The Giants' Dance

by Robert Carter

  Will whistled as he looked to the wizard. ‘Fifty thousand? Is that possible?’

  ‘My guess is that it will be sixty,’ Gwydion said flatly.

  ‘Am I dreaming?’ Will looked from face to face. ‘How many men are there in the Realm?’

  ‘Sixty thousand would account for one in every seven men of fighting age,’ Gwydion said.

  Willow grimaced. ‘Men certainly flock to the king’s banner, though most have been driven to it like sheep.’

  Gwydion drained his mead. ‘The common men of the Realm do not regard their king badly. To most, he is the embodiment of Sovereignty. Do not forget that he has now reigned over everyone, man and boy, for more than thirty-seven years. Hal’s father was king before him. And his father’s father before that.’

  ‘No one speaks of it openly, of course,’ Gort said, ‘but among the Duke of Ebor’s people all three generations of King Hal’s blood are thought of as tainted – a usurper’s line, you see. Our duke doesn’t dare to make an open claim, oh, no! But by the strict law of blood he is the rightful king and that knowledge eats at his heart as a codling grub eats at the core of an apple.’

  Will felt the comfort of the talisman next to his heart. He drew it out. ‘Tell me, Morann, what do you make of this?’

  Morann took the little green fish and examined it closely, setting it on the flat of his long dagger, then turning it over between his fingers and rubbing it against one of his front teeth to test it. At last, he cleared his throat and said, ‘Seven times seven score crystal forms are found within the earth, but I never have seen the like of this before. It is no earthly stone.’

  Will looked to Gwydion. ‘Then where did it come from?’

  Morann said, ‘As to the maker – the craftsmanship seems to me magical. And if there might be a meaning to whatever’s graven upon it – I cannot read it.’

  Morann gave the talisman back and Will felt Gwydion’s eyes bore into him as he prepared to make an admission. He told them all about the red fish and how he had managed to lose it.

  ‘It must have fallen out of my pouch.’

  ‘Why did you hide it from me?’ Gwydion asked.

  Will felt foolish. ‘I don’t know. Several times I was going to tell you about it, but I couldn’t. And then after I’d lost it, well…’

  ‘You did not lose it,’ Gwydion said.

  Will looked at him. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It was stolen.’

  The others stared, but Will knew straight away what Gwydion meant. His eyes flashed away from the wizard’s own. ‘The Sightless Ones!’

  ‘Oh, not them, I think.’

  ‘But what about the white heart token that you found?’

  ‘Perhaps it was left only to mislead us.’

  ‘Do you think so?’

  ‘It is a probability.’

  Will turned his own talisman over in his fingers. The honey mead was settling his belly. Firelight danced on the blue and gold painted walls. A beaming moon inched across the dome of the ceiling and hid among the plaster vines twined about the chimney.

  At length, Will broke the silence. ‘I have a bad feeling about Lord Strange.’

  The wizard’s eyes glinted with firelight. ‘Lord Strange is the author of his own downfall. I have already offered him three good chances to redeem himself. He has refused them all.’

  ‘I know he hates you, Gwydion, but can you do nothing more to help him break his curse?’

  ‘Oh, Lord Strange!’ Gort said. ‘Poor creature. But pity the poor piggy that has my Lord Strange’s head too, hey? Will’s right, though, Master Gwydion – the Hogshead does believe you’ve put that curse on him.’

  Willow said, ‘What I don’t see is why you had to reveal his future to him? Wasn’t that cruel?’

  Gwydion inclined his head. ‘Cruel? Howso?’

  ‘It seems cruel to foretell a person’s doom.’

  ‘It is only so if that person decides he cannot avoid his foretold doom.’

  ‘But Lord Strange is pig-headed,’ Gort laughed, ‘isn’t he?’

  Gwydion said, ‘Lord Strange is stubborn, but he is not stupid. He is a wilful schemer. When I made my warnings to him he was not past redemption, though I fear he may now have reached a depth from which it is impossible to return.’

  ‘But I still don’t think you should have foretold his lot,’ Willow said. ‘It’s like knowing the day you’re going to die.’

  The room was quiet save for the soft crackling of the fire. Flamelight played in Gwydion’s eyes as he allowed Gort to refill his goblet. ‘How else could I have given him a chance to seize his own true destiny? The spell that infests him is such that he must help himself, or die an ugly death. I cannot do more than I have done already.’

  Willow said, ‘Well, I feel sorry for the Hogshead. It must be terrible to carry such a burden.’

  A look of sympathy settled on Willow’s face. It was such a mix of strength and kindness that Will felt his fingers tightening again on her hand.

  He looked to the wizard. ‘You once foretold my own doom in this very place. You said that I was to die under a portcullis. Yet I have not.’

  ‘I did not say you would die under a portcullis.’

  ‘You said “one would become two”.’

  ‘That was, and is, a prophecy of the Black Book.’

  ‘Just as it is that “two will become one”.’

  Gwydion’s eyes moved to Morann’s face. ‘You should not have told him.’

  Morann’s gaze was unblinking, guileless. ‘It was there to be told.’

  ‘So was the portent that Edgar de Bowforde “should beware castles”, so also that Lord Warrewyk shall “die by the star” – I have told one, yet I have not told the other! I always choose my words with care. I never gave Will to believe that he could not escape his doom.’ Gwydion’s eyes sank into the shadows of his face. ‘This shows well the difference between him and Lord Strange. When I took him to dwell for a season with Lord Strange it was partly in the hope that he might learn to read and discover the redes of magic from the Sister of Wenn, but I also had hopes that his presence might teach Lord Strange enough to redeem him.’

  Will said, ‘You mean, you put me there as encouragement? To show him what it would be like if he could have a son of his own?’

  ‘That was…one aspect of it, I suppose.’

  ‘Oh, Master Gwydion!’ Willow snorted. ‘How you do dare to meddle so in folk’s lives.’

  The wizard’s chin jutted. ‘Willand is a true Child of Destiny. He must not forget that!’

  ‘However could I do that?’ he said wryly, then asked, ‘So, do I have the power to overturn portents too? Need I fear the portcullis’ teeth no more?’

  ‘I did not say that.’ Gwydion spread his hands.

  ‘I’m going to my bed now if you don’t mind, Gwydion,’ Will told him as he got unsteadily to his feet. ‘Your talk makes my head spin.’

  ‘Me too,’ Willow said, following him. ‘That mead’s gone straight to my head.’

  Gwydion called after them, ‘All I was trying to say, Willand, was that one difference between you and Lord Strange may be that you truly believe you can shape your own future, whereas he does not. But there is still time enough for a portcullis to fall on you!’

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  A TOAST BY THE DUKE

  It was early in the morning grey two days later when Will looked to the beacon upon Cullee Hill and saw it trailing dark smoke – the king’s army had been sighted. But it was not until the day after, when the duke’s scouts had made their report, that the lords of Ludford sent men out to rouse up their forces.

  As the moon swung higher Will’s feelings of disquiet had begun to rise again. He began to feel feverish. His eye ranged along the lines of fresh earthworks and trenches – great heaps of brown soil had been piled up and many young trees cut down and hauled away to make breastworks and timber walls to secure the approaches to the town. The Earl Warrewyk’s great guns had alr
eady been drawn up to face the place from which the attack would most likely come.

  The wizard too looked out over the cold, misty morning. Smudges of smoke rose in the distance, marking the place where the king’s host now rested. A thousand camp fires had flared through the night, tainting the air. Down below, the earthworks were manned and everything stood in readiness.

  ‘Hearken to Friend Richard’s voice,’ Gwydion said, looking down from the town walls near Broad Gate. ‘Do you hear how he goes at it too loudly? Such strength of conviction often bespeaks an inner doubt.’

  Willow cuddled her daughter close to her. ‘You read folk deeply, Master Gwydion. Do you think Duke Richard believes Ludford will fall?’

  ‘Not yet. The castle is strong. And Richard has stout confidence – in himself and in his kinsmen. Nor is it without cause. It has been a good harvest and his granaries are full. He believes he can hold out here as winter begins to bite. It is then, or so he thinks, that the king’s host will begin to falter and dwindle.’

  ‘Do you think it will be otherwise?’ Will asked.

  Gwydion’s expression gave nothing away. ‘What I have been telling Richard may soon give him some pause for thought.’

  ‘What have you told him? Has the Blow Stone spoken to you?’

  The wizard continued to measure the town with his eye. ‘My interrogation has revealed nothing more. The badge it carries is the duke’s signet. That seems, in itself, to be the message.’

  Will wiped his face. ‘Do you think so? Perhaps the stone warns of the duke’s death.’

  The wizard turned back. ‘Willand – you are sweating.’

  He nodded, feeling suddenly much worse. ‘The moon is moving towards syzygy. It happens tonight. This is where the lign of the birch crosses the lign of the rowan. These feelings come upon me like waves. Each is worse than the last. I don’t know how long I can resist.’

  ‘Let me help you,’ Willow said, trying to take his arm.

  ‘Come,’ Gwydion said. ‘Let us breakfast together.’

  But Will did not feel hungry. He let them go, saying he could not bear to come down off the walls. All seemed hopeless. Now that the king’s host had arrived he could no longer safely scry the ligns more than a hundred paces or so from the castle or the town walls. Yesterday, hidden archers had taken a dozen unwary defenders, and the report of their ambushes had thrown a pall of fear over the defenders. The queen was setting a ring of iron about Ludford. Will knew it was her intention to stamp out her enemies once and for all.

  That afternoon, the hunt for the battlestone continued. Despite Will’s increasing agitation, he tried again, walking up and down the trenches and breastworks with his split hazel wand. But after an hour or two Willow’s concern for him had grown.

  ‘I just can’t scry here!’ he shouted. ‘It’s these great towers and curtains of stone. What comes from the lorc gets broken up by them and lost and changed like light in a forest.’

  ‘Come inside, Will. It’s affecting you badly.’

  ‘Oh, it’s so powerful! I can feel it pressing on my mind all the time. I’m having to fight to keep a grip!’

  As she hugged him he stiffened and turned away.

  ‘Willow, I’m sorry! My thoughts are going round and round so fast it feels as if my head’s going to come off!’

  She chewed her bottom lip and pressed her head to his chest. ‘Poor Will. Come on, let’s see if the Wortmaster can’t do something for you.’

  He shook his head. ‘Gort’s already done what he can, but his powders and poultices are too mild. He can’t make the medicines stronger without dulling my senses. I’ll be able to survive this because it’s only the moon’s last quarter, but a week from now it will be at the full. That’ll drive me to the very brink.’

  ‘At least you have your talisman now.’

  He breathed a little easier. ‘Yes. That’s a great comfort to me. Thank you for bringing it.’

  She put her hand in his and they walked further along the walls. They looked out across the broad sweep of farmland that surrounded the town. He said, ‘I told Gwydion that two ligns cross here, but it feels more like three.’

  ‘Three?’ Willow said, realizing the importance of his words. ‘Three ligns crossed at Verlamion.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But…they marked the Doomstone. You don’t think Ludford Castle might have a Doomstone of its own, do you?’

  He tensed, shivering, sweat streaming from him now. ‘All I know for sure is that I’m glad you’re here.’

  ‘Come on, you’ll get a chill and catch your death.’

  They started down, but two disappointments awaited them. When they came to the outer ward a crowd was gathering. Willow got the rumour from the gateman. ‘Water’s been poisoned a-purpose,’ he said. ‘Some bad-hearted swine’s thrown a dead sheep down the well!’

  They hurried to the inner ward. Below the walls men were rigging up barrels and awnings to catch whatever rain might fall. They found Jackhald arguing loudly with the cooks, then they saw Morann leading a horse. He was wearing long riding boots and travelling apparel.

  ‘You’re going away?’ Willow asked, crestfallen.

  ‘There’s an errand I must accomplish. It cannot wait, and I must make my escape before the postern is closed. I’ll be able to get through the Forest of Morte if I leave now.’

  ‘Did you hear? They’re saying the well has been poisoned,’ Will said.

  ‘So Gort told me.’ He leaned forward and softened his voice. ‘Don’t tell anyone, but he’s had a sheep’s carcass hauled out of there.’

  ‘It’s already common knowledge.’

  ‘Aye, well this place is a-flush with gossips.’

  ‘Morann, where are you going?’

  ‘I’d better not say.’

  Morann kissed Willow’s hand, clasped Will like a true friend and wished them well. Then he mounted up, clattered across the drawbridge and was gone. When they reached Gort’s quarters they found Wortmaster and wizard closeted together. The two were grinding something aromatic in a mortar that sparked and spat back at them.

  ‘I think we might have solved the problem,’ Gort said, sniffing his fingertips. ‘Yes, yes. Solved the problem. Hmmm. You know, it’s rumoured there’s a traitor among the duke’s household. Now then! What about that, hey?’

  ‘Who says that?’ Willow asked, unimpressed.

  ‘The duke himself does,’ Gwydion said. ‘But I doubt it. He is trying to concentrate minds for the coming battle.’

  A bell pealed out, and there was shouting outside. That was the signal, Gort said, for everyone from the household to muster in the inner ward, and soon there were hundreds of folk crowded around the well. It was deep, one of the deepest castle wells in the whole Realm. Its mouth was a round, stone-lined hole, eight or nine feet across, with a stone lip shin-high running around it. An iron rail stopped folk from falling in, and a winding handle and drum were set above. From that there dangled a bucket.

  Everyone watched as Gwydion leapt up onto the stonework and made a great show of dancing out magic around the well. Gort muttered as he blew powder from his hand. It glittered and crackled and filled the air with a minty smell. When they had finished, everyone packed in closer around the well-head, until Duke Richard’s personal bodyguard appeared and began to clear a path for him, urging lesser folk back with the handles of their helm-axes. Duke Richard came in procession, bringing the duchess, Edward and his other children. His chief allies came too – Lord Sarum, Lord Warrewyk and Lord Strange. The duke spoke privately with Gort, then stepped up onto the lip of the well.

  ‘I have heard it said by malicious folk that the water in this well is impure. That it gives a gripe to the guts of those who taste of it. That it will kill children. That it is not fit for a dog to drink!’

  ‘We could smell the stink of it this morning, your grace!’ one of the younger cooks ventured.

  The duke ignored the remark. ‘I promise you: the water is now wholesome.’
>
  The duke’s seneschal held up the well-pail for all to see, then threw it down the hole. The long rope snaked after it into the blackness, the winding handle twirled and squeaked then there came a splash from far below and one of the duke’s guards began hauling the rope hand-over-hand. It took a long time for the pail to reappear, but when it did it was full of water. The duke took it and showed it to the crowd, who gawped at it. ‘You see – it is now quite clear!’

  But when the duke raised it up a warning of great power overwhelmed Will and he started forward.

  ‘No, your grace! You must not!’

  The duke’s bodyguard tried to intercept him, but he leapt forward and made a grab for the rope, trying to tug the pail away.

  ‘Your grace – no!’

  The rope was snatched from Will’s fingers. One of the brawny bodyguards caught him and thrust him back into a corner, forcing him to his knees. Instantly four helm-axes were pointed at him.

  ‘Leave him!’ the duke commanded. All eyes were on him as he dunked a drinking cup into the pail and raised it to his lips. ‘To our victory!’

  But as he put his head back and downed a deep draught from the cup, those who watched cried out.

  The duke drew the back of his hand across his lips defiantly, but he saw that even the two earls were staring at him aghast, and when he looked at his bloodied hand he recoiled.

  The duke spat a mouthful of bright red gore onto the ground and cursed. Gwydion stepped forward, his voice calming the horrific moment. ‘Easy! Do not be afraid. It is only an illusion. He has taken no harm!’

  The duke’s shock turned swiftly to rage. He grasped Gort’s robe briefly as he passed him, then thrust him away. ‘Old fool! You promised me the water was clean!’

  ‘Your grace, I…’

  But the humiliated duke was already striding away with his hands over his mouth, his entourage following him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  THE MADNESS GROWS

  That night, as the moon headed towards the full, Will found himself slipping helplessly into nightmare. He had dreaded the coming of the dark. His half-waking thoughts teemed with visions of wells that turned into human mouths, of shrieking in the night, of fissures that yielded up fierce flying creatures, of figures swathed in dark rags slipping in over walls and running noiselessly along the ramparts of the castle…