under the queen’s banner, which if you are right, Morann, numbers thirty thousand and more.’
Morann nodded. ‘All the magnates of the north are roused up. And the word is that Warrewyk and Lord Northfolk have been left to secure Trinovant and keep the king, so their strength may not be counted upon by the House of Ebor.’
‘What I’d like to know,’ Gort burst out, ‘is has the duke taken complete leave of his senses?’
Will grunted. ‘He took leave of them months ago, or didn’t you notice, Wortmaster?’
Gort had unpacked his writing gear, and Will took a couple of quills, a knife, the little bottle of ink and the roll of parchments that had been scratched clean. He called his companions closer. ‘Let me show you something. Suppose these lines are the coast of Albion,’ he said, outlining the Isles. Once the ink had dried he marked Trinovant and Ebor and all the cities and towns of the Realm he could recall. It was a crude plan, but clear enough.
‘What now if I try to mark the ligns? Nine ligns – all straight as arrows. The battlestones all stand upon one lign or another, many on more than one, for where the ligns cross, there always lies a stone. There is our pattern.’
They all stared at the ink lines, seeing nothing significant. Then the wizard said, ‘The ligns are laid out haphazardly. There is no pattern.’
But Will was sure there was something in the way the ligns connected that reminded him of something.
They slept soon afterwards, Will fitfully, plagued by vile dreams that harried his mind. Lotan’s gold token had not helped ward off the pain in any way, but the kindness of his having offered it nevertheless warmed Will’s heart.
Early the next morning they saw Morann quit the camp and ride on ahead. The loremaster did not pause to say where he was going, and neither Gort nor Gwydion would admit they knew. As the rest of them packed up and prepared to leave, Will bit his tongue, though he could not help but press the point once they had passed Wetamsted.
‘Morann has business of his own,’ was all the wizard would say. ‘He did not tell me where he was going.’
‘Do you know where I think we should go?’ Will said.
Gwydion looked askance at him. ‘Up the Great North Road, I presume.’
‘Or wherever else the duke leads us – or is himself led.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Because the Great North Road runs alongside two ligns at least. Celin and Collen – holly and hazel. They sit side by side just as rowan and yew do, but whereas those ligns run a little north of west from here, holly and hazel run a little west of north. I think Edward was being drawn into the west along the Wartling to Ludford. Whatever his reasons – or whatever he thinks are his reasons – this is surely the lorc’s doing. For a certainty, Edward’s father rides into the north and to his death.’
The wizard thought about that, then offered a contrary smile. ‘So it is along two ligns we must go, eh? Well, that should make for an enjoyable ride. I have no love for Slaver roads, and the Great North Road follows several of them.’
Will knew that the Slavers had built their roads as straight as the land allowed. They had been set in place to cut the Realm into shards and so destroy the power of the lorc, but there had been another, more practical reason – Slaver roads aided the swift deployment of their legions from one stone fortress to another. They were the quickest way to move troops.
‘It was always their aim to make the Realm into one great farm,’ the wizard said. ‘And to turn all the people into either field slaves or tax gatherers.’
Will murmured half to himself, ‘I wonder if the duke will go to Foderingham on the way north.’
‘Foderingham? I do not think Friend Richard will be calling halts for old times’ sake.’
‘He might overnight there. It will be his last chance.’
‘He will not go near the Dragon Stone, and nor should we.’
‘And what if the duke, in his wisdom, decides otherwise?’
Gwydion scowled. ‘He will not.’
‘He’s taken no notice of your other warnings. Nor has he heeded Mother Brig’s prophecy.’
‘He has become very bone-headed lately.’
‘But have you thought about this, Master Gwydion: what if he tries to use the Dragon Stone to coerce you into helping him against the queen?’
‘Then he will burn his fingers.’
‘It’s not his fault,’ Will said, unsatisfied. ‘If I’m right, his stupid choices have all been made because of the draining away of magic. Or as I suppose we ought now to think of it, the turning of our world into a different one.’
‘As the lorc awakens, Willand, so do you it seems.’
‘Is that any surprise to you? We’ve been made by the same fae magic, the lorc and I.’
Will fell silent then as they rode on past Ayot. By Baldock the grey afternoon dipped suddenly into darkness. They were making better time now towards Ivelswade, and Will fancied that the shortness of the day this close to the winter solstice would bother the duke more than it bothered his pursuers.
When they reached the River Ivel they made camp, but Will knew that the roaring torrent he could hear inside his head was no muddy stream but the mighty hazel lign, which lay at least a league to the west.
Once they were settled, the wizard turned to him grimly and said, ‘Have I told you about the Castle of Sundials?’
Will nodded. ‘You’ve mentioned it once or twice. Why do you ask?’
‘The duke maintains many
houses – Foderingham to guard the Great North Road, Wedneslea and Sheriff Urton in the north. The Castle of Sundials stands some half dozen leagues or so to the south and east of Ebor. It belongs to the duke, but is kept by Braye, who is a master of sky lore.’
‘Old Father Time?’ Will mused, seating himself comfortably in the tent. ‘It’s said that he has a profound knowledge of the stars and what their movements portend. Gort once told me that his castle is filled with great machines of iron and brass, toothed wheels that measure out time and track the paths of the sun and moon and all the wandering stars.’
‘That is so. Braye is an irascible man who ill fits our world. Many years ago his nose was struck off in a swordfight. Since then he has worn a false one made of silver. He has a favourite rede – “History repeateth.” So if you value your good looks, you will not argue with him.’
‘And you think the duke is heading there?’ Will asked, wondering if Duke Richard had thought of using the Lord Keeper’s knowledge of the mysteries of time to somehow wind back the queen’s advance. Will thought of the way the duke had tried so often before to wring advantage from magic. ‘Surely, if Richard wanted to tamper with the flow of events, he would be better off going to the source at Rucke. If he were to put the needlewomen of Rucke to the sword it would stop everything dead – or so the legend says.’
Gwydion gave him a thoughtful look. ‘Legend, you say? Is that what it has become. But there is no need to worry, the idea will not occur to him.’
Will’s irritation surfaced. ‘I hope you’re right.’
‘I do not think anything quite so final as an end-game is yet in Friend Richard’s mind. He is a soldier, remember, not a philosopher. He wants to win the game, not throw the chessboard over. He will want to garrison the Castle of Sundials if the queen has taken up residence in the city of Ebor, and he will want to do it for purely strategic reasons.’
Will nodded, happier now. ‘That’s just as well, for his army is too small to fight a pitched battle against Mag. But from the sound of it, the Castle of Sundials isn’t an ideal fortress.’
‘As ever the future is taking care of itself.’ Gwydion looked up as a heavy patter of rain blew against the canvas and the candle flames that lit the tent shivered. ‘As Braye will no doubt tell you himself soon, our todays are little more than yesterday’s tomorrows.’
‘Yes,’ Will said dismally. ‘Or tomorrow’s yesterdays, depending on how you choose to think about them.’
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
THE SLEEPLESS FIELD
The Castle of Sundials lay some sixty leagues to the north of Trinovant as the crow flies, but Will’s party could not travel so straight. After Iverswade they rode on to Buckden and then to Sawtree, and Will felt an increasing sense of fear. The few folk they encountered were watchful, wondering at their muddied horses and suspicious about what errand could have sent them abroad. Skinny dogs barked at them as they passed, and Will saw only empty fields and many a cottage that had been burned or broken. Some villages had been barred against strangers, and what little news there was spoke of bands of roving outlaws preying on whoever dared to use the road.
In the middle of the afternoon a quantity of blood began to pour from Will’s nose and, at the same time, his grey mount took a sudden fright and bolted, throwing him to the ground.
Lotan dashed to the place where he fell, gathered him up and rode hard for the best part of half a league until the ill effects began to wear off.
‘Indonen…’ Will gasped as he woke up. ‘Tell Master Gwydion. It’s the lign of the ash and it’s running very strongly.’
‘What was it?’ the wizard asked as he came up. ‘Tell me!’
‘A couple of stones,’ he said, shaking his head.
‘Two? How far?’
‘Along Indonen, but before it reaches Delamprey. Where Indonen crosses with Celin and Collen, I should think.’
‘Is their time come?’
Will’s arm and shoulder had been bruised in the fall. He knew he could have easily broken his neck. As it was, his face and hair were crimson with blood despite Lotan’s best efforts at cleaning him up, and he was covered in filth.
‘Willand! The stones! Is their time come?’
‘I don’t know…’
‘You must open your mind!’
‘They all…they all seem ready to burst to me.’
Gort closed on the wizard and steered him away. Willow picked Will up and tended his grazes.
‘I’m all right.’
‘You’re not all right. Look at you. You mustn’t let him drive you like that!’
‘He’s been driving me all my life.’
‘Then it’s time you took control.’
‘Let me be, will you?’ He pulled his arm away from her angrily, but the pain made him wince. ‘Everybody is always telling me what to do!’
Later that day they pushed on harder through the churning mud, sometimes closing on the hazel lign, sometimes drawing further away from it. Always they followed the tracks of the duke’s army into the north. At one point the road turned sharply westward and Will saw that it altered course to follow a river, a river which Gwydion said he ought to be able to recognize.
They forded the river at Warm, and Will realized that it must be the Neane, and that to the east lay the Great Deeping Fen. The tales he had heard about the hags and water drakes that inhabited the mires there ran through his thoughts as they made the crossing, and he saw a dark shape flash briefly silver in the shallows and stir up the surface.
‘Did you see that?’ Gort said, excited. ‘It was a big one.’
‘If my new eyes do not deceive me,’ Lotan said, ‘that was a salmon.’
And Will knew, without any doubt, that this was the same fish that had escaped his grasp in the retting pond at Harleston months before, the one that had made itself out of his green talisman and Chlu’s red one. Somehow it had got into the Neane and was now heading for the open sea.
What does that mean? he wondered, staring as if in a trance at the water.
For the rest of the day, dark thoughts occupied his mind. He could feel the moon and sun ruling him as they always did. The phase of the moon was vital, or more exactly the continually changing angle that the sun made with the moon as it swung about the world. The sky ruled him as it ruled the tides. His mood became feverish, leaving him at times hovering on the edge of awareness. What significance, if any, did the salmon carry? Had the remade creature been drawn to him? Had it perhaps been drawn to Chlu when he had passed through here on his own journey north?
Then the two puzzles came together in his mind in a jarring flash and suddenly both were solved. ‘I recognize it, Master Gwydion,’ he babbled, his eyes burning. ‘Do you remember the fish talisman I used to wear…engraved on the fish was a device that showed three triangles set one within another…Chlu’s red fish had the same mark…the pattern is that of the lorc!’
‘Shhh…’ the wizard said.
‘You must believe me! I see it clear now!’
‘Hush! I believe you, but it is a discovery best kept to yourself. Is Chlu near?’
Fragile as he was, Will nevertheless dared to open his mind a little. It was dangerous so close to the fast-rushing lign, and induced in him profound feelings of vertigo. Nor was there any reward for his efforts, for if Chlu was nearby then Will’s mind was not able to reach him.
‘No Chlu…’ he said, drifting again. But this time a warm glow shone in his eyes like a sunset, for the revelation had been tremendous – three triangles, set one within another, and all the battlestones sited at the corners and along the edges of those triangles! It was astonishing, but true.
A dull day turned duller as the mists closed in. Drifting wisps crossed the track and lit Saint Elmo’s fires in the distance. All that filled his head was the lulling slush-slush of hooves in mud and the jarring unevenness as the horses picked their way forward.
They had now come further north than Foderingham, and Will’s ideas about v
isiting the castle which had once been his home had blown away like autumn leaves. Gwydion was right, he thought. It’s no good thinking about the Dragon Stone. There are so many others still in the ground, it’s the least of our worries.
All afternoon they came upon stragglers from the duke’s army – a cart with a broken axle, soldiers who had injured themselves while hunting or foraging for food. Gwydion questioned them while Gort laid healing hands upon them. Progress was not as bad as Will had imagined. He was pleased to find that the army was not too far ahead. They were gaining on it The duke had crossed the Stammer Stream at dawn the day before.
After an arduous afternoon, they overnighted at Burghlea Martin, near Stammerford. There was a mean farmstead there that Gwydion knew which belonged to a pig farmer by the name of John Sisil. He gladly let them stay, fried them thick rashers of bacon, and for his trouble received wizardly blessings. The first was a pentacle chalked by Gwydion on his threshold stone, the second a sign made upon his baby boy’s head as the party readied to leave in the moist and misty morning.
‘That’s a trade in magic,’ Willow warned, as they rode away.
‘Not so,’ the wizard told her.
‘Get on with you – it’s just as if you’d paid him in coin!’
‘How? I agreed nothing with him beforehand. I have taken an interest in his family since before they came from the Earldom of Erewan. They are the sort of people who, when they see a need, will make an offer of help.’
‘But he expected a blessing from you from the start. I saw the anticipation of it in his eyes. You protected his child and his cottage in payment for eggs and bacon.’
‘You are mistaken.’
‘I don’t think so. He’d have been disappointed if you’d not given his son some advantage.’
The wizard huffed. ‘If that is the case then the blessing will not help him, for that is how blessings work: in strict proportion to need, and somewhat inversely to desire. Mark my words, the Sisils will never amount to much in this world by the measure of some men’s standards. They will never be lords or leaders or landowners, but they will cure excellent ham and be loved for it hereabouts for many generations to come, and what is more they will be content with that, which is a blessing indeed.’
Whitemantle Page 24
