The Giants' Dance (35 page)

‘Grapnels!' Gort cried. ‘They're climbing the walls!'

‘We must go now,' Gwydion said, as if in answer to the latest splintering sound of the ram. He began to shepherd them back towards the spiral stair that led down into the inner ward.

‘Are we going to get out alive?' Willow asked, her upturned face smudged. ‘And where will we go if we do?'

Will could give her no answer. He let Gwydion lead them past the Round House, and then back towards the kitchens. There they picked up three loaves and filled a large earthenware jug with water. ‘I must go to Trinovant,' the wizard said.

‘What about us?'

The wizard handed Will the water jug and pushed him on into the innermost ward. ‘I must find a way to solve the verse that points the way to the next stone.'

‘The verse…'

Will gasped. He had forgotten about the Blood Stone's vital message to them.

Gwydion spoke it in the true tongue:

‘Faic dama nallaid far askaine de,

Righ rofhir e ansambith athan?

Coise fodecht e na iarrair rathod,

Do-fhaicsennech muig firran a bran.'

‘What does it mean?' Willow asked, awed by the sound of the words.

‘Its meaning is a matter that requires much thought.' Gwydion cast an eye at the ramparts where dark figures were already beginning to appear. ‘And rather more time than we have at present.'

Gort said, ‘Master Gwydion! I think these inner gates might hold the queen's soldiers back for a little while, but we should make haste. Follow me! There is a secret way down to the river.'

‘Stop!' Gwydion said, gesturing them to go a different way. ‘Wortmaster, you and I will take our leave together. We shall do so by a route which none can follow. But Will and Willow – you must stay within these walls.'

Will halted and stared at the wizard. ‘Did I hear you right?'

Willow grasped the wizard's robe. ‘Where can we hide? They'll search everywhere!'

‘Oh, it is best not to be hidden,' Gwydion said, handing her the loaves. ‘What is hidden may always be found. Take the bread, you'll soon be glad of it.'

Gort looked anxiously towards the inner gate which he knew must soon come under attack. ‘Master Gwydion, those who are presently knocking upon the outer door will easily scale these walls too. They may kill anyone they find here. Do you want Will to defend himself by magic?'

‘There will be no need for that. Indeed, he must not resort to magic at any cost!'

‘I'll stay,' Will said, seizing the wizard's sleeve, ‘but only if you take Willow with you!'

‘No, Will!' Willow shouted. ‘I won't go without you!'

Gwydion laid a reassuring hand on her arm. ‘The plan I have is quite simple. And safer than any other.'

He led them down to the dungeon under the keep. Gwydion struck up a pale light and they saw storerooms that had been part emptied by the duke's household servants. Here was the cell in which Lord Dudlea had spent his nights. It was vacant now. Inside, the cold stone floor was scattered with filthy straw. There were rusty chains hanging from the walls and a thick iron door with a small, barred window. Will recalled how here, years ago, he had heard a baby crying where no baby had been. Now, with Bethe taken away from them and the pain of that parting keen in their hearts, he marvelled that their predicament could have so affected him before Bethe had even been thought of.

‘Must we go in there?' Willow said, her lips a ghastly blue in the magelight.

‘You must,' Gwydion told her, ushering them both inside. ‘For they will not murder their own.'

‘You're making a joke,' Will said. He set the jug down and stared at the wizard in the noisome darkness. ‘But I don't see the humour in it.'

‘It is no joke.'

‘How can we pose as captives? What about the parley? Half of the king's host know me by sight. Lord Strange certainly does. A haircut and a fresh suit of clothes will be no protection here.'

Gwydion braced his feet widely, put his hands to his temples, muttered. He began to dance and twirl in the straw. Words rumbled deep in his throat, words that were not in the true tongue, nor any tongue that Will had heard Gwydion
use before. He recoiled from the wizard's magical caress, felt something dry being dashed across his face, something like a powder, a pepper that stung his eyes. Then a blinding brilliance almost knocked them both down and left them in utter blackness apart from the colours in their heads.

‘Lord Strange may know the sight of you, Willand, but he does not know the Maceugh!'

‘The…
what?
'

Will's own voice sounded odd in his throat as the wizard struck up the magelight anew.

‘When the magic settles fully upon you, you will begin to know who you have become.'

Willow dropped her loaves, and when Will turned to her he was amazed to see another. ‘What's happened to us?' he said, shaken to his marrow. ‘What have you done?'

Willow put a floury hand to his cheek. ‘Oh, Will, look at your face!'

‘Do not be alarmed,' Gwydion said. ‘You are now not merely dressed as a lord and lady of the Blessed Isle, you are clothed in flesh anew. It is not an illusion. I have employed an ancient magic that might have been made for the purpose. It is a transformation that will deceive even Maskull's eye. It's one of my best skills.'

‘What purpose?' Will roared, looking at his own strange hands and again at the stranger who was his wife. ‘Whose purpose?'

The booming of the ram and the cracking of huge timbers forestalled the wizard's answer. Gwydion took him by the shoulders. ‘Do not blame me, Willand. I have done this to save your lives. I must have eyes and ears at this crucial moment. You will be an ambassador. Seek out Morann, he will know what to do.'

‘No! Gwydion! Not that wretched trick again! You can't leave us like this!'

But Gwydion had already withdrawn from the cell and
was sliding the great iron bolt across that locked them in. His face appeared at the small, barred window.

‘I am sorry not to be able to stay with you longer, but Gort needs my help now and this is no time to tarry. I warn you against exercising magic while you are in the guise of the Maceugh. Any cast, no matter how trivial, will put your life in jeopardy and swiftly bring enemies down upon you.'

The wizard's face vanished.

‘We cannot pass for folk from the Blessed Isle!' Will shouted. He reached a vain arm through the bars. But his words already betrayed themselves, for they were spoken in the accents of another shore.

‘Do not seek for me, Willand. I promise that I will come to you before the spring turns to summer. Until we meet again, tread softly!'

The wisp of wavering magelight faded to become steady, fire-reddened darkness. He pulled his arm back inside the cell and sat down.

‘Deoheir gathe, ar Saille,'
he said at last, marvelling as he did so that he knew the speech of the Isle. It sounded to him straight away very comfortable and somewhat like the true tongue only a great deal more straightforward.

‘Deohshen muire gath, ar Gillan,'
Willow said, returning the greeting. Then she asked,
‘Ceornaise teuh teone?'

‘You might well ask how I am! In truth, I am so angry I could spit blood!' He put a hand to his chin and was dismayed to find a neatly-trimmed beard had sprouted there. ‘He talks about bringing about the best of all possible futures, yet he's taken away my child, he's made a stranger out of my own wife and a different man out of my own self too. And if that's not enough he's left us locked in a dark dungeon with the enemy about to begin rapping on the door! Oh, Gwydion, you call yourself our friend. How could you have done this to us?'

O
f all the lords who surrounded the king, Henry de Bowforde, Duke of Mells, was the most powerful and the most dangerous. The old Duke of Mells, Duke Edgar, had died in the fighting at Verlamion, after which his son, Henry, had inherited both the dukedom and the queen's special favour. And now he had granted Will an audience.

‘We must be very careful with Duke Henry,' Will warned his wife in a murmur as they waited in their cell to be interviewed for their lives. ‘He's no fool. He recognized me once before, just as the battle was starting at Verlamion. He was nearly the death of me then, though I might say that his catching sight of me at that moment separated him from his father and probably saved his life. However, I doubt he'd see it that way if it came to it.'

Willow took his hand. ‘Have faith. If Gwydion's magical disguises are strong enough to serve against Maskull, they'll deceive Henry de Bowforde.'

He laced his fingers with hers. ‘If only magic worked as reliably as you suppose. I'm tired of sitting in this filthy cell. I'll murder Gwydion when I see him next.'

‘Oh, don't say such things, Will. It's uncomfortable, but
it could have been worse, and Morann told me that Gwydion has a knack for finding the best path forward.'

‘He told that to me too.'

He sighed, wishing there was a little more of their water left. They had been in the dungeon three days now, confined all the while as a riot of looting raged through the castle. Since their discovery by drunken soldiers from whose sight Will had hidden his wife, they had lived on a diet of stale bread and cistern water. The next day he had shouted angrily through the cell door to the soldiers who ventured near. After being discovered they had waited again while more important matters were attended to.

Will looked at Willow in the dim daylight that crept into the cell. She, at least, seemed unrecognizable. The change was astonishing: she was taller, had fuller lips and more prominent cheekbones and she now had a curling mass of auburn hair.

When she saw him studying her she looked back penetratingly with green eyes and shook her head at last, saying, ‘I don't know if I'll ever get used to you looking the way you do.'

‘What's wrong with me?' he asked.

‘That long, russet hair and that beard! A straight nose and piercing olive eyes. You look like a fox!'

‘A
fox
, is it?'

‘You're far too handsome to be my Willand.'

‘Well, thank you for that kind thought!' He grinned. ‘You're not so bad to look at yourself, I might say. I could almost forgive Gwydion his high-handedness if I was not so angry.'

His shirt was a
leine
dyed a pale saffron yellow, and his garb was of the same brown and black woollen broadweave as Willow's dress, being pinned in place by a silver
delch
, a brooch which had a lustrous brown stone set in it. He knew
– though he could not say how he knew – that it was a form of dress made after the fashion of the Clan Maceugh. The brooch signified his leadership of that clan. He was the man known simply as ‘the Maceugh'.

Approaching footsteps sounded. This time they were purposeful and disciplined. Then came the sound of the stiff, rusty bolt being slipped. Will stood as the soldiers entered the cell, and suddenly he and Willow were being brought out into strong morning light by men wearing blue and white livery.

They marched out of the keep and took their charges down through the inner ward. The light hurt Will's eyes, but he strove to take in everything he saw. A thin wisp of smoke was issuing from the bakehouse chimney. The castle was now in good order, showing that men of rank had taken control once more. Will knew what to expect. For a day now the engine that called forth the castle chimes had been ringing the bells regularly once again. The bells sounded now, and Will counted the hours – twelve noon. The device borne on the chests of the escort was the silver portcullis – badge of the dukedom of Mells.

As they waited under guard, Will watched lines of soldiers being ordered hither and thither. Gort's fears about Lord Warrewyk's guns being used to slight the castle had so far proved unfounded, making Will suspect that Ludford Castle had already been marked down for new ownership. If so, there was still much clearing up to be done, and a great deal else to be set in train.

Will pondered the coming interview and wondered what his best approach might be. Willow took his hand during much of the long wait, but as the castle chimes marked the second hour of the afternoon, two dozen men in black sallets and blue and white iron-studded jackets appeared and stood to arms near the Round House. A procession of nobles emerged from it and was escorted through the inner
ward towards the doors of the Great Hall. Among them was Duke Henry. It was not long before Will's guard ordered him to follow.

The sergeant said that Willow must remain outside, so Will took his leave and walked on alone, with conscious dignity despite his dishevelled and unwashed state. The Great Hall had been partly stripped, but it smelled as it always did, an odd mix of stale food smells, woodsmoke and beeswax. Autumn light slanted through the tall windows, sending diamond-shaped splashes of colour across the scrubbed floorboards. The side tables had been pushed back against walls that no longer displayed their great tapestries. Much had been taken away and much assembled here from other parts of the castle ready to be taken away.

A dozen or so men sat at the high table – scribes and others sitting among parchments and papers. Henry de Bowforde had seated himself in Duke Richard's favourite chair. His eyes were flickering to left and right over his documents like a viper's tongue. He was a long-nosed, unsmiling man with an unhealthy pallor, twenty-one years old and dressed in a suit of blue with ermine trim and a blue hat which hid most of his straight, dark hair. The back of his pale neck was shaved high from ear to ear in lordly fashion, and now the burnished armour he had worn in the parley tent was gone he seemed less of a soldier and more like a sheriff's clerk, except that two gold and enamel chains of office clanked against the fluted velvet breast of his doublet. It was his habit to play with his dagger, which he turned over now in gloved fingers.

A recorder in legal green spoke quietly at the duke's side, but the cutting tones of his voice carried to Will's ears. ‘The captive claims to have been travelling in embassy from the Blessed Isle, your grace, and to have been illegally detained by the Duke of Ebor and imprisoned by him.
He was discovered by your men along with a woman whom he claims is his wife. They were both locked in the oubliette.'

‘Locked in, you say?'

‘That is so, your grace.'

Henry's eye fell on Will and searched his unfamiliar clothing critically. ‘Who are you, my good man?'

‘Whoever I may be, I am not your good man,' Will said, astonished at his own effrontery and his own heavily accented words. He brushed a piece of straw from his cloak and added, ‘As for how my friends know me, I am called by them the Maceugh, Lord of Eochaidhan.'

‘The “Muck You of Yokee-an”?' Henry repeated. His voice was soft and dangerous. A smirk fleeted across his mouth, then vanished. ‘Quite a mouthful.'

Will made no reply, but stood unmoved as the intimidating silence stretched out.

‘And…who
are
you?'

Will's blood ran chill. His back straightened and his eyes kept their challenge. ‘Do you say that I am not the Maceugh?'

The duke rearranged his papers and muttered, ‘The man appears unable to understand what I'm saying to him.'

‘I own that I speak your language less than perfectly,' Will said quickly, ‘but I dare say I speak it better than you speak mine.'

Henry's eyes dwelt upon him for a long time, then cut away. ‘Well…whoever you are, I've had you brought before me to enquire as to the reason the Duke of Ebor did not kill you, or at least take you with him when he left.'

‘You must ask Richard of Ebor that.'

‘Yes, well, I am asking you.' Henry leaned forward, resting his chin on the heel of his hand. ‘So hazard a guess.'

‘Duke Richard did not strike me as a cold-blooded murderer,' Will said evenly. ‘And perhaps he did not relish
landing me back whence I came for fear that I might blame him for his actions.'

‘Blame him?'

‘Aye. For his incivility to me and mine. And for his interference in my mission, which was to bring news to your sovereign lord.'

Duke Henry shifted and he consulted his papers once more. ‘Oh, yes, I'm forgetting. You claim to be an ambassador of some kind. Well…what is it you want to say to our gracious king?'

‘I am ambassador to your king – and to no other.' Will spoke the words pointedly and the duke stirred with irritation.

‘We do things a little differently here. Those who would speak with his grace must speak through me. And I warn you that if you speak to me insolently again you will be taken to the top of the keep and shown the quickest way down. Now is that clear enough for you?'

Will held the duke's gaze proudly. The man dressed in legal green whispered, and again Will's keen ears caught what was said. ‘He claims to have vital news for your grace.'

The duke gave a nod of understanding, then said, ‘What
vital
news do you have for me?'

‘That would be best told in private.'

In truth, Will had no idea what news he was supposed to have. He had made the claim when he had been at his most desperate to get out of the dungeon.

‘We are among friends. You may speak freely.'

Will's mind raced as he looked from face to face. He saw no one he would have regarded as a friend. Nor did free speaking seem like a particularly good idea. Yet he knew he must say something, and something convincing.

‘I wanted to inform you of the port that Duke Richard was making for, that you might have intercepted him.'

That jolted the duke and his eyes narrowed. ‘You know the port? Then tell me the name of it.'

‘It is called by the princes of Cambray, Caerwathen.'

The duke sat up stiffly as he recognized the name. Beside him, the recorder nodded slightly. ‘Sadly, Ebor has already sailed from there. It's a great pity you did not speak up sooner.'

‘You cannot with justice blame the Maceugh if his news has gone stale. Your men were too busy ransacking the wine cellars to listen to a foreign voice pleading to be released from a dark cell.'

There was absolute stillness in the hall and the guards that flanked the doors seemed to be straining to make stones of themselves. The duke had cultivated a reputation for ruthlessness. He sat back, his dark eyes appraising the difficult upstart who stood alone before him. Whispers passed between the duke and his men. Papers were shuffled, pointed to, amendments made by the scribes. Will heard himself debated, the Blessed Isle referred to, and many a glance came his way. Throughout the ordeal he stood patiently.

At last the duke said, ‘I have a surprise for you.'

‘A surprise, your grace?'

‘Yes. It's in the nature of a little test.' The duke laid down his dagger and spun it about like a pointer. It came to rest point outwards. ‘A test that will determine what we are to do with you. I need to know what truth there may be in your story. You see…I cannot quite put my finger on where I've seen you before. But I'm sure I know you from another place, and that worries me.'

Will's blood ran cold, but he did not let a flicker of doubt escape him. ‘You do not know me, your grace. You have never met the Maceugh before.'

‘You sound rather too definite about that.'

‘I am wholly certain of it. I would have remembered you.'

The duke glanced at him sharply, winnowing the remark for the trace of an insult. He seemed about to speak again when a man in the robe of the Isles appeared at the far end of the hall. He walked briskly down the hall, his
cadath
cloak billowing black and green in his wake. ‘You asked for me, your grace?'

‘Yes.' Henry picked up his dagger again and pointed the tip at Will. ‘This…captive…says he's a lord of the Blessed Isle. Speak to him in his own tongue. Explain that we're undecided what to do with him. Invite him to give proof of his claim, for without proof we cannot admit him and must put him back where we found him at the very least.'

Morann, for it was he, bowed shortly and turned to Will.

‘Now look at the fix you're in,' he said in the tongue of the Isle. ‘Did I not tell you you're no better than you should be?'

Will allowed himself the hint of a smile, for in the tongue of the Isle the expression made perfect sense. ‘That you did, Morann. And I'm very pleased to see you're in the same boat with me.'

‘Well, try not to look as pleased as all that, my friend.'

‘How did you know me?'

‘I thought I heard an owl in the early hours three mornings ago. Gwydion paid me a visit. He said he was away to Trinovant, and that I was to look after you as best I could. Though what I've done to deserve such a cruel fate I don't dare to think. Play along with me now.'

‘That I will.'

Morann strutted back and forth all the while talking in the tongue of the Isle. He kept up the pretence of a full and searching interrogation, knowing that all eyes were on him. But Morann's questions were flippant and Will began to enjoy himself.

‘I'm away myself soon to the Blessed Isle,' Morann said.
‘So you'll have to fend for yourselves here. I'll give you silver enough for your needs, and the court are obliged to offer you a place to stay if they do not send you packing.'

‘That's if Black Harry here doesn't have me flying from the battlements instead.'

‘He won't do that. He'll think you the dearest friend he ever had by the time I've finished with you.'