Whitemantle (17 page)

‘It is not a question of time! This is an old trick. I have seen it too often.’

Will turned to Gort. ‘And you, Wortmaster? What have you to say? Won’t you at least try to help him?’

‘That would be a task for Ogdoad magic…’ Gort’s apology faltered as he stepped back and made himself small. ‘What he asks is far beyond my humble skills with herbs.’

Willow had edged closer to her daughter’s cradle. Her hand was pressed to her mouth. She was looking at Lotan with huge eyes.

Will put his arm across Lotan’s shoulders. ‘I’m sorry. But I made no promise. It is, in the end, how the wiser part of me supposed it would be: I was wrong to encourage your hopes.’ He faced Gwydion unsmilingly, but still directed his words towards his seated guest. ‘My…
friends
…must leave now, but the night is cold and hospitality, at least, is ours to promise freely. You are welcome, Lotan, to stay here with us.’

‘I will not have him sleep on the passage floor like a dog and with nothing but that oaken chest to lay his head against,’ Willow said. It was mid-morning and she was sewing one of Will’s old shirts, into which she had let a number of darts and panels. ‘Perhaps Master Gwydion will think more kindly of him once he’s out of those dirty rags.’

Lotan had been sent down to the kitchens on a minor errand, largely so they could discuss what might be done about him.

‘I doubt Master Gwydion will change his mind whatever Lotan wears.’ Will continued cutting onions on a wooden board using Morann’s priceless blade. ‘And I don’t think Lotan will be too eager to go about without his hood.’

Willow put her sewing aside. ‘Whatever happens, they’re not going to turn him out, and that’s that.’

‘I’ll make sure he’s given lodging here even if I have to wring the permissions out of Edward myself.’

She looked at him and he saw a flurry of expressions cross her face. ‘Let me see to that, will you?’

‘Why?’

‘Because I can ask the duchess and it’ll be easier than stirring Edward up unnecessarily. I’m sure her grace will say yes if I tell her you want a visitor to stay here over the Ewletide.’

Will looked critically at the onions he had chopped. ‘Either I’ve just discovered a new magical property of Morann’s knife, or onions are not as strong on the eyes as once they were.’

‘I’m ashamed of Master Gwydion,’ Willow said, preoccupied by the injustice of what she had heard. ‘I hate to say it, but just lately he’s turning into a cantankerous old man.’

‘I’ve been that since the Slavers first landed!’

Will looked up and saw that Gort had put his head round the door.

‘Oh, Wortmaster,’ Willow muttered. It was a chilly welcome and meant to be. ‘I wasn’t talking about you as it happens.’

‘I know. Don’t be too hard on Master Gywdion, Willow. There’s a good lass.’

Will pointed the knife at Gort and it flashed green. ‘This time he deserves it. Now I know why I was dithering for so long. What’s got into him?’

The Wortmaster sniffed, and eyed the knife with interest. ‘You frightened Master Gwydion off when you asked for a miracle.’

‘Did I?’

Will watched Gort absently pick up a piece of onion and put it in his mouth. ‘It’ll have reminded him of a time some years ago, hey? When he went with the king to Verlamion.’

‘Oh?’ Will asked, despite himself.

‘It was a royal visit to the Shrine of the Founder. A man came forward to King Hal with cries, saying that a miracle had been accomplished because of the king’s visit. The man
said that though he had been born blind, the honour King Hal had done the Fellowship in attending their shrine had caused him to see at last.’

‘And what did the king say about that?’

‘Sad to say, the king straightway believed the man.’ Gort shook his head. ‘Friend Hal has always been ready to believe too much without the need for close enquiry, and this the red hands knew very well. It was their plan to persuade the king to make a law so that anyone disrespecting the Fellowship publicly could have their lips cut off.’

‘Filthy swine that they are!’ Willow said. ‘They put the truth under a bushel whenever they can and try to make men fear to speak out against whatever they say. I always wondered where that wicked law came from!’

The Wortmaster waved a querulous hand. ‘That’s a law that came much later in the king’s reign, for at the time I’m speaking of Master Gwydion would not permit such a law to be made.’

‘And how did he prevent it?’ Will asked.

‘By setting the king straight about miracles. He showed that the red hands’ so-called miracle was all just an empty ruse. And the miracle man was sent away and the Fellowship put under a smarting embarrassment, I can tell you!’

‘How?’ Willow asked. ‘How did Master Gwydion set the king straight? It seems to me that if a man claimed to have his sight restored, who could argue against him? Surely all he has to do is show that he sees things?’

‘Ah, Ogdoad wizards must be cleverer than you, then,’ Gort said, and he tried an endearing grin on her. ‘For Master Gwydion knew a very good way to prove the man a liar!’

‘Well?’ she said, still unwilling to let Gort wholly get round her. ‘What was it, this clever proof?’

‘Master Gwydion asked first: “Did you say you were born blind?” And when the man swore that it was the truth
and many Fellows swore it also, then Master Gwydion said, “But you say you can see well now?” And then the man boasted, “As clear as any man!” So Master Gwydion asked him, “Then tell me what colour is the coat that the king wears?” “Oh, that’s easy,” says the man. “Brown!” “And this coat here?” said Master Gwydion, taking hold of the Chamberlain’s coat. “That one is red.” And so it went, until the man had correctly named the colours of a dozen different courtier’s coats.’

‘So?’ Willow said. ‘How does that make the man a liar? Didn’t he get the colours right?’

‘He got them far too right,’ Gort said, winking at her. ‘Because a man who was born blind and just lately given his sight might know the names of all the colours from hearing them talked about, but he couldn’t possibly know which was which.’

‘Aaah…’

‘Now that
is
clever,’ Will said, laughing. ‘Good for Master Gwydion!’

‘Then you forgive him?’ Gort asked, looking at them from under bushy eyebrows.

Will looked to Willow. She too could see they were being buttered up. ‘Not wholly. And we won’t have Lotan treated badly, no matter what the man’s past mistakes might have been.’

‘Maybe the mistake was yours,’ Gort said gently, not wanting to jeopardize the fragile peace he had so clearly been sent to establish. ‘Did you not think that Master Gwydion would be angered? You compromised him by promising to put a case before him on behalf of one who wished to escape the Fellowship.’

‘I thought he would do what was right and take the case on its merits.’

‘In a perfect world, perhaps. But many years ago, Master Gwydion fought a bitter battle with the Fellowship, and when
that fight was over the terms of the truce were that he would not meddle in their prerogatives – lest they choose once more to meddle in his. It is a treaty that was wrapped in solemn magic, and so has been held to ever since by both parties. It has served the followers of the Old Ways in these latter days, for Master Gwydion has grown feebler while the Fellowship has grown strong.’

Will hung his head. ‘Why did he not come here himself?’

‘He’s down in the kitchens, making sure that Lotan gets well fed.’

‘Making sure Lotan’s not here to overhear you, you mean.’

Gort grinned. ‘Mayhap that too.’

Will pursed his lips and made his decision. ‘Well, you can tell Master Gwydion that if he wants to show himself this evening he’s most welcome to dine with us and any other company that we might choose to invite to our table.’

T
he next time Will saw the cat, Pangur Ban, they were in the White Hall and all was in readiness for the Great Council. The lords had just done with the preliminaries when the creature walked along the main aisle as if he owned the palace and everything in it. And when he climbed up onto the dais to sit in plain sight before the throne and wash his face, Will could not help but smile.

Will stood with Gort and Gwydion. After he and Willow had received the wizard to break bread with them and made a sort of peace with him, Gwydion had accepted Will’s decision that Lotan should be allowed to stay at the palace. But his agreement had been grudging and he had put his foot down when Willow had said that the big man should be trusted. In return, Will had insisted on attending the Great Council, despite the wizard’s opinion that he should stay away.

A palace usher went forward to gather up the cat, but it bared its teeth and danced away, lifting its tail up straight, then curling it with incredible nonchalance as if to curse the minion and teach him his place.

Murmuring chants passed back and forth across the White Hall, choirs of Fellows leading and then answering.
Will took the cat’s presence to be a sign. But if it was, then it was a sign beyond easy reading. Will’s spine was tingling, his acute sensitivity to great events surged and roared inside him, despite the seeming calm. The atmosphere as the lords took their places was far from the chaos he had expected. He had worried that the intervening time since the last gathering might have thrown up new alliances and new difficulties, but a stern discipline attended those who now packed the benches. It was as if a quiet sense of purpose had descended over the whole assembly, as if persuasions of various kinds had been exercised, and disruptions of other kinds quashed or muted. And that was just as well because, as Will knew, the future of the world was about to be decided.

The boiling atmosphere must have been of Gwydion’s making, but its very artifice oppressed Will. It added to his anxiety as he pressed forward with Gort and the wizard past a break in the benches and slipped into an inconspicuous side aisle. He began to sweat as he watched Gwydion survey the scene with a hawkish eye. Above the throne, the giants’ niches gaped emptily. No echo of their stout guardian presence remained, and Will wondered at that. The Stone of Scions was in its place under the throne, though, and he wondered that Gwydion had not had it spirited away lest it shout out that the king was no longer rightful.

But then Will began to shake. He felt as if the blood was being drained from him, for a gigantic thought struck home as he stared up at the places where Magog and Gogmagog once had been.

‘Where’s the king?’

Gwydion would not interrupt his mutterings but eventually he fell silent and seemed to awake like a man lifting himself out of the delirium of fever. ‘What did you say?’

‘King Hal – where is he?’

Gwydion’s eyelids drooped. ‘He has not been called to attend. That is best, for too many kings spoil the troth.’

Despite his little joke, the wizard seemed utterly weary and far from satisfied that he had done enough to ensure a steady passage of events. He had expended great efforts, and Will suddenly saw the wizard as the magical equivalent of a lone mariner who must steer and haul on lines to trim the sails of a stormbound ship, even to the point of exhaustion. Gort too was reacting to the tension in the air, chewing on his thumbnail and looking about as if aware of great flashes and detonations that no one else could see or hear. Worrisome thoughts were obviously running through the Wortmaster’s mind, and Will himself could not put out of his head the questions the king had asked him, nor the profound connection he had just made.

‘Master Gwydion…’ he panted. ‘Do you remember the verse that once revealed itself on the Dragon Stone?’

But the wizard had already turned away and was once more occupied in vast and difficult matters. ‘Not now, Willand. I told you you shouldn’t have come.’

‘My first in the west shall marry, my second a king shall be. My third upon a bridge lies dead. My fourth far in the east shall wed. My fifth over the seas shall send. My sixth in wine shall meet his end. My seventh, whom none now fears, shall be reviled five hundred years.

‘Master Gwydion, all this time I’ve thought the verse was the Dragon Stone’s riddle, clues offered about other batdestones. But now I see the verse for what it is – it’s exactly what Edward called it, a prophecy, a prophecy about the house of Ebor…’

His voice tailed off.

‘Quite so,’ Gort muttered, pulling him back. ‘It seems to refer to Duke Richard’s children. Have you only just realized that?’

‘You
knew
?’

‘We guessed it,’ Gort said. ‘But save your thoughts until later, Willand. Master Gwydion must manage what passes now with great care. Do not try to speak to him – he will not hear you for fear of what you might say.’

He screwed his face up. ‘What I might say?’

Gort would not explain but only made another silencing gesture. Will threw back his head and stared up into the huge hammer-beam roof. It seemed to him that he was in the belly of some great fish whose ribs enclosed them all. He blinked at the many ancient battle standards that mouldered there, and tried to maintain clarity of mind enough to think through the details of the Dragon Stone’s message. The duke’s firstborn, Lady Anne, had indeed married in the west – to Lord Exmoor whose lands bordered the Dukedom of Corinow. Lady Elizabeth’s marriage was arranged with Lord Southfolk, whose earldom lay in the east. And it was whispered by the Ebor gossips that an optimistic portrait of Lady Margaret had already been sent across the Narrow Seas to be considered by the Duke of Burgund…

Will swallowed dryly, feeling the omens drench him. So what of the boys? he thought. Is Edmund to die on a bridge? And George – is he really fated to be ruined by drink? And what of the seventh-born child? Is Richard to be reviled five hundred years? But more than all these, what about the son and heir? Can Edward really become king?

Will roused himself and looked to the armed men who flanked the aisles of the White Hall. He thought of the troops of soldiers that were still camped out on the May Fair Fields, a strength which the Ebors had at their beck. When he started to warn about them, Gort tried again to hush him, but this time Gwydion seized him by the shoulders and answered with desperate assurances.

‘Friend Richard may be trusted in this! It is far from his mind to make a shambles of the White Hall!’

‘That’s your hope.’ He felt the magic bewebbing the hall very strongly. It was making him feel ill.

The wizard shook his head. ‘This is a parliament house, not a slaughter yard! Richard knows what he must do.’

‘But he doesn’t care! Not any more. He’s been got at!’

‘Shhhh…’

‘Do you see those men? They’re the ones who watched their friends’ heads roll at Delamprey! Just one drawn knife will set it all off again! It’s no use. The army—’

‘
Please!
‘ Gort seized him. ‘You must be quiet, hey?’

He shoved Gort’s hand away. ‘Well, wouldn’t you? If you were shown your dead master’s head dripping red at the neck?’

Gwydion directed a furious gaze at Will. The fire of it turned his flesh cold. ‘Do not speak prognostications!’

‘It’s not a prognostication.’ The corner of his mouth began to bleed.

Gwydion lanced a bony finger at him.
‘Leave me to my task!’

‘This is my affair too!’ But his legs had lost their strength and he tottered.

‘Wortmaster, deal with him!’

Gort made an anxious face, took Will’s weight and pulled him away on his heels, out of the side aisle to a place behind a great gilded iron tomb where an alabaster king of old slept away eternity.

‘He slapped me down,’ Will said, recovering a little from the faint. A piquant smell made him turn his head. Gort was administering a balm. ‘Master Gwydion cast a spell upon me.’

‘Forgive him, Willand. He’s spent many a night wrapping a great deal of magic about these proceedings.’

‘What’s happening?’

‘You must allow Master Gwydion a little working room. He must attend developments closely.’ Gort’s whispered appeal softened. ‘He’s right – you should have stayed away,
but since you didn’t you must put violent thoughts far from your mind. You mustn’t interfere this time.’

‘Wortmaster…’ The ribs of the great fish heaved and threatened overhead. The swelling din of the Fellowship’s discordant choir threaded the air. The stink of incense drifted like a miasma. ‘He’s mad if he thinks I’d jeopardize his work with prognostications…We’re on the same side.’

Gort’s eyebrows lifted. ‘You did more than jeopardize his work last time. You ruined everything.’

‘
Me
? But…’ He stopped. What more could he say? In truth, he
had
affected the outcome of the last such gathering. He had shouted out. He had not meant to, but he had. He had been the pebble that had started the landslide, and that was all that mattered in the end.

The balm was working. His mind steadied. But Gort bowled another ball, knowing just how to knock down the rest of his skittles. ‘The world becomes whatever we decide it should become – ever hear that before, hey? And some folk’s thoughts count more than others in the process. So you see, words
are
prognostications – when they come from you.’

‘Then let me try to want what must be,’ he muttered, browbeaten and so weak he could hardly struggle upright. ‘I can’t even think my own thoughts, it seems.’

He pushed the bottle of balm aside, wiped the brightness from his lips and forced himself to his feet. Gwydion was standing with his fist clenched white about Maglin’s staff, his eyes rolled up into his head, muttering incantations at tremendous speed. Will, feeling slightly better now and half-chastened, folded his arms and dourly watched the drama unfolding beyond the rail. He began to see more clearly the source of all the magical pressure he had been feeling – after his mistakes at Delamprey he had so wanted to abide by Gwydion’s rule. But sticking to wizardly plans
for the future meant crushing himself down and setting aside his own imperatives.

He made an effort to discipline himself and exercise patience. When he looked again for Pangur Ban he saw an old woman shuffling forward to stand in a corner not far from the throne dais. His thoughts had begun to drift elsewhere, but the oddness of the figure struck him. It was curious that no one else seemed to have noticed her – certainly not the guards, for they had let her past the screen and into a reserved part of the Hall. She was dressed too plainly to be a person of rank, yet this was no time to allow in a common petitioner. Where had she come from? How had she got in? She stood in the shadows, her back to Will, just as Duke Richard came in, ivory rod in hand, and readied himself to speak.

Mists of smoke layered the still air. Will felt the sickness move in his belly as he tried again and again to penetrate the old woman’s disguise. The attempt felt like trying to walk through a wall, a sure sign that he had dug to the bedrock of appearances. Which could only mean that there was no disguise to be penetrated! And yet…the woman
sparkled.

He plucked up courage and shook Gwydion, murmuring, ‘Who’s that over there?’

The wizard’s eyes swam back into focus, then alighted upon the figure. He said, ‘I think you know Brighid very well.’

Will looked again. A familiar feeling flowed over him, one that turned suddenly leaden. ‘It’s Mother Brig? The beggarwoman? She’s come all the way from Ludford?’

‘Beggarwoman?’ Gwydion replied wearily. ‘Did she not say in your hearing that her name was Sovereignty? She has come here today to pay one of her visits to King Ludd’s city. It is said that the rightful king will not treat her as an old woman, but as a beautiful young maiden. She has come to try the matter.’

Will stared back. ‘This is very dangerous.’

‘That I understand very well.’

‘What if she
speaks
?’

‘What indeed…’

The duke moved perilously close to the throne. He brandished the white rod as if he was the Lord High Treasurer, saying, ‘We bid you welcome, my lords, to the White Hall on this most auspicious of days. We have called you here in conclave to settle the matter of the monarchy to the satisfaction of all…’

Empty talk, Will thought. Empty but perhaps worth something if it greased the axle on which the burden of the state might be carried forward. But his thoughts were already feverishly returning to the moment at Ewletide seven years ago when Mother Brig had told Duke Richard what his fate would be.

How the churlish folk of Ludford had gasped when Gwydion had led the duke in, for Duke Richard had been in his nightgown, barefoot and bound, sleepwalking. Mother Brig had brought him before King Ludd himself, and he had declared that she was no crone but a beautiful young girl. And Mother Brig had told the duke that, even so, he would die if once he dared lay a hand upon the enchanted chair – ‘in the first fight that follows’ – those had been her words. But there was more, for she had also said, ‘If you would know the future then look to your shadow upon the wall.’

What the duke had said next had stayed with Will over the years, though he had found it impossible to understand at the time. Richard had said, ‘Mine is the right!’

What had he meant by it?

Now Will saw it clearly. A Ewle log always burned with the truest flame. That was why no one dared to look at the shadow such a fire cast upon the wall, for if it was a headless shadow that person was doomed to die before the year
was out. At Mother Brig’s invitation, the duke had seen two shadows dancing on the wall that night, one on the right with nothing amiss, but also another from seven years hence – and that one had been headless.

‘He’s about to seal his fate,’ Will hissed urgently.

Gwydion’s face remained thunderous. ‘This time you will stay out of it!’

‘But we must do something!’

‘I already have done something.’ And he moved off to a place of better vantage and concealment across the main aisle, where he almost disappeared among the shafts and shadows as a moth vanishes against the mottled bark of a tree.