Will did so, but his effort was weak. He was still dazed. ‘What’s the matter with me, Wortmaster?’
And Gort smiled his healer’s smile. ‘Nothing to worry about. I’ll mix you a powder. That will have you feeling better in no time at all.’
That afternoon it rained for an hour, during which Will had his hair cut and the back of his neck shaved. Now his hair was more in the style of the duke’s sons, and his neck tingled as they leaned over parchments painted with heraldic banners and badges. Tutor Aspall explained the complicated ‘rules of tincture’ that told which colours could go with which others on a knight’s banner. They pored over other scrolls, on which were painted all the long, swallow-tailed war standards that knights and lords flew in battle. They learned why some carried the red sword and others the white heart, and what all the different badges were meant to signify until Will found them running together before his eyes.
When the inside studying was over, they went outside again, and stood there mutely while Sir John barked at them.
‘According to the laws of chivalry a knight must live in a way that is worthy of respect! With honour and valour, pride and faith, and with courtesy to all! He must be unselfish, charitable and loyal! He must respect women and protect the innocent! This is the ideal for which all knights must strive! Any questions?’
There were none.
‘Good,’ he said, then he added with a dark gleam in his eye, ‘That kind of learning you’ll get from Tutor Aspall and no one else. From me you’ll hear how to render due respect to your betters, how summarily to dispense justice, and how to survive in a dirty fight.’ A brief smile fleeted over his lips. ‘All fights are dirty, by the way. And don’t let anyone tell you different.’
He showed them some rusty pieces of armour and they were taught the names of each and where on the body they were meant to be buckled.
Will picked up a pauldron and looked at it dubiously. ‘What’s this one?’ he asked.
‘It’s back to front,’ Edward told him.
‘Why am I learning about armour?’ Will asked, turning to Sir John, ‘Am I to be a knight too?’
‘You?’ Edward said witheringly. ‘A knight?’
Sir John told him, ‘You’re here to learn all the duties of the page, and that involves accoutrement.’
‘You need to know about armour…’ Edward smirked, ‘…because you’ll be scouring mine clean over the cinder bucket.’
‘I’d make a better knight than you would.’
Edward showed his disgust at the idea. ‘Knighthood is a great honour, something only a lord may bestow on a favoured vassal. Who’d bestow it on you?’
‘I’d be a lot more use in a real fight.’
‘Says who? Anyway, knighthood is a matter of blood and birth. It’s not meant for one of your station.’
Will felt stung enough to cuff Edward around the ear with a gusset of chainmail when Sir John next turned his back. Then they fell to furious scrapping, until Sir John roared at them, pulled them off one another and then sat them down long enough for their tempers to cool.
Then he taught them lovingly about his own favourite weapon, the falchion. It was an ugly-looking sword, axeheavy, with a one-sided blade and a handguard that curved down over the fist. A little later he called in a young jack and showed how a man ought to be buckled into a full – though battered – harness of armour. Then Sir John tried hard to kill the jack with ringing falchion blows to every part of him: head, body, arms and legs.
‘Sallet…head!
Bevor…throat!
Pauldron…shoulder!
Breast! Back!
‘Rerebrace…upper arm!
Couter…elbow!
Vambrace…lower arm!
Gauntlet!
‘Tasset…hip!
Cuisse…thigh!
Poleyn…knee!
Greave…lower leg!
Sabaton!’
There was a sabaton missing, but fortunately when Sir John chopped at the man’s foot he turned the blade aside at the last moment. Finally, he let the jack out of the armour and gave him a silver penny for his trouble. The man staggered away uncertainly.
‘Do you see how curves deflect blows? Never prefer a sword against plate, no matter how heavy the blade. Prefer this!’
They watched as Sir John brandished a spiked mace. He took them to an old breastplate that had been strapped over a sack of sand and mounted to a post. A heart had been crudely chalked over the centre of the armour. When he swung the mace the weight of it drove its two-inch spike straight through the flattest part of the plate. And when he pulled it out a trickle of sand fell to the ground.
‘Dead!’ said Edward.
‘As a door nail!’ said Sir John.
Will saw the sand and imagined how he would feel if it was his own heart’s blood pouring from a wound. The thought made his mouth dry.
Sir John took them out to a tree stump and showed them his own broadsword. It was sharp enough to pare fruit. Then he showed them how, in the hands of an accomplished swordsman, it could cleave a fresh boar’s head in two with a single blow. Will did not faint at the sight, though Edward watched him closely to see if he would. And for the rest of the day he had to be very careful not to give Edward any hint that he might have a weakness about blood, for he knew that if he did he would never hear the last of it.
That night Will had a monstrous nightmare. It began well enough, walking hand in hand with Willow in the Wychwoode, but then there appeared an armoured man who was many times his own size. His adversary had a falchion just like the one Sir John had used, and it was held in an arm of irresistible strength. When the warrior swung his axe-sword at a tree, the tree fell apart and inside was Will’s own skeleton. And Willow ran away crying and there beside the tree, weeping, were Eldmar and Breona, but also, laughing at him now, were his real parents – the duchess and the figure of Death.
When he woke up he was drenched in sweat. He threw off his covers and got up to fetch some water, but his feet froze on the cold, wet stone of the floor. What had made him stop? The water cask was leaking. Drips splashed his feet. Water soaked and seeped into the spaces between the stones. But he fancied he heard something else outside, and all at once he remembered the Dragon Stone.
The stone had been buried, locked away in some damp cellar in the care of Wortmaster Gort who had neglected to speak a word about it. But Will could hear the stone’s whisperings now. It was calling to him. There was no doubt that it was the Dragon Stone, nor was he surprised when he looked out and saw the spectre that haunted the inner bailey.
He knew its name.
It was Death who walked there in the cold moonlight. Death, reeking like graveyard soil, foul as coffin liquor in the night mists. Death. There could be no mistake. And Will crouched down because he felt fear flowing in his bones, and because somehow he knew the spectre was blindly searching for his only begotten son.
He awoke again to a wet and windy spring day and found Gort poking around on the castle mound. There were Fellows in the castle and Gort would have nothing to do with them – whenever they came he made sure he was elsewhere. When Will quizzed him about them, he straightened up, rubbed his back and said spookily, ‘He who goes to the Sightless Ones of his own free will and claims sanctuary in a chapter house will always be admitted. Oh, yes! But there’s no leaving it. Oh, no! Remember that!’
‘I will.’
Gort blinked at him, an appalled look on his whiskery face. ‘Once their High Warden has laid hands upon a newcomer’s face his eyes begin to wither like grapes upon the vine. Fhhhhh! A blindness comes upon him and he must remain in the Fellowship forever.’
‘Master Gwydion told me the…the red hands admit thieves and even murderers to their number. Is that so?’
‘When has Master Gwydion ever told an untruth to you? Many a Fellow is recruited from among folk who are staggering under an unbearable burden of guilt. And there are plenty who’ve done wrong yet feel no guilt – they some
times give themselves up to the Fellowship too.’
Will was horrorstruck at that. ‘But why would anyone give themselves up freely?’
‘Not freely! When they’re cornered! All that is required are the words, “I claim the sanctuary of the Fellowship!” Whosoever says them must be admitted, and he who enters the sanctuary of the Fellowship moves beyond the king’s law. Don’t you know that?’
Will looked at Gort and narrowed his eyes. ‘Beyond the law?’
‘Beyond the law. But surely not beyond punishment, for once a man has surrendered he becomes sightless in every way. All that he was, and all that he is, must be forgotten. He can no more leave his chapter house than the honeybee can abandon its skep. Indeed, the honeybee has greater freedom, for those Fellows down there may go outside only by permission of their Warden, and only then in the company of older Fellows.’
‘Can’t they ever escape? Not even if an army comes to their rescue?’
Gort’s laugh was fluting. ‘Haw! Not even then. No lord of this realm would dare to send an army against the Sightless Ones. Such an affront would never be made – the reach of their influence is too long and enduring. And their memory is limitless.’
The Wortmaster began wandering the grassy bank upon which the keep was built, looking at the wildflowers that grew there. He seemed less than pleased with what he found. ‘Spearplumes on the north side,’ he said. ‘Spearplumes coming up everywhere.’ He pointed to the offending plants which Will knew as thistles. They were already knee-high and spiky with leaves like halberds. ‘They’ll grow to three times this height by full summer.’
‘What’s wrong with them growing here?’ Will asked. ‘I rather like them.’
‘I like them too. They’re cantankerous and wilful, but proud in the best way, and there’s nothing wrong with any plant growing in its proper place, eh?’ He scanned the lowering, leaden sky. ‘The goldfinches eat spearplume seeds, so they won’t be sorry about these. But spearplumes have never grown here before. Not never ever. So I’m wondering why they’ve come here now.’
‘Must there be a reason?’
Gort peered under his eyebrows and began momentously, ‘In this world, Will, there’s a reason for everything. And in everything there’s a cause for wonder…Roses are red, and violets are violet, but nothing much rhymes with violet…’
Will smiled. ‘I never thought of it like that before.’
Gort bent over a bud that was to his liking. ‘Arise, little celandine, spring is here!’ he intoned in a surprisingly melodious voice, and out came a lovely flower, yellow and starshaped. ‘See how she shrinks from the weather, but afterwards she comes out bright as the sun! We call her the wayfarer’s favourite for she mostly grows in hedgerows and puts herself forth for the wanderer’s pleasure. Ah, me! What beauty there is in green life.’
Joy welled up in Will and he began to sing.
‘First there were nine,
Then nine became seven,
And seven became five.
Now, as sure as the Ages decline,
Three are no more,
But one is alive.’
Gort had joined in on the last two lines. Smiling, he took one of the spearplume leaves between his fingers and stroked it, despite the spikes. ‘That’s a prophetic song, you know. I expect it was Master Gwydion who taught it to you, hmmm? Do you know what it’s about?’
Will looked sidelong at the Wortmaster, undecided if he should mention the Ogdoad. ‘Do you know, Gort?’
‘Wizards! There! Now I’ve told you, even if the Phantarch himself didn’t.’ He scratched his cheek and then threw his head back. ‘I don’t suppose that Master Gwydion told you that I was once put up to be one of the Ogdoad of Nine, did he?’
Will looked at the Wortmaster with great surprise. ‘You? You had the mark?’
‘Oh, yes, me! Poor old Gort! What a different world it would have been if they’d had old Gort instead of that monster, Clinsor. But that was a very long time ago. That was back in the days even before Celenost became Phantarch. You won’t know much about that, I don’t suppose.’
‘Not much. Clinsor? You mean Maskull?’
‘That’s the name he goes under these days, is it? He was the betrayer all along, and didn’t I always think it was him? I told them. I had a funny feeling about it. Oh, way back in the days when Maglin was Phantarch, that was. But Maglin drew himself up like he used to and he said to me, “We can’t go around making accusations on the back of funny feelings, Gortamnibrax”.’
‘I suppose Maskull wants to rule the world and live forever,’ Will said. ‘And if he can only get Master Gwydion out of the way there’d be nothing to stop him.’
‘Clinsor? Rule the world? Live forever?’ Gort sniffed the air. ‘It’s probably something foolish like that. It always is. That’s what vainglory does to you once it sinks its fangs in your flesh. All you want to do with your life is to make a monument to yourself. Now isn’t that mad? And some folk are quite blind to the daftness of it, you know.’
Will wanted to hear more, but Gort’s mind wandered away again, and he was now squinting up at the sky. He held out his hand. ‘Ah me! Taproots and tubers! Medlar for the pedlar, but quince for the prince! There’s more rain coming. Oh, how wonderful!’
A little while later the rain did come again, and it was good refreshing rain, the kind that Gort said trees delighted in. They walked together through the drizzle, enjoying it as much as the swans on the river enjoyed it, and Gort told him about the various uses of lady’s mantle and wild strawberry, and what wonders could be done with yarrow and frogbit and viper’s bugloss, but Will was still thinking about the significance of thistles on the keep mound and whether they might have some sinister connection with the Dragon Stone.
When he went back to his lessons, Will found Edward listless and staring mournfully at the grey sky. ‘I want to know when father’s coming back,’ he said to his brother. ‘He promised to present me with Dalgur.’
‘Father will come back when it pleases him, I suppose,’ Edmund said with sparing belief.
‘Your father will be away for some while yet,’ Tutor Aspall said, then added with unusual tenderness. ‘He loves all his children, Edmund, but these are turbulent times, and a duke is wise to heed the crow’s warning.’
‘What’s Dalgur?’Will asked.
Edward’s eyes flashed. ‘His second best broadsword. His best is called Fregorach, which means Answerer.’
‘What does Dalgur mean?’ Will asked, thinking it sounded very like the word in the true tongue for the pin of a buckle.
‘Smiter of fools.’
‘You just made that up.’
‘I did not! Father was given both swords by a famous smith in the Blessed Isle when he was made Lord Lieutenant there. The steel they’re forged from is very rare.’
Edward leapt up to the base of the high window and raised a great, flanged mace heroically above his head. ‘Father is in the great city of Trinovant, contending even now against the villains and false friends who gather about the king’s person! These are my father’s enemies, and he must deal with them before he can return! But never fear, Edmund, he will set all things to rights for the good of the Realm, and we will see him again just as soon as he’s done. If I was my father I’d take Fregorach and cut off all the king’s enemy’s heads!’
‘I think you would not,’ Will said, unmoved by Edward’s savage theatre.
Edward turned on him. ‘I would do it in a moment!’
‘And I say you would not, for King Hal’s chiefest enemy is his own wife, and your rules of chivalry don’t let a nobleman murder a woman, much less a queen, only to lock her up in a cloister until she dies of unhappiness.’
‘What do you know about chivalry, Willy Wag-staff? You’re just a lowly pageboy.’
‘I am not a page, and I’m not a boy,’ Will said, meeting his eye. ‘I’m here at Master Gwydion’s pleasure. And as for what I know, I was at Clarendon Lodge when the king was there. I�
�ve seen the king and queen with my own eyes, which is something I bet you’ve never done.’
‘That wormy weakling, Hal?’ Edward said. ‘He’s not a real king!’
‘Sir Edward, sit down!’ Tutor Aspall’s reedy voice rang out angrily. ‘And you will be pleased to hold your tongue! By your father’s order, there are some things you may not say!’
Edward seemed to realize that this time he had gone too far. He subsided, but he flashed Will a superior glance as he sat down. ‘You’re still a pageboy.’
Will smiled to himself and chose to say nothing, which by now he knew would only serve to annoy Edward all the more. Privately, he imagined beating Edward until he was truly humbled. On the one hand imagining Edward being mashed felt good, but on the other hand it felt like a betrayal of what Gwydion had taught him about treading softly in the world of men, having compassion for fools and maintaining inner strength. But that’s a hard path to tread, he thought, still relishing the violent impulses that had begun to spark inside him increasingly of late. One of these days Edward’ll go too far with me, he thought darkly. I’ll lose control of myself, and he’ll rue the day he was born.
Eventually, Tutor Aspall reached the tedious end of the Lay of Brea and Inogen and it was time to go. Edmund lingered as the lesson ended.
‘Why do you always have to goad him?’ he asked.
‘Me? I don’t goad him.’
‘Yes, you do. Even when you don’t say anything. It’s your manner.’
‘I can’t help that. And anyway, he’s the one who’s always goading me.’
‘But you should pay him respect.’ Edmund seemed embarrassed to have to point it out. He was far cleverer than his elder brother, though he hid it well. ‘Take my advice: give in to him. That’s all he really wants.’
‘Edward’s asking for more than that.’
‘Can’t you see? It’s…it’s because he misses his father.’
The Language of Stones Page 26