Her look seemed oddly cool. ‘Willand, you think too much.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You should count yourself fortunate. Yours is a fate most country lads would swap theirs with as soon as blink. All that high living – leather shoes, and riding and shooting and wearing of armour. Living like a lord you are. What have you got to complain about if your Master Gwydion never comes back?’
‘If I’m living like a lord, then lords are welcome to it. If I could be anywhere now, I’d be away from here, eating apple pie back in Nether Norton where I belong, bare feet and all.’
She folded her arms. ‘Oh, that’s very nice! Don’t you like my being here?’
‘What’s that got to do with it?’ he asked, not realizing what he had said. He sighed. ‘Look, all I’m saying is you mustn’t take that stone so lightly. It affects people. And it’s not just this one. There are others planted out there, quietly working the downfall of the Realm. Very soon now there’ll be a tiny little change somewhere in the land – a Slaver bridge will fall down or a cartload of stone will be stolen out of the old Slaver wall – and that’ll be that. Crack! Like the last straw that breaks the mule’s back.’
‘I don’t pretend to understand all that stuff. It sounds like nonsense to me.’
‘Well then, don’t concern yourself with it!’
‘I shan’t!’
‘Good!’
Will left the buttery then and went to watch the lords gathering at the entrance to the Great Hall. Look at them, he told himself. They’re excited about something. Maybe the mule’s back is closer to breaking than I thought. By the moon and stars, I wish Master Gwydion had come back with them!
After a moment hanging back, he decided it would be better to find out than to wonder. He went past the familiarfaced jacks and slipped into the hall among the many servants and guests who were going in and out. As soon as the moment favoured him he asked Sir Hugh about the noblemen who had arrived.
‘Don’t you remember your standards and badges?’ Sir Hugh asked. ‘Over there – in the red, with the device of the white bear?’
‘Uh…Earl Warrewyk, the Captain of Callas.’
Sir Hugh nodded. ‘Lady Cicely’s nephew. Mark him well, for he owns more land than any earl in the Realm. Your friend the Crowmaster says he pities him, for even a gift of ten thousand marks of money is not enough to make the Lord Warrewyk smile. To his left, in the red-and-black coat, that’s his father, Earl Sarum. Over there, the badge of the red lion signifies Lord Falconburgh, a natural brother of Earl Sarum. And here, in green, is Lord Bergaven whose badge is the black-and-white bull, a brother also of Earl Sarum. See Lord Scrope de Belton, there? He is their cousin.’
‘Are they all such close kinsmen?’
‘Of course. And kinsmen of mine. How else could it be, for is not blood thicker than water?’
‘It is when shed.’
Sir Hugh looked hawkishly at him, saying, ‘You’re a sharp lad, Willand, but then what should we expect from the ‘prentice of a crow.’
‘I meant to offer no insult, sir. Truly.’
‘And none was taken from you. The power of the Warrewyk clan is very great. Of all the earls, Warrewyk and Sarum are our chiefest allies. And allies are sorely needed now, for you must have marked how the days have darkened.’
‘Is the news so bad?’
Sir Hugh slapped him on the shoulder. ‘What news there might be is not for your ears. That way is the short way to the door.’
He had been dismissed, but he poured more wine into Sir Hugh’s flagon and said, ‘At least tell me what’s become of Master Gwydion? That’s surely news to concern me.’
‘Who can say? The Crowmaster’s business is rarely apparent. We do not pretend to understand what he does, unless it be the spinning of spells which push and pull and maintain the Realm in a great web of good and evil. State magic it is called, though I have never thought much upon it. It was once explained to me in my younger days as much like the way ropes and poles hold up a tent. Your Master Gwydion has crawled tireless as a spider these last thirteen months all over Trinovant, pegging down influence here, propping up persuasions there, tirelessly manoeuvring until no one knows which side he really speaks for any more.’
Will felt a little put out that Sir Hugh should liken Gwydion to a spider. ‘You scarcely speak of him as a friend.’
‘What should I call one who sups with the enemy?’
‘Does he do that?’
‘He has certainly gnawed upon every bone of contention in Trinovant of late – but now he has made a great mistake.’
‘What mistake?’
‘He has revealed his true heart. He has made a priceless gift to Queen Mag. He has given her a beautiful blue-white diamond. Planted it upon her forehead publicly when last the lords were assembled together in Great Council. Everyone knows that she loves jewels above all things – except perhaps the pup she swears is King Hal’s.’
Will was stunned. He recalled quite clearly the precious gem that Gwydion had prised from the clasp of the swan cloak in Leir’s tomb. It seemed astonishing that the wizard would have given it away at all, let alone made a gift of it to Queen Mag. ‘But…why would he do that?’
‘You must ask him yourself, for I do not know the answer. He tells us he seeks to bribe the vixen so that she will tolerate peace, but such a diamond as that? Our good duke does not see why she must be paid at all before he may have his rightful say in government. And nor does any man here!’
Will could think of nothing to say to that.
Sir Hugh cracked no smile, but remained fierce. He pinched finger against thumb. ‘Beware, young fledgling crow – the duke has come this close to declaring your wizard an enemy. And when he does there will no longer be a place for you among his own.’
‘You’d drive me out?’ Will asked.
‘We’d treat you like any other spy in our midst.’
‘But I’m no spy! You’d drive out one who had never done you any harm?’
‘Drive you out? No!’ Sir Hugh let a murmur of amusement escape him. ‘Make no mistake, at a word from the duke I or any other man you see here would cut your throat from ear to ear.’
Will looked for some sign that Sir Hugh was joking, and was appalled to find that he was not. ‘But you can trust me, can’t you?’
‘Trust? I say again – the only true friends are made through blood. Kinship is the only trusty bond. Everything else is moveable.’
The grey-haired knight rested his hand on the hilt of his sword and moved away. Will blinked at him, not knowing quite what to do. For the first time he saw from what a slender thread his life dangled, and he began to understand how it truly was with lords – and how their minds, being already so fixed on fierceness and suspicion, would fall as easy prey to the battlestones’ influence.
Will sank into the shadows and gave his attention over to the duke’s sons. He watched how Edmund’s distracted twitching went unremarked, and how Edward hung on his father’s every word. The reasons for the latter were plain enough. The duke was a glamorous man. Glamour shone from every pore of him. Despite all that Sir Hugh had said, it was easy on the one hand to regard Duke Richard as a great lord, and on the other to like him as a man. He captured the eye, and Will could see why some men had no choice but to follow certain other men in battle.
When the duke stood up, a hush fell. He said simply, ‘My mind is made up. This household will commemorate the sacred season of Ewle at our stronghold of Ludford.’
It might have been thought a bland enough thing to say, but when Duke Richard said it the effect was almost magical. Immediately everyone in the Great Hall fell to cheering and banging their hands on the tables in approval.
Only Will’s heart fell, for he too knew what it meant. He turned on his heel and withdrew without being noticed. Then he went to tell Gort.
But first he found Willow in the kitchens.
‘Commemorate?’ she said. ‘Doesn’t he mean celebrate
? Oh, I hate it when lords call a fast and let the Sightless Ones parade about in their high hats and golden cloaks.’
‘No, you don’t understand,’ he told her. ‘It’s not about Ewle, the duke’s moving his family to a stronger castle. Ludford’s deep in the Western Marches and all the lands round about it are loyal to him. It’s where he can gather his strength. This really does mean war.’
‘Maybe that’s not such a bad thing,’ Willow said.
He frowned at her. ‘Oh, think what you’re saying.’
‘I heard they pay soldiers a penny a day. That’s good money for sitting around mostly.’
‘Yes, and it’s not the fall that kills the man who dives off the top of a tower, but the sudden stop at the bottom.’
‘If it’s soldiers the duke wants then he’ll be glad of my father and the other men from Leigh. They’re all good archers. And who knows, maybe the Hogshead’ll be killed and the Wychwoode’ll get a new warden and we’ll all be able to go home.’
Will made no reply, thinking at first that she must be taking leave of her senses. But then another, more sinister thought struck him – that whatever was leaking from the Dragon Stone must have got inside her head too.
The next few days were hectic as preparations for the duke’s move were set in motion. For all that, Will was pleased to be leaving Foderingham, though he fretted about the battlestone and what would happen to it when the household had gone and the castle was left in the care of a much smaller garrison. Gort was suddenly hard to find, and when Will did track him down he refused to talk about the battlestone, and so Will set all his hopes on Gwydion returning before they departed.
But Will’s hopes were dashed, for the wizard was neither seen nor heard from, and none of the newly arrived nobles seemed to know what might have happened to him. In the event, the move to Ludford was a great undertaking, yet it seemed to Will to be a dreary task. There was much fetching and carrying and making ready to be done before they could set off, and when they did the weather refused to smile on them. For three days it rained and rained. The winter roads were turned black with mud, and the horses churned up the way so badly that other folk were forced to take detours. In the valleys there were bogs and on the hilltops driving sleet. Then an icy snap set in and the mud froze into ruts that hardly thawed by day before darkness came down again.
A bare four leagues a day would have been steady going on that week-long journey westward. Most of the horses walked ponderous and slow alongside a travelling household of three hundred. Carts and waggons and teams of oxen ploughed through cold mud or stumbled over frozen ruts as the stark grey winter misery of the Realm took hold.
Five hundred foot soldiers and men-at-arms made the journey with them as they struggled against the grain of the country. The knights and nobles rode on ahead, roaming the country meadows with their lance tips bared. Each morning, hunting parties left camp, and scouts rode out to see how the land lay and to watch for enemies and look for signs of their spies. But the horse soldiers would not leave the household waggons for long, and never all at the same time. At first Will thought it was through fear of outlaws – bands of lawless men were said to infest some of the remoter parts through which they passed – but no outlaw band would dare attack so well-guarded a train no matter what riches were in prospect, and Will realized that what the duke feared was an ambush laid by a far greater enemy than reivers – the queen herself.
Having fallen once to an attack upon the highway, Willow was quietly watchful. The men from Leigh had been dressed all in blue and white and equipped with stout yew warbows. When she was not attending the Ebor infants, Willow sat beside her father on the ox-cart that carried a portion of the duke’s stores. At other times, she would grow tired of sitting and would walk for a while, so long as the mud was not too deep. Will saw how she talked with Wortmaster Gort and lent a hand in everything she could. He also noticed that whenever Edward rode by she would look up and smile. Will did not have a horse to ride. Horses were needed for the escort, and he did not qualify. What was worse, a bad cold had come over him, spots had appeared on his face and he ached in every bone.
‘How much longer are we going to be travelling?’ he asked when Edward next galloped up.
‘The days are too short to get anywhere,’ Edward said expertly. ‘And this mud’s worse than I’ve ever seen it.’
‘Then why did we leave Foderingham so soon? Surely we could have stayed until the weather improved.’
Edward looked at him as if he had asked a foolish question. ‘The days would only have got shorter.’
It was a fatuous answer, and Will cut straight to the point. ‘What I mean is, I suppose your father wants to get to his heartland while he may.’
Edward’s eyes narrowed. ‘My father fears no man.’
Will coughed thickly. ‘War is coming, and when it does it will stamp everyone down, even your father – especially your father. Doesn’t that worry you? Don’t you want to find a way around if a way is to be had?’
‘It’s nothing to me. Let war come.’ Edward’s chin jutted, then he looked around. ‘Where’s Willow?’
‘Why do you want to know?’
But Edward made no answer.
A camp the size of a small town sprang up each night where they rested. There was an hour of chaos at the appointed site, then a calmer mood settled as tents were raised, smoking fires lit and the daylight died. He would sit with Willow in the gloaming and eat a delicious supper of spitchcock eels and listen to Stenn tell stories of happier days in the Wychwoode before Lord Strange came.
Later, Willow would go to sleep and Will would wander over to the soldiers’ camp, or go over to where the painted tents of the nobles stood in a tight circle, luxurious inside with carpets and sheepskins and charcoal braziers and clever pegged furniture that could be taken apart for the journey. The circle was guarded by helmeted jacks whose breath steamed in the freezing air, jacks who leaned on their spears for long, patient hours as quiet conversations droned inside the candle-bright canvas and a wild world stretched out for league upon league on every side in the cold and the dark.
On the third night, by chance, Will saw Edward call Willow to his tent. The duke’s heir remained closeted with her for quite a while, and it pained him to know they were together. When they came out he saw Edward take the ring from his little finger and give it to her. That stabbed him through the heart and made him want to go over and show them he had seen it all, but he realized that such an urge, though powerful, was not helpful. It would not be wise to give in to it, and so he fought it down like a man ought to, for why shouldn’t Willow and Edward speak if they wanted, even privately? And if Willow preferred Edward’s conversation, then whose fault was that?
He had hoped that once away from the influence of the Dragon Stone, his mood would brighten, but it had guttered lower. Jealousies played on his mind. He drank the powders infused in hot water that Wortmaster Gort said would help him throw off his cold, but three days of winter misery had already passed, and it was not until the fourth day that he began to breathe a little less tightly. ‘Ah, Master Miseryguts,’ Gort said. ‘So you’ve finally decided to co-operate with the cure, have you?’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Don’t you know that’s how cures work? You have to help the goodness in the herb along. Give it permission to heal you.’
That sounded absurd, and he said darkly, ‘I’ll try my best.’
As they camped late that afternoon Will grew ever more restless. He felt an odd excitement that he had not felt since before coming to Foderingham. There was something about the land hereabouts, something strange in it. He had learned to recognize that much. A lign. A battlestone maybe. A glimmer of light burning on the edge of sight. A whisper in the shadows. An unplaceable stench. The thought came to him to cut a hazel switch and try to scry it out, but the very idea made him shudder, and at once he knew the reason the Wortmaster’s powders had taken so long to work – while at Foder
ingham the battlestone’s harm had been slowly seeping into him. Now, away from it, his mind and body were gradually expelling the poison as pus wept from a healing wound.
He emerged from his tent, coughed and spat, then crept away and went alone beside the muddied road to a place where wildness reigned. He breathed deep, making an effort to shield his heart from the strange power in the earth, but to draw in the strength that Gwydion found. He liked it best when the stars came out and the wind dropped, so that stillness lay over the dewy land. Tonight it was going to be very cold – cold enough to freeze fishponds so they could be walked across by morning – and quiet enough a little way from camp to make his ears hum. Tonight the blackness of night was frosted away by the light of a full moon and the tautness inside him was tingling.
He went out knowing that these hills that hunched their backs all around were in the Earldom of Salop, and so quite soon – maybe tomorrow – they would arrive at their destination. For a while at least there would be no more wideopen nights like this. If only Gwydion could be here, he thought. If only someone would tell me news of him. I’d give everything to know if he’s succeeded.
A blazing halo of coloured light stood out from the high winter moon and Will counted the faint rainbow colours, bands through which the brighter stars shone. There, in the south almost overwhelmed by the moonlight was a line of three middling stars. A bright blue spark stood below them and a fiery red one above: this was the star-group that Gwydion had said was called by the princes of the North ‘the Ell-wand’, and by the ancients ‘Belatucadros, the Horned One’, and by later peoples ‘Cernunnos’, a hunter whose form rose over the land every winter with his two brave dogs to see what prey might stir below. A shiver passed through Will as he stared into the sky. He coughed again, wishing he felt better, less vague in his thoughts, less tired and remote from the world. Gort was right – something heavy was lying upon his heart like a haunting.
The Language of Stones Page 31