The Language of Stones

by Robert Carter

  The air was filled now with the sound of the jangling and clashing of mail and harness. Will’s trained mind repeated the names that Sir John Morte had drilled hard into his memory – head and body, then arms, then legs – going over them again now like a singing charm to keep the voice of the stone at bay:

  Sallet…bevor…pauldron…back and breast.

  Rerebrace…couter…vambrace…gauntlet.

  Tasset…cuisse…poleyn…greave…sabaton.

  The visor of Duke Richard’s sallet was up, but his bevor was strapped up around his throat and chin, which seemed to give him an uncomfortably upright posture. Sir John had always stressed how important it was never to slacken the throat-guard once it was in place, for therein lay a fatal weakness: once loosened, a gauntleted hand could not easily do up the strap again, and certainly not in the heat of battle. Archers always sought the nobleman’s throat, for there were few other ways that a churl, by a single act, could do so well by his family.

  Around the duke rode the men of his household, his closest knights and retainers. The other lords, his kin and allies, had already broken left and right to their own commands. Heading the column to the left was the Lord Warrewyk, to the right that fierce lord’s father, the Earl Sarum.

  Despite his haughty bearing, the duke called down as they approached. ‘Welcome to you, Master Gwydion! See how our cause prospers! See how we’ve raised this fine host and ridden here to relieve the king once and for all of his burdensome companions. I am well glad that you’ve ceased your wanderings and come to lend us your support this day!’

  Gwydion strode out alongside the warhorse. ‘And I have told you many times, Richard, that magic is not to be traded. You cannot buy personal advantage with it, nor should you try, for that which goeth—’

  ‘Goeth about again,’ the Duke finished. ‘I know that lesson well enough.’

  ‘Then why do you defy all wisdom?’

  All eyes were on the wizard now for his words sounded like a challenge, and everyone who heard them looked to the duke to see what he would say. He seemed to Will hard pressed to keep his humour light, though he attempted it.

  ‘I was not proposing to make a purchase of your powers, Master Gwydion. But since you have come here to us at this most crucial moment, should I not assume it is to aid those who are come to fight for the triumph of good over evil?’

  ‘Do not speak to me of good and evil, Richard, for you know naught of either – unless you have had traffic with sorcerers!’

  ‘Confound you, Crowmaster! I know what is right as well as any man does!’ The duke turned away, unwilling to conduct further debate, but Gwydion raised his arms, forcing him to turn back.

  ‘My enemy is the sorcerer, Maskull. Take care how you sport with the Realm in his presence, for a dead tree gives no shelter!’

  The duke’s eyes blazed with anger. ‘Dead tree? What are these riddles? Say now! Are you with us, or against us?’

  ‘If you have had commerce with Maskull, then you must tell me, or you will soon know what misery such dealings bring. As for me, I must divine Maskull’s intent and oppose it as I may. If he seeks to destroy you, then I shall help you. But if it is his strategy to raise you up in victory then I shall steal that triumph from you, Richard! So be thou warned!’

  The duke’s bodyguard bristled at what they took to be a magical threat.

  ‘Save your curses! I know what is mine by right, Crowmaster!’

  ‘Ah, Richard! Dwell rather upon what is right by thine.’ Gwydion lifted his staff on high. ‘Think of your firstborn son and choose the patient path as I now counsel you!’

  But the duke made no move to halt the column or take the wizard aside and speak privately with him. Instead, he lifted up his powerful voice. ‘If you are come to aid us, Master Gwydion, then I bid you welcome to this company. But if you are here to preach, then you are welcome only to quit us.’ He lifted his broadsword, Fregorach, aloft. ‘For with you or without you, wizard, I am resolved this day to cure the main ill that afflicts this Realm! We are here to break the bonds that have been strangling us!’

  Fierce shouts of assent burst from the duke’s kinsmen. Lesser swords were thrust skyward. Then the army began slowly to move forward.

  ‘Will!’

  Just then, amid the noise, his own name rang clear. He looked up towards the second squadron and saw a fine, tall figure in full armour astride a charger that was armoured and caparisoned in wine-red and blue – Edward, riding in splendour as the Earl of the Marches.

  ‘You’ve been playing with fire, I see! But you’ve come back to us in the nick of time. I knew my father’s wizard would not fail us!’

  ‘Well met, Edward,’Will said gruffly. ‘But we’re not here to fight. Nor is Gwydion your father’s wizard.’

  Edward glanced back, perplexed. ‘Not here to fight? What else is there to do in a battle? It’s a man’s chance to prove himself in arms. Join me, Willand, we’ll be like brothers together again!’

  ‘You have brothers enough. Where’s Edmund?’

  A cloud passed over Edward’s face at the memory of his brother, still crippled in body and mind from his encounter with the Dragon Stone, but all he said was, ‘He’s too young. But you’re not. Someone give this man a mount!’

  Will, walking alongside, felt another undulation pass through the ground, and with it a powerful impulse to unwrap the sword he still held under his arm. Whatever had seized him when he dropped his guard was asserting itself.

  Why not take it out? he asked himself. It’s yours by right, a gift you received in your hour of need. Unsheath the sword, for its light has saved you once already.

  He steadied himself.

  But still, Branstock was beautiful to the eye and he would have loved to draw it out.

  Again, something in Will kicked against the idea, and he told Edward, ‘I have no need to prove myself in arms. And as for the battle, Master Gwydion has come here to build peace, and that is a far greater thing.’

  ‘It’s too late for peace!’ Edward, as brilliantly armoured as his father, now drew a shining broadsword. ‘See! This is “Dalgur”, symbol of my knighthood. At last I’m honoured to ride in my father’s bodyguard.’

  ‘I’ll show you my own sword, Edward, for mine is no buckle-pin. Mine is the hallowed blade!’

  He had shouted it back before he could stop himself, and now found that he had already taken the bundle from under his arm. He tried to stop, but then Edward said sneeringly, ‘Brave words, Willy Wag-staff!’

  ‘I’ll show you!’

  It took all Will’s powers to master the urge. He could see what the Doomstone was doing, seeking out his weaknesses and exploiting them. He forced an icy calm to settle over him, then he set his face stubbornly and began to wrap up the bundle once more.

  But Edward, laughing, reached down with Dalgur and flicked the bundle up into the air, and when Will looked down, there on the grass was his wayfarer’s cloak, torn now, and beside it a sword. It was not Branstock now, only a crude wooden sword made from a blackthorn stick, the sort that a child might wave in play.

  The young earl threw back his head and brayed, and all the knights around him brayed too. ‘You’ll have to do better than that if you’re to ride with us,’ he said. ‘Behold! Willy Wag-staff and his wooden sword!’

  Will was stung. He stared angrily after Gwydion, believing some trick had been played on him. But the wizard was still pleading with the duke, wrangling fruitlessly with him even at this eleventh hour. The hooves of Edward’s mount trod Will’s cloak into the ground as the squadron walked on.

  The idea came suddenly into Will’s head to ask Edward what he had done with Willow. A surge of rage coursed through him, but seeing Gwydion’s dauntless efforts to keep the peace, he found the strength to throw off his anger, and as soon as he did he began to see with far greater clarity.

  The road of the peacemaker is the hardest road of all, he told himself, and made all the harder for me because I already know h
ow this battle will end. The battlestone foretold a defeat for King Hal. I dare not tell Edward, for certain knowledge of victory would only spur him on…

  But then he remembered the Dragon Stone, and Edward’s hunger to look upon it. Once he came abreast of the charger again he said, ‘Edward! Listen to me!

  ‘“King and Queen with Dragon Stone.

  Bewitched by the moon, in darkness alone.

  In northern field shall wake no more.

  Son and father, killed by war.”’

  ‘Do not read him pretty poems,’ one of Edward’s bodyguards shouted. ‘He is a warrior! Do not interfere with his day of glory!’

  ‘Wait!’ Edward looked down, his posture stiff and haughty. ‘What was that?’

  ‘It’s the verse you first saw on the Dragon Stone. The one you called a prophecy!’Will wrestled to clear his mind. The pain rose inside his skull and he beat at his head, staggered and almost lost his footing. He called up. ‘Edward, Master Gwydion said the verse predicts the death of the true king and his heir!’

  At that there was bridling and one of the guard raised his sword ready to cut down the daring upstart. Will knew very well the penalty for the crime of ‘imagining the death of a king’.

  But Edward did not give the order to kill. He passed glances around his men. ‘The beggar’s as soft in the head as old Gort. We’ll fight this day and we’ll win! We fear nothing!’

  When Edward raised his own sword a great roar came from the mounted men who moved off along with him. Their pennons streamed, their suits of steel clattered. The column was picking up pace now. Groups of men were shouting and moving forward, forming themselves into the dense battle lines that would soon assault the Tonne.

  Will ran faster alongside Edward’s horse. ‘But there’s good cause for you to fear. A great sorcerer is moving among the king’s army!’

  ‘We know about him.’

  Will’s eyes widened. ‘You do?’

  ‘Yes. He’s the queen’s great boast. He can make coloured fire appear in his hands just as the Crowmaster does. But Father says he’s just a juggler, a catchpenny from a country fair who puts on mystical airs and graces and uses sorcerer’s powder to amaze fools! My Lord Warrewyk’s arquebus men can surpass such tricks. Their weapons use sorcerer’s powder to make flame and noise, and also to cast stones and iron nails towards the enemy. They will shoot Jarred through for his insolence!’

  ‘I don’t mean Jarred! The one of which I speak is called Maskull. Master Gwydion fought with him last night. He is a deadly sorcerer.’

  ‘I know of no such magician.’

  ‘Gwydion has come here to protect you from him, for if he should turn his thunderbolts upon your army, your men would burn like heather before a heathland fire.’

  ‘Let them all come! Sorcerers! Wizards! Whomsoever! If they betide us well or ill, it is no matter. Verlamion shall fall this day whatever they say or do!’

  How like his father Edward sounded now, for he had studied well and modelled himself closely on the duke. Will shouted. ‘Come to a parley! Master Gwydion says that once war begins it’ll devour a whole generation!’

  ‘I’m not like you, Will. I’m of royal blood. I was born to ride and to wield a lordly blade like my forefathers. This is my birthright!’

  ‘True chivalry doesn’t glory in blood!’ Will shouted, taking hold of Edward’s stirrup. ‘True chivalry always regrets the unsheathing of the sword.’

  ‘Get out of my way, Will!’ Dalgur swept down and the flat of it shimmered against Will’s temple, making him let go. ‘Today shall see my blooding! Aye, and my sword’s too, so get out of my way!’

  Edward kicked his warhorse on and Will was left to save himself from being ridden down by the young earl’s bodyguard. He came to a breathless halt.

  They’re all beyond reason now, he thought, filled with dismay. All of them.

  But as the horsemen galloped away, his eyes fixed on a body of archers, men who had come out of Cambray. They were dressed in green and white and proudly wore the badge of the Red Dragon of Rannor. Each was already laden with two packed quivers, but their bows were not yet unbagged. They waited by carts, or came forward each to take a wooden stake that could be used as a defence against mounted men. He saw a figure jump down from the nearest cart, and there was something about the way it moved that made Will’s heart shiver. When the figure came out from behind the cart he seized her arm.

  ‘Willow!’

  ‘Will?’

  He felt the shock jolt her.

  ‘You’re…burned.’

  He knew how he must look. Maybe she had good cause to be distant, but he had not expected repugnance. He tried to tell her what had happened, but she would not listen and began to work all the faster to unload the cart.

  ‘You must get out of here,’ he said, seizing her arm. ‘Master Gwydion says—’

  ‘Master Gwydion!’ she snapped back at him. ‘Do you always do what Master Gwydion tells you?’

  ‘Willow, dressed like that you’ll be mistaken for a soldier! When the battle starts, who knows what—’

  ‘I am a soldier!’ she said. She pulled her arm free and caught up a stray wisp of hair behind her ear. ‘We’re here to fight. My father’s a fine bowman. The men from Leigh are all here with us and we’ve sworn an oath to the duke. We’re with the company of Westerners who were raised at Presteigne in Cambray – good men all of them.’

  ‘But you can’t fight!’

  ‘Why not? It’s the duty of all those provided for by their lord to come to arms when he desires it. Don’t you know that?’

  ‘But you can’t!’

  Her anger flared. ‘I can shoot a bow as well as any man – not as far maybe, but I’m often closer to the mark.’

  ‘You have no bow!’

  ‘I’ll have one soon enough. And meanwhile I’ll be a runner for the company.’

  He groaned knowing that the runner was the one who gathered arrows that had missed their mark so they could be shot back at their owners with thanks. ‘But that’s the most dangerous work on the field!’

  ‘What of it? I’m nimble.’ She paused and looked hard at him, and he saw that it was a strange and unnatural look. ‘And I’m not afraid to do my duty!’

  Will did not doubt it. She was full of loyalty and conscientiousness, and it pained him to see how those virtues had been warped by the Doomstone.

  He fought through the haze that filled his head, took hold of her and shook her. ‘Master Gwydion says that hundreds will die today because two dozen overproud men have refused to share a tent for an hour!’

  She threw him off. ‘Does Master Gwydion say that? Well, my father says the Realm must be cleansed of a great evil!’

  ‘Don’t speak of evil!’

  ‘I will speak of it! It’s called greed, and it kills more folk than war ever did. We’ve been talking all morning about what death five dozen arrows per man might deal to such an enemy!’

  ‘Enemy? What enemy, Willow? We are not being invaded. The men in Verlamion are not evil goblins to be hated and slaughtered. They’re poor country folk like us! This is madness!’ He winced at the pain that suddenly burst in his head and put a hand up as if to ward it away, but he still fell down, doubled to his knees.

  Willow looked at him pitilessly. ‘Wounded already, are you?’

  He clenched his jaw until the spasm had passed, then he got up. ‘A hateful voice is talking in all our heads. I’m fighting it. You must too, for it uses everything we know against us.’

  ‘I don’t hear any voice. Are you drunk?’

  ‘Willow, it’s a rede of magic that every change contains the germ of its opposite! If the voice is speaking to us and has knowledge of our minds, then we must be able to gain knowledge from it also. Listen to me:

  ‘“When a Queen shall enslave a King,

  Travel at Sunrise a Realm to gain,

  Werlame’s Martyr shall lose the Victory,

  And lie where Blood never Flows.”’
r />   She turned away scornfully, bending once more to her task. ‘Get away from me with your poems!’

  ‘But it’s a battlestone’s prophecy! It concerns what’s taking place here. It’s a riddle, a clue to a greater stone that I must find. Can’t you help me?’

  She tossed her head. ‘I thought you were supposed to be the great magician’s golden boy. Aren’t you clever enough to see that the queen is Queen Mag, and it’s our army that’s been travelling since before sunrise to claim the victory?’

  ‘But where does blood never flow?’

  When he looked into her eyes he saw they were bright with anger.

  ‘Leave me alone, Willand. I have work to do.’

  He grabbed her. ‘Where does blood never flow? Tell me! Where? I must find the Doomstone!’

  ‘Get off me! You’re mad!’

  She put a hand to his chest and pushed him away. He staggered back and fell down. When he tried to get up he rolled over, wrestling now with the Doomstone, fighting to shut it out. At last he dared to slam his mind closed, and fell momentarily into unconsciousness.

  When he came to, he was wiping the spittle from his mouth. He watched in a dream as Willow, compassionless and cold, climbed up onto the cart to continue her unloading. His glance slid to the great chapter house, where the three ligns seemed to converge. He tried to focus his thoughts. ‘The red hands…they raised a great chapter house upon the hill of Werlame…because the Fellow who first recruited here…the one they call “the Martyr”…was killed here…he’s lain entombed upon the hill for a thousand years…’

  When he forced himself to his feet, Willow looked right through him. It seemed as if the love she had had for him was locked away, that the Doomstone was keeping her bound to her work and blotting all natural thoughts from her mind.

  He roused himself, went to the head of the cart and began to unharness the dray-horse. Unnoticed, he led the beast forward from between the shafts, then he climbed up onto her back. As soon as his feet were clear of the ground his mind lit up like a ray of sun playing suddenly across a hillside. The horse’s great, calm spirit gave him succour. The beast was no Arondiel, but she lumbered forward willingly enough when he asked her, and suddenly he too knew what he must do. He sent her towards the open fields that lay between Duke Richard’s army and the town. Three blocks of men were now drawn up in readiness, and as he broke away from them he wondered what he would meet at the barricades.