The Giants' Dance (31 page)

When the herald's signal told that all was ready, the duke's party rode out at an unhurried pace. There was a haggling with the heralds over the weapons. At first, the duke's party refused to recognize the custom and Gwydion had to intervene. Eventually a royal permission was issued concerning weapons, and each man was allowed to go armed with the symbol of his rank, but was to surrender his helmet and throat-guard.

Will managed to speak an indignant word to the wizard. ‘What are you thinking of? Trying to broker a peace while the Ludford Stone is still in the ground? It's impossible.'

‘I have learned an important lesson,' Gwydion said archly.

‘What lesson?'

The wizard stooped near. ‘That these battlestones contain a malicious intelligence that may be played at their own game!'

‘What do you mean?'

‘You will see.'

‘I just hope you know what you're doing.'

‘Trust me.'

‘I always do – fool that I am.'

The parley tent was ruled by the formality of royal protocol, and it was decked like a throne room prepared for audience. Because the nobles of the duke's party had insisted on carrying broadsword and dagger, they were not allowed to approach the king's person beyond a double rope of red and gold which was strung six paces in front of a pair of high-backed chairs.

Will's eyes swept across the important men in the ranks opposite. Dozens of knights and squires and pages crowded to the rear, many with the badge of a white swan on their chest, or in enamelled pewter on a ribbon. Will wondered what it signified, for it was no badge that he recognized.

Royal attendants stood in a line, holding cushions on which sword and helm and gilded crown were set. Many of the noblemen present, Will knew, had fought at Verlamion, and thoughts of revenge clouded their faces. He watched the king as he took his place in one of the ornate thrones. He was sickly, pale-faced and with downcast eyes.

Beside him his queen, his consort and keeper, sat upon a throne of equal measure. Her blemishless, chalk-white face shone in the muted light of the tent. She was striking – dark eyes, raven hair, ruby lips, and clad all in crimson velvet. Her gloved hands glittered with gold rings, each set with a black diamond. And never far from her, Henry, Duke of Mells, stood proudly in his dark-burnished armour. On the far side also stood the king's generals, foremost among them the commander of his great host, Duke Humphrey of Rockingham, grim-faced, for his son had been slain at Verlamion by a Warrewyk arrow.

All wore the white swan device, and as Will came forward and his eyes reached further he found the reason; for there, in a child's seat or little boat, shaped into the likeness of a white swan, sat a sturdy lad of six years – the heir.

That's his badge, Will thought, imagining how this new fashion, this new way of showing loyalty, must have swept
through the court. But he did not have long to think about it, for as his eyes left the heir his heart skipped a beat – the bearded brute nearby with fierce eyes and five yellow rings on his scarlet surcoat was the mad baron, the one whose murderous semblance had cut Will's arm off. He looked away before those crazy eyes latched onto his own, tried to steal a reassuring glance at Gwydion, but then thought better of it. His hand clutched at his arm, and he realized that it was no easy thing to set aside the power of illusion.

Wherever Will looked now it seemed that a new surprise lay in ambush for him. Over there, bold as brass, stood Lord Dudlea. He smirked at his erstwhile captors, enjoying the moment and eager to show off.

Will looked away again, hoping he would not be spotted. This time he fixed his eyes on the walls of the tent itself. Seen from inside, the painted canvas showed the heraldry and mottoes that adorned it as if in a looking glass. He tried to idle his mind, reading the crisply lettered words as they rippled gently in the breeze, blanking out what his heightened senses insisted on bringing to him. Even so, he could hear the barking of dogs in the distance. The smell of bruised grass was keen on the air. The play of sunlight passing through the branches of the big oak tree gave the tent a curious, dreamlike quality that paralleled the murderous undercurrents of the moment. The palms of Will's hands sweated. He caught hold of his thoughts as they began to slide – his mind's eye had glimpsed a mass of archers surrounding the tent, making ready to shoot a volley of arrows through the wavering canvas into unseen targets. It was clear nonsense, he knew, for how could archers mark their targets blindly? But all the same the fear was exact and inexplicable and hard to dispel. It seemed to have the force of premonition about it, or perhaps it was just the stone reaching out to him again in its eerie way.

By now the tent was half-filled with Duke Richard's
henchmen. It was time for him to make his entry. At the king's command, the audience would begin. Duke Richard carried with him his customary rod of unicorn ivory. His men came forward gravely and, to Will's surprise, they approached the king immediately and knelt, as one, before him.

It was a gesture calculated to unsettle the queen and her advisors. Among the duke's retinue were Earl Sarum, Earl Warrewyk and the softly grunting Lord Strange. Seeing them, Will suddenly remembered Edward. He was not here. A chill ran down his back. Perhaps Edward had ridden out earlier, to be exchanged as one of the hostages. It was not impossible, given the importance of the parley.

Only now did Will see Elders of the Sightless Ones come in to accompany both parties. The robes of the two groups of Fellows were of different colours and cuts, and Will wondered if that was significant. Perhaps they were rival sects. Perhaps different chapter houses vied with one another in matters of influence. It was a question Will had never considered. The Fellows themselves gave little away, for their doings were arcane and their public face always as cold as alabaster.

Will's eyes darted back to the queen, and he felt again the pungency and ill-temper that emanated from her. It was worrying to realize that one misplaced word spoken now, one dagger produced in wrath, and a running fight would break out that would see them all dead. Will's toes, clad in their leather shoes, felt the muffled currents running in torrents through the earth nearby. His eyes settled once more on the king, and he recognized a man labouring under a spell.

Gwydion stood solemnly to one side, watching the opening formalities closely. The hoods of many of the Sightless Ones were turned to him, as if the Elders were gauging the wizard with some unnatural sense.

‘Your king receives his loyal subjects in audience…' Though King Hal was near two-score years in age, his voice was eerie – part child's, part that of an old man. He spoke in short, stilted phrases and seemed not to know the meaning of what he said.

Duke Richard's eyes were steely as he returned the empty formulas that protocol demanded. He added, ‘His grace's loyal duke, Richard of Ebor, humbly bids him welcome to this, his strong castle of Ludford. Yet he must enquire the reason so many have come hither, and ask why so great a host stands ready in arms…'

Will almost cried out then, for his wandering eye had recognized another face among the king's retinue. There, standing not far from Lord Dudlea, was one dressed in the style of a lord of the Blessed Isle. He wore trews and the
leine
, a belted shirt of linen, and a cloaked
feile
, or mantle, of black and moss-green chequered wool. He carried the two-handed sword slung at his back, and on his hand was a silver ring studded with a gem of glistering green.

Morann!

The loremaster kept a straight face but winked at Will, who could not help but show his surprise.

By the moon and stars! he thought. Gwydion must have planted him in the king's court as a spy. So that was the
errand
that couldn't wait.

The diplomatic exchanges went on.

‘…and therefore, Sire, this duke must ask for what reason his kinsman was prevented from going upon his lawful way and was outrageously attacked upon Blow Heath by men whose loyalties have never…'

Will grew impatient with it. Everyone knew that the king was an empty shell who did little more than repeat lines whispered to him by his queen. But as Will changed his mind's focus a thrill of danger stabbed him without warning. His eyes moved to the dappled light that at first seemed
no more than sunshine filtering through dying leaves. But now he saw something else. A strange rippling had started a little way behind the queen's throne. The light there scintillated and glistened like the fur of Pangur Ban when he walked in moonlight, like the hood of the old man at the Plough Inn who had once turned into Gwydion…

The more Will concentrated on the sparkling light the less he saw. He cautiously opened his mind to it, and then a dark shape began to spin together. It was horrible. A pang of terror ran to earth down his spine, raised all the hairs on his neck. A cautious glance at Gwydion showed that the wizard's attention was on the parley. No one but the queen suspected the figure that whispered behind the thrones. He knew with a hammering heart that it could only be Maskull.

Once before, Will's inborn talent had enabled him to penetrate Maskull's wiles. Years ago, at the royal hunting lodge of Clarendon, while Jarred, the king's conjuror, had juggled coloured fire in the air, Will's innocent eye had looked straight through Maskull's shrouding sorcery. His newborn sensitivity had emerged clean and keen, and had perceived Maskull shimmering like the spectre of Death.

That time, Will had not understood, but now he did, and the knowledge that Gwydion's great enemy was here unbeknown to him jolted him like a blow to the face. He stiffened, prompted by insistent warnings in his mind. He longed to kick off his borrowed shoes and run. Sweat ran down his freshly shaved neck and prickled under his collar. He felt smotheringly hot under the lordly velvets. He dared not look back towards the sorcerer. He could not stop the visions flooding back of the dreadful time when Maskull had raised him up in magical fire to roast him and make him scream high above the Giant's Ring. He swallowed, resisting an overpowering desire to wipe away a drop of sweat that had started down from his hairline. Then his left
hand strayed to his sword, and he grasped the counter-weight at the end of the hilt.

It was the worst thing he could have done. Instantly two dozen eyes snapped towards him.

He took his hand away again, very slowly. That wasn't very clever, he told himself. What if Maskull had seen? What if he'd recognized you?

He noted the questioning look from Morann as all his senses began to rage and his face paled. He could say nothing, could offer no warning to Gwydion as his courage shrivelled. What was preventing Maskull from acting? Surely, he could strike here and now with impunity. All it would take would be a surprise bolt of purple fire – Gwydion, Duke Richard and all his henchmen would be burned. Even the troublesome duke's heir would die. And all at the cost of a few young hostages who had no more value to a sorcerer than wood lice. What was he waiting for?

But for all Maskull's advantage, he did nothing. The meaningless lordly talk went on, back and forth, counted against a thousand of Will's heartbeats. He ignored the highflown words, and instead he let Morann's steady gaze bolster him until he could get a grip on his panic.

Maskull, veiled in invisibility, remained occupied behind the queen's throne. His suggestions were spoken to the severe beauty who in turn muttered replies for the king to speak aloud. Slowly, Will began to gather together the shreds of his calm. He forced himself to look at the king whenever he spoke, and to keep his glances natural. He closed his mind to the tantalizing ripples that tore the air near the thrones, and bit by bit the sorcerer's ghastly shroud repaired itself under his gaze.

‘…therefore, Duke Richard of Ebor, hear our solemn promise. We invite you to come again into our royal presence at the hour of terce upon the morrow, and here receive at our hand all the guarantees that you ask of us.'

No! Will wanted to shout out. Don't agree to that. Don't pledge your word to come here a second time.

But he could not speak. He watched, dumbly unable to intervene, as the duke made his promise. Richard of Ebor gave his word that he would show himself before the king again tomorrow. And then the parley was done.

You must say something, Will told himself. But his throat was as dry as dust. You must warn Gwydion. And he must warn the duke. The king is not speaking in good faith. Maskull is here, and we're all caught up in a deadly trap!

That the duke's party rode back to the castle in good order and in safety was Gwydion's doing. The wizard kept Will's mouth closed until they had crossed the moat and the inner ward and had hurried to Gort's rooms.

Neither Gort nor Willow were there as the spells began to fall away from Will's jaw. But they did not fall fast enough and he slammed the door behind him in frustration. ‘Mmmmmmmmmh!'

Gwydion seized him angrily. ‘What are you trying to do, you young fool? Did you mean to bring down the whole negotiation? Did you not see how delicately things were balanced?'

‘Gwydion!' Will whispered fiercely as soon as the spell released his throat. ‘You don't understand!
He
was here! In person! In the tent!'

The wizard started as the truth slammed home. He let go of Will's shoulders. ‘Maskull?
Maskull
was in the parley tent?'

‘That's what I was trying to tell you when you muted me!'

Gwydion stared, shocked. He seemed unable to believe it, and shook his head. ‘This cannot be. It was some kind of falsehood. You were suffering from an emanation of the Ludford Stone. It was a
vision
!'

‘It was no vision, Gwydion, I swear it! You must believe that! Maskull is here!'

The wizard sat down, his face grimmer than Will had ever seen it. ‘This changes much that I had planned. Truly he must have bathed in the Spring of Celamon…'