The Giants' Dance

by Robert Carter

  Another slap. ‘I’m not your friend. And I’m not drunk. Draw, Islander, or I’ll ride you like a mule, I swear I will!’

  Will gritted his teeth. ‘Now you’re taking this joke just a little too far.’

  The other prodded him, flicked the sharp sword-tip under a fold of Will’s leine so that the fine linen tore. ‘Draw!’

  Will knew that if he drew the blade there would have to be bloodshed, but he could see no other way. He took stock again – his opponent was used to handling a sword, that much was clear. He was quick. He used his feet neatly, and Will saw from his eyes that he was not as rash as he tried to appear. Nor was he as drunk. This was no accidental meeting.

  He was forced to parry the slaps, and as he did so the other turned his sword, so that now he had to protect himself from a range of practice cuts. They were delivered with frightening precision, and in a manner calculated to make an opponent look foolish.

  ‘That’s the way,’ the other said, goading him. ‘But you’re supposed to take the steel out of the scabbard first. Unless you’d have me carve it out for you.’

  Those who looked on brayed loudly, but the brays turned to cheers as Will pulled his blade free. As soon as it was out the other aimed a full-strength blow at Will’s head. He chopped upward only just in time to intercept it. Sparks flew, the blades rang and they pulled away.

  ‘You’re tall, Islander, and you’re strong, but you’re out of practice,’ the other said, still playing to his audience.

  Will slashed at him, but the last time he had used a sword had been at Castle Foderingham, years ago. His opponent warded the blow easily.

  ‘Oh, come now! You can do better than that!’

  Will ducked the other’s reply stroke and rolled out of the attack. How could he avoid causing the kind of harm that could not be mended, when his hand was being forced?

  The other circled, hawk-eyed. ‘What’s the matter? Isn’t your heart in it? It soon will be!’ He lunged and slipped under Will’s guard, feinted left and slammed a hand under his chin to push him down. It was effortless, a consummate piece of skill, and Will landed heavily on his side. His sight blurred. Blood welled in his mouth. He knew he had bitten into his own tongue.

  He spat red. The watchers yelled and roared. He was aware of more men running up to see what was happening until an arena formed around them. He got up, weighed the sword in his hand, disliking the shiny steel. But he could not afford reluctance for he dared not use magic.

  ‘Had enough?’ the Cambrayman enquired indulgently.

  Will lunged in answer, sending his adversary skipping back out of range, even when Will slashed at him a second time.

  But now Will’s talent spoke to him. He could see that he had not been given just any sword. It was untouched by spells, yet a short, violent history flowed in it. It had been made by a smith who knew his trade well. The grip of dark red leather was sweat-blackened. The blade was springy and well-balanced, sharp enough, yet nicked where it had once been used to edge-parry a blow of tremendous anger. There was a weakness there. Will noted it all in a flash – this blade had seen much use by a skilled man, now dead. It had killed twice. Three lives had been entrusted to it. Yet in his own hand it felt awkward, and the waiting fault in the steel troubled him.

  Another attack swept them together before they clashed then whirled away again to the safety of two swordslengths.

  ‘I should at least know the name of the man I’m fighting,’ Will said, circling to his right.

  The other stepped back warily, then gave a parody of a courtly bow. ‘My name is Jasper, son of Owain. Jasper, like the gem. What’s yours?’

  They met again on Jasper’s initiative, heaved one another away. Shoes of soft leather skidded easily on grass, but what galled Will was that he could have brought the fight to an end by turning his opponent’s steel into a set of horseshoes in mid-swing. If not for his disguise.

  The swords rang, swiped empty air. Blade tips bit into grass, were daggered and thrust. Will’s sword tore open a nearby tent. The watchers laughed – all except the owner. Will stumbled over a three-legged stool. Their bodies dodged, swayed and swung away from blows, heads ducked. Kicks were aimed, an ankle was grasped and turned, a punch was landed. Blade bit blade. When next they clashed their foreheads knocked hard. Will forced words through gritted teeth as he shoved the other back. ‘You already know my name,’ he said.

  Jasper heaved, but seeing that Will was the stronger, he had to cut away. He leapt lightly back, easily recovering his poise. Two swift counter-blows came crashing at Will. He knew that with neither mail nor plate to protect them the fight could not go on like this for long.

  Jasper, son of Owain…The name meant nothing. Who was he? A prince of Cambray it seemed. A man as good with a sword as this must have won himself a wide reputation.

  Three more quick swings to head, arm, leg. Then Jasper ran at him to charge him down. Will side-stepped and tripped him. He rolled, but carried the motion through and ended up on his feet again. Now Will knew for certain that this encounter was more than a kick at boredom or a show of deadly skill.

  Then, why start it? he thought. Does he really want to kill me? Or is he trying to force me into magic?

  But…a stumble!

  Seize it!

  Will brought to mind the fault in the steel. He smashed the flat of the sword against an iron cooking-pot, then held what was left of it aloft, broken off a foot from the tip. With a gesture of finality he threw it down onto the ground. But Jasper came at him with venom and he was forced to sweep up the steel stump again.

  The crowd jeered at that.

  ‘I can’t fight with a broken sword,’ he gasped.

  ‘Then you should have been more careful!’

  He felt the blast of anger from Jasper. It was fuelled partly by anger at his own slip, partly by annoyance at having been outmanoeuvred. He could not stand being made to look like a fool.

  Will twisted away from a savage kick at his groin, rolled back, but then his hand found his staff. It came alive as he hefted and turned it. When Jasper ran at him he speared the end of it into his breastbone and stopped him cold.

  The blow knocked the breath out of the Cambrayman, threw him down momentarily, but he leapt up, hacking, slashing, moving to left and right.

  Nothing he did could shorten the distance between them. The staff stung his arm, elbow, breast, neck…There was no escape, except to step away.

  Jasper’s next blow would have cut Will in two, except that he reversed the staff and brought the other end of it up under the sword arm and jabbed it hard into an unprotected armpit.

  Jasper’s sword fell. It spun away and dug point-first into the damp earth. There it bent and swayed like a wheatstalk, as Jasper, legs split and off-balance, made a painful lunge for it. He missed. The pole menaced his face, and he sat down heavily on his rump, his hand pressed to his side.

  ‘Now,’ Will said quietly, hefting the staff like a man preparing to chop down a tree.

  Those who watched bayed for blood, enjoying the vanquished man’s fear.

  ‘Do it! I have lived long enough!’ Jasper said. His face was white, his voice almost indignant but he showed a brazen face. ‘Kill me! I shall not ask for quarter.’

  Will gave him a quizzical look. ‘Kill you? Over spilled ale? What do you take me for?’

  There were disappointed shouts from some of those who watched, and when they saw that no blood was going to be shed, they began to wander away.

  Jasper stared up at him, his pride bleeding freely. ‘Kill me. It’s your right.’

  ‘But not my pleasure.’ Will watched him squirm.

  At last, Jasper’s anger evaporated and he threw out a hand. ‘If you have no stomach to finish the job, then help me up.’

  Will let him grab the other end of his staff and hauled him to his feet. ‘Whose game are you playing?’

  Jasper scratched his chin, shook out his bright hair, then laughed. ‘You deserve to know – Hen
ry of Mells.’

  ‘You’re an honest killer, at least.’

  Jasper recovered his sword and wiped the soil from the end of it. ‘Oh, if I’d wanted to kill you, you’d be dead. Henry wouldn’t ask me to kill you – a couple of crossbow bolts are surer and cheaper and far more his style.’

  Will spoke in a low murmur. ‘Then why the fight?’

  ‘Because he doesn’t trust Islanders. He’s not convinced you’re truly an emissary of the Blessed Isle, despite what Lord Morann told him. As for me, I was once foolish enough to say in his hearing that a man’s sword arm speaks more eloquently of origins than his mouth. He told me to make enquiries of you if I would win his favour. I need his favour, and so I did.’

  ‘And what has my sword arm said about me?’

  Jasper laughed again. ‘Oh, I’d wager a silver crown to a chicken bone that you’re not of the Blessed Isle. Though I’d say you’ve undoubtedly been there once or twice.’ He punched Will’s shoulder.

  ‘Oh, is that a fact, now?’

  ‘But don’t worry, I’ll say just the opposite to Henry.’

  ‘Why did you agree to do his dirty work?’

  Jasper gave him an appraising look. ‘I told you, I want his favour. My father and I are not popular, and gatherings like these bring us close to our enemies. We need powerful protection.’

  ‘Then why did you come?’

  ‘It’s the king’s command, and if we’re anything, we’re loyal to Hal.’

  It was a strange sentiment coming from a Cambrayman, but Will decided he liked Jasper. They shared a jug of ale. Will asked, ‘You’re quite a fighter. Where did your own sword arm learn its eloquence?’

  ‘Let’s say, I had a difficult boyhood.’

  ‘You spoke of enemies. Do you have many?’

  Jasper laughed. ‘Enough. You see, when my father was in his young days he wooed and won the love of a lady. It was a love affair widely frowned upon.’

  ‘She must have been some lady.’

  ‘She was the late king’s widow.’

  Will let his amazement show. ‘You mean…King Hal’s mother?’

  Jasper nodded. ‘The same. Queen Kat. She’s also my mother. My father’s what you call a man of passion, see. One look at my mother and there was no stopping him.’

  Will learned how Owain had saved Kat from a cloistered life under the lock and key of the Fellowship. There had been a secret marriage, both looking for a quiet life out in the west. And in return Jasper’s father had got three sons. But it had not gone down well in many quarters. Owain’s enemies had finally thrown him in prison in Trinovant and sent Kat to live in the Fellowship’s cloister at Bermond. She had died there within the year, and her tombstone, Jasper said bitterly, made no mention of her marriage to his father.

  ‘A law was even passed in Council against a king’s widow marrying, so that such a thing could never happen again. You see, they thought my father was trying to gain power by making himself the king’s step-father. But they don’t know him. He did what he did out of love.’

  Will was staggered. Jasper really was the king’s unacknowledged half-brother. Yet two men more different in temperament and looks it was hard to imagine.

  ‘Jealous lords have long memories and little forgiveness in their hearts,’ Will said. ‘It sound like you’re lucky to be alive.’

  ‘You’re right about that.’ Jasper looked at the tents that were spread all around. ‘We try to live quietly in Cambray, but whenever the king declares a Great Council the law says we must attend. We are forced to travel from our own lands and come among a nest of vipers. My elder brother, Edwin, was killed the last time a Great Council was called. I’d rather not go the same way.’

  Will picked up the two halves of the broken sword. ‘And so you put yourself at Henry de Bowforde’s service.’

  ‘He asked for me. He uses me because I can fight, and because he knows we’re loyal to Hal come what may. I’m fond of my half-brother. I fought at Verlamion alongside Henry’s father, Duke Edgar. I was at his side when he was killed.’

  Will recalled seeing the savagely torn body of the old Duke of Mells. ‘You were fortunate to escape that day.’

  ‘That’s the truth.’

  Will handed Jasper back the pieces of his second-best sword. ‘There was a fault in the steel.’

  Jasper looked ruefully at the blade, then searchingly at Will. ‘I don’t know who you are, but you’re not what you seem.’

  ‘Fare you well, Jasper,’ Will said, meeting the other’s eye. ‘Slein an a! – as we say in the Blessed Isle.’

  Jasper grinned. ‘So you do, Maceugh. Slein an a!’

  The long, light evening sky finally faded to night. Will avoided the flaring lights down by the gate and bent his path to the shadows. A violet glow flickered at one of the slit windows that opened near the top of the south-eastern tower, and he recognized its deadly purple hue.

  He shivered and stepped close to his door. There was a light burning inside, and low voices. Then he saw a number of pebbles of different sizes arranged on his doorstep, and his heart leapt. He tapped on the door lightly – one, one-two, one-two-three – and then stood back.

  After a moment the reply came: one-two-three, one-two, one.

  The bolt slid and a man stood framed in the doorway. Willow watched from the pool of golden candlelight beyond – Morann had returned.

  ‘Did you find Gwydion?’ Will asked as soon as the door was barred again.

  Morann shrugged. He was newly arrived and road-dusty. ‘The most I’ve had is that.’ He pointed to the wreath of leaves that lay on the table. ‘It’s by Gort, but he does not tell good news. First he passes on Master Gwydion’s apologies for sending no word direct. Master Gwydion has travelled far and wide, and is now as sure as he can be that the two battlestones you found near Arebury and Tysoe are not the stones that the Blood Stone points to. Neither of them will be the next one to draw men to battle.’

  ‘Did he say anything about Maskull’s meddlings with the Tysoe stone?’

  Morann met his eye. ‘Gort’s message was long in reaching me, but it asked me to go at once into the Blessed Isle and keep close watch on Richard of Ebor’s preparations.’

  ‘For what reason?’

  A strange light glinted in Morann’s eye. ‘Because timing is important when it comes to invasions.’

  ‘Invasions…’ Willow repeated, her voice falling away. ‘You mean Duke Richard intends to bring an army back into the Realm?’

  ‘Not if I can help it. My task is indeed to ask Friend Richard to return into the Realm – but I am to persuade him to come alone. Or at least, not in force.’

  ‘What?’ Will asked, incredulous. ‘Richard won’t do that!’

  ‘He will if asked in the right way. He’s to come with a small, unarmed entourage, no more. Master Gwydion believes that a great reconciliation might now be had.’

  Willow shook her head. ‘It’s gone too far for that. The queen’s ladies say she’s determined to have Richard of Ebor’s head. She can’t do that while the Ebor forces are intact.’

  Will cut in, ‘Edward is with the earls and their army over in Callas. Gwydion must realize that if Richard returned, the earldom of Kennet and a dozen others would rise up in support of him. The burgesses of Trinovant have already declared as much. Ludford may be in the queen’s hands, but there’s Foderingham, the Castle of Sundials, Wedneslea, Sheriff Urton – all of these fortresses have yet to fall.’

  ‘Still, I must do as Master Gwydion asks. My task is to persuade Friend Richard to land with no more than a thousand men and ride south on the queen’s assurances of safety. Master Gwydion says he must be made to do this, or events will go astray from the true path.’

  Willow threw up her hands. ‘You’ll never move the duke.’

  ‘Master Gwydion says I must take the stump of the Blood Stone with me as an earnest, and say that with both the Blow Stone and the Blood Stone seeing to his protection he will be undefeatable.’


  Will’s inner warnings were sounding. ‘Will Richard believe that? For I surely don’t.’

  Morann nodded abruptly. ‘Master Gwydion thinks he will. Friend Richard was at pains to take the Blow Stone with him when he departed into the Blessed Isle. He’s had the stump installed under his bed these past months at Logh Elarnegh Castle after he had it brought away again from Derrih. He swears that’s the reason he’s been making some powerful good decisions of late. And indeed, that may be so.’

  ‘You’d better prepare for failure, Morann,’ Willow said, adamant.

  ‘I have prepared for success. Twice I’ve visited An Blarna, and each time I pressed a different cheek upon the stone that Master Gwydion gave to Cormac. If that can’t make me eloquent, I don’t know what can!’

  Will had wandered across the room. ‘I still don’t see how it would be a sound decision to walk naked into the lion’s den. As you must have seen, every lord of the Realm except Sarum and Warrewyk and their close kin have pitched up here. They’ve come to strip Ebor of his properties and titles, and to place a sentence of death upon his head. He has spies. He must know what’s afoot.’

  Morann took up his satchel and slung it over his shoulder. ‘The patterns of the world are complicated but I’d say that when Master Gwydion speaks, it’s best to take good heed of his opinions.’

  ‘You’re leaving? Right away?’ Will said, seeing Morann step towards the door. ‘But there’s much still to discuss.’

  ‘I must. I’ll go first to Ludford, then I’ll take ship to Logh Elarnegh and speak the persuasions that Friend Richard must hear. Let’s hope that I reach him in time.’

  ‘They say the best-rested traveller goes furthest,’ Willow said. ‘And remember what Gwydion always says about more haste meaning less speed.’

  ‘Yes, will you not sleep here tonight at least?’

  ‘I thank you for your kindness, but I cannot afford to be seen here tonight. The court presently thinks I’m in Trinovant, and that’s how I want it to stay.’

  But Will put out a hand and stayed his friend, saying, ‘Perhaps, after all, it would be better if you were to be seen here.’