Whitemantle

by Robert Carter

  There was a blinding flash of light. For a long time he fell, fell through the world, fell from the spaces between the stars, all the way down into the abysmal deeps. The fall was never-ending, a fall from grace. But then the change came and the blinding light blasted him back into the world, and when he came to, they were looking at him with open mouths and faces filled with wonder.

  Strangely, he seemed to feel no different, but it was impossible to judge since there was no single experience in his past with which to compare his present self-hood. The spell he had used was one intended to liberate the spirits of those who were dying in pain.

  He tried to sit up, but he could not lift himself. He felt as though his head and his limbs had been encased in steel.

  There were tears in Willow’s eyes as she confirmed that both Will and Chlu were gone and the conflation of character had taken place. Then she and Morann began to help him to his feet and he saw the reason he had felt himself enclosed in steel. He shone silver from head to toe, for they had arrayed him in Edward’s raiment of war.

  ‘Why do you weep?’ he asked Willow.

  ‘For the loss of my husband,’ she said, avoiding the boldness of his eye. ‘This is all so strange.’

  ‘Look at me,’ he said. ‘I am here.’

  ‘Are you?’ she whispered. ‘But if you are, you are no longer my Willand. You are Arthur.’

  ‘And all the better for that, I think.’ He smiled. ‘We lived in disguise once before. We shall grow used to the change.’

  She raised her eyes to his. ‘But this is no longer a disguise. This is you! You are changed!’

  ‘All men change with time.’ He took her hands. ‘I think – I hope – that in time you will get used to me.’

  She managed to return his smile. ‘I hope so too.’

  ‘We have a child,’ he said. ‘What shall we tell her?’

  ‘The truth, of course!’

  He shrugged. ‘The truth, then. If you prefer it.’

  As he turned he saw Morann looking kindly upon them and he slapped his friend heartily on the shoulder and laughed. ‘There, Morann! You shall be my witness. She will have me, she says, new man or no!’

  ‘I shall be more than a witness,’ Morann said. ‘I shall play the archmage, for look what Master Gwydion has left with us.’

  The loremaster drew out from a fold of his robes the ancient crane bag that had been made from the skin of Aiofe long ago. And from the bag he lifted a cloak of shimmering white feathers.

  ‘The swan cloak of King Leir!’ Arthur cried, his eyes gleaming with desire. ‘Put it on me, for I must wear the White Mantle if I am to show the world that I am king!’

  ‘Then step up here onto this little stone,’ Morann said, ‘and test yourself against its music.’

  And when Arthur looked down he saw that the Stone of Scions lay between the cart ruts that scarred the soil beneath the oak. He stood upon it and Lord Morann, loremaster and archmage for a day, laid the swan cloak about his shoulders and Willow put a hand to her eyes to wipe away her tears.

  There was no more time to spend in ceremony, for the drums were beating and two great hosts were on the move. They came forward and spread themselves out in their fighting battalions. Soon the archers among them would be ordered forward and a deadly exchange would begin.

  ‘Come!’ Arthur cried, seizing his sallet helm and raising up the royal standard. ‘My friends, to the horses! We must seek a parlay.’

  ‘And what if they will not wear it?’ Morann said, following him.

  ‘They will wear it,’ Arthur said and smiled.

  ‘But for us to go alone? Without hostages? What if we fall to treachery?’

  ‘Lord Morann, faint heart never won fair fight. We know a man among them who we can speak to on friendly terms.’

  And so they galloped forward, and soon they were seen and two of Mag’s heralds came out to ask what they were about here, between the armies. Not long after these heralds returned to their lines a party of men came out – the Duke of Mells with a retinue of six armed nobles.

  Henry of Mells stared in consternation. He murmured fiercely to the man to his left, who was Jasper of Pendrake, ‘But you said he had taken a mortal arrow…’

  ‘I swear I heard it was so!’ one of the other nobles affirmed.

  ‘He is defenceless,’ a third said. ‘Let us take him now!’

  ‘No!’ Jasper said, grasping the man’s arm. ‘This is a parlay, and my word is given.’

  ‘He killed your father,’ Duke Henry reminded him.

  ‘And you killed his.’

  Looks sharp as daggers drawn were passed. But then, from the south, came a contending party, also riding under a flag of truce, and headed by Earl Warrewyk. When he saw King Edward he too was astonished.

  ‘Your grace! But…but I thought—’

  Arthur spoke up. ‘Ah, you thought Edward was abed because of an arrow. Well…I have surprised everyone, have I not? Come, let us talk, for together we must accomplish an act of mercy and statesmanship, or rue the lost chance for evermore.’

  ‘What is this game you’ve set afoot, Lord Morann?’ Warrewyk demanded, angered by Arthur’s answer and even more furious that Edward had turned away from him. ‘Statesmanship? What more is there to say? My…my liege – have you forgotten that we are here to let our armies speak for us?’

  At that remark the Duke of Mells spat fire in return. ‘Nor did we come here to sing and dance to you – as soon you shall see! But this is some mischief, some sorcery! My eyes deceive me!’

  ‘My lord,’ Arthur told him soothingly. ‘There is nothing wrong with your eyes. Do you not both see and hear Edward before you? Well, then, you must believe what you see and hear, for if I am not Edward then I must be his twin.’

  But the Duke of Mells gathered himself quickly and said, ‘It is no matter to me who has charge of the enemy. Whether I speak to Edward or to Warrewyk, my answer will ever be the same.’

  Then Arthur spread his hands and amazed them all by nodding. ‘That was well said, for which man of honour standing in Henry of Mells’ shoes would say a single word different? He is right. He is right to say so.’

  They looked to one another with great suspicion, for they were unused to the slightest ground being given freely between Henry of Mells and Edward of Ebor. But Arthur was not finished. He grew both grave and sad. ‘Yes, well said indeed, my lord, but now let us all think hard on the matter of fathers, for it is a thorny matter: my father was killed in war. And here stands Jasper of Pendrake, a good man now likewise bereft. And you, my lord of Warrewyk who always bridles to set things right, you are fatherless now too. And you, my Lord of Mells, you who among us lost his father first and so has had longest to taste the bitterness of it. All of us, orphaned by shaft or blade! And which man standing now with our assembled armies has not lost someone dear to him, some person who was most worthy of life? I tell you: if these things be true, then the time for killing is over.’

  ‘Not while you dare to call yourself king,’ Duke Henry said, unswayed. ‘And what of King Hal in all this fine oratory? You have not yet answered for your treason against him.’

  Arthur laughed a great, wholesome laugh. ‘Ah, yes, treason. There are numberless treasons loose in the Realm, treasons of every shape and size, I think. And there are almost as many men who have presumed to speak for the king as he has subjects. So, shall we go to Hal and ask him what his heart truly desires? Whatever he says he shall have it with my blessing – that is my promise – whatever it may be.’

  Mouths fell open at that, but then Arthur continued.

  ‘Or if we dare speak of Hal’s wife…’ he said delicately. ‘Shall we address her latest hopes and fears, for I have heard that she has begun to change of late. It’s said that she was for a long time under a malign influence, but now that is gone away with the changing of the moon. What think you of that, Friend Henry? Is it true? Has she changed?’

  At that, Duke Henry’s eyes blazed, for Edward had
gone straight to the heart of a great secret. Henry had seen how the failing of Maskull’s magic had caused the queen’s looks to fade, and with them her ambitions too. Since the withering of her face she wanted only to hide herself away.

  Arthur said, ‘Lord Warrewyk, consider this idea: I would have a Great Council called today whereat all the nobility of the Realm shall break bread together under this oak tree. All shall sit at this table and we shall discuss what must be done to bring health and happiness to this land…’

  ‘We will not sup with traitors,’ Duke Henry said sternly.

  ‘Nor we with usurpers!’ Lord Warrewyk returned, his face dark with suspicion.

  ‘Well, how then if I make this promise to you?’ Arthur said, standing fast between them. ‘I will repeat this pledge to all who wish to hear it: that if the nobility here gathered for war will once agree to sit at my table then Edward shall not be king of this Realm for a single day afterwards.’

  They stared at him, and all their expectations were shaken to the ground. Arthur talked, and despite themselves the others listened, as two very different worlds began to move apart again. Prophecy had been fulfilled. A piece of new magic had come into play – Arthur himself – and like oil and water, the magicless world and the still-magical one could not tolerate each other. Once the ancient King had been incarnated, his world could no longer be swallowed.

  Then the arguments began, and charge followed blame, and claim and counterclaim were hotly levelled, but the subtle steersman, who was not above a little chicanery himself, turned his ship slowly and by degrees, and all the quarrelling crew began to head towards home while hardly knowing they did so. And Arthur began to see how it would be. Talk would replace the spilling of blood. Magic was already beginning to return to the Realm – they could feel his authority.

  At his request the noble parties gave their word that no hasty move would be made by either side to precipitate the battle today. They rode out to north and south and began to stand down their armies. Arthur knew that tomorrow a fresh accommodation would be reached, and a week from now he would be wholly in charge of the contending parties. A month from now they would all recognize him as their king, and year on year, the magic would continue to increase. There would be a new Age of peace while he lived.

  ‘Well,’ he said to himself as he watched the noblemen go to their soldiers. ‘It looks to me as if this war is over.’

  EPILOGUE

  Standing a little way apart from the diplomacy, Willow had watched great Arthur walk up and down and tell those who would soon become his knights and servants all that he had in mind for the increase of his people once a settlement was in place. And although she knew she would never see her darling Willand again, still she was vastly proud of all that he had done and all he had become. And when the great lords rode away from the parlay on their warhorses Arthur came to her, mightily pleased with himself, and she felt embarrassed at the strangeness of their first kiss. It seemed almost to be a betrayal, yet not quite, for though this man looked so much like Edward, still there was Willand in his movements and in the glint of his eyes.

  At last, Arthur turned to Lord Morann and winked confidentially. ‘I think she will have me.’

  ‘That’s good. But you must give her time.’

  ‘I shall.’ Arthur put armoured hands on armoured hips. ‘And what will Edward say, I wonder, when he sees my face and learns from me that I have stolen his kingdom out from under him?’

  ‘Before he rises from his sick-bed he will have listened to his mother and read his father’s last letter. Edward will support you, Arthur, for if he can’t have a father to look up to, the next best thing is an elder brother.’

  ‘Elder by only a few moments.’

  ‘Aye, a few moments, but also a thousand years.’

  Arthur laughed and raised his arms and they began to take off his armour. Where Will had been wounded there was only now a pink scar. Willow let go a tear at the sight of it, and Arthur raised her up, saying, ‘I’m here. My darling, I’m with you still.’

  The moment ripened, as slowly, silently they came to see that in some way Willand was not gone from them forever, for he was in Arthur and in Bethe too.

  ‘I’ll miss Master Gwydion though,’ Morann said bleakly.

  ‘We all shall,’ Willow said, wiping her face.

  ‘But as for the lorc,’ Arthur said, rousing them, ‘there’s better news. For now we have surer knowledge of the pattern on which all the battlestones lie. I shall put all the resources of my Realm into rooting out the danger that remains. Then, as magic returns to the world, I shall have the stones lifted and bound and—’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think so,’ Morann said smilingly. ‘We shan’t be having to worry about any of that.’ And he took from a fold within his robe the magic crane-skin bag, the one that had belonged to Manannan Mac Lir and to Lugh, then to Cumhal and to Fionn, and latterly to the last phantarch, Gywdion Crowmaster.

  ‘Ah, yes! The crane bag,’ Arthur said, his eyes gleaming. ‘And what have you in there? Something for me?’

  ‘A thing beyond price.’ Morann drew out a simple rolled parchment done up in ribbon. He handed it to Arthur.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘A gift from King Hal. It was found in his cell at the White Hall, and meant for Master Gwydion, but you may as well have it. Do you recall Hal’s strange habits, his dedication to study, his days and nights spent in river-dank cellars among that chaos of rolls and scrolls that lies under the palace? This is his copy of the last lost fragments of a very ancient work – they call it the Black Book of Tara.’

  Arthur gazed upon the scroll with wonder. ‘The Black Book?’

  ‘Do you remember it?’ Willow said. ‘Master Gwydion spoke to me of it several times.’

  ‘Yes,’ Arthur said. ‘Indeed I do! Let me see it!’

  He undid the ribbon and opened it. Morann smiled and brought out a bottle from the crane bag. ‘It contains a plan of the lorc. And it tells of the places in the Blessed Isle where all the sister-stones may be found, stones that will finally undo the work of the fae. Now I think that calls for a little celebration. Don’t you?’

  AUTHOR’S HISTORICAL NOTE

  The three books of the Language of Stones cycle are mythic history, and their setting is mythic too, but that does not mean that the setting is not rooted firmly in the real. There is not space here to list all points of interest, but those readers who wish to follow up the place names mentioned in the text will be rewarded for their detective work, since none of them are purely made up.

  Geoffrey of Monmouth, the twelfth century monk who virtually single-handedly created the story of Arthur, also wrote about the great city of New Troy, or Troy Novant. Actually the name derives not from Troy, but from the Celtic people called the Trinovantes. They lived, of course, in the lands upon which my own city of London was eventually to rise.

  Students of the history of London will recognize much in the detail of my imagined city of Trinovant, for its plan, streets and approaches are intact, an approximation, in fact, to the English capital as it was in the fifteenth century, just as the Realm approximates to the England of that time. There really was a many-gated wall around London and a royal palace once stood at Whitehall. The marshes of Lamb’s Hythe eventually became Lambeth, and a great Gothic spire did once rise above the city, but fell long before Spenser wrote of his faerie queene. The Victorians placed cast-iron guardian dragons at the entry points of the City, and they still stand, supporting their red-and-white shields on which the red sword is depicted.

  From London, the Great North Road ran through England by various ways up to Newcastle upon Tyne and beyond. Anyone travelling along the present Al goes for much of the way along the Great North Road. By the fifteenth century a trade in coal, hewn on Tyneside, was running in the opposite direction, except that the real wyrmstone went by sea.

  Lincolnshire is the county in which Stamford, (rather than Stammerford), stands. The town lies to the east
of old Rutland, England’s smallest county, now, alas, mostly submerged beneath a lake. The real ‘Duke Richard’ was Richard of York. His second son was given the title Earl of Rutland. The Cecil family, owners of Burleigh House, did rather better for themselves in. this world than their counterparts in Will’s.

  Richard of York’s unsuccessful quest to become king led to the bloody battles of Wakefield and Towton, (both in Yorkshire, and the latter in the ancient kingdom called Elmet.) These battles were separated by the battle at Mortimer’s Cross (Shakespeare’s battle of three suns) at which the meteorological phenomenon known as a parhelion occurred. It was at this battle that the future king Edward IV defeated the Lancastrians under Jasper Tudor.

  It is a curious fact, and one which led to the first ideas for the trilogy, that if the dozen or so biggest Wars of the Roses battle sites are plotted on a map of England and Bosworth Field is included – since it can be seen as the battle which finished that terrible war – then three concentric triangles can be drawn through all but a couple of them. I extended the lines of these triangles to create the system of ligns called in the books ‘the lorc’.

  About the Author

  WHITEMANTLE

  Robert Carter was born exactly five hundred years after the first battle of the Wars of the Roses. He was brought up in the Midlands and later on the shores of the Irish Sea where his forebears hail from. He was variously educated in Britain, Australia and the United States, then worked for some years in the Middle East and remote parts of Africa. He travelled widely in the East before joining the BBC in London in 1982. His interests have included astronomy, pole-arm fighting, canals, collecting armour, steam engines, composing music and enjoying the English countryside, and he has always maintained a keen interest in history. Today he lives in a ‘village’ that only sounds rural – Shepherd’s Bush.