The Giants' Dance (40 page)

Willow's eyes widened. ‘But why?'

‘They're going to attaint him in his absence.'

‘Attaint? What's that?'

‘His fellow lords will try him and find him guilty.' Will wondered how this latest turn of events affected what had been asked of him.

‘And when that's done, what will happen to him?'

‘Then everything he and his allies own can be legally confiscated by the Crown.'

‘Everything?'

‘The queen will demand that Foderingham and the Castle of Sundials in the North, and all the other estates be given up.'

‘And the duke?'

‘After he is dispossessed, he will be declared an outlaw and an official bounty placed upon his head.'

W
ill had a knife in his hand when he first saw the monster enter the castle gardens. He was whittling the semblance of a pine cone into the bulbous end of a stout staff as he sat in the bright midsummer sunshine. The weather was warm and fine, and the sky a wispy blue. What clouds there were flew high and thin overhead and the sweet smells of summer were on the air. Chairs and benches had been placed on the sward of grass that lay between the castle and the Corben Tree. Many were occupied now, mostly by the clerks and servants of the nobles who had arrived for the Great Council.

Since the night of the royal banquet rumour had grown that Maskull had a strange creature locked in his tower – not a cockatrice after all, but a man-creature, a monster of the sorcerer's own making. The gossips swore that the man-creature was so ugly that his face had to be wrapped whenever he walked abroad, that the merest sight of him would turn a man to stone.

Will felt a shadow pass across him. It was Jarred the conjuror, who dawdled for a moment, then sat down on a bench not ten paces away. He had been drinking.

Just then, the hairs began to rise on Will's neck, and he
knew Maskull was coming his way. It took all Will's strength not to leap to his feet, but when he saw what was approaching, he could not help but let a gasp of surprise escape him.

Maskull was cloaked in invisibility, but a doleful figure was hobbling in his wake in plain sight. Its walk was awkward, like one struggling impotently against some hardgripping compulsion. The figure was shrouded from head to toe in black gossamer, but tightly, so that its form could be seen though no part of it showed. There was a strong whiff of magic about its movements – it was being directed to go where it had no wish to go.

Will looked away. A surge of fear flashed through him. No one ran away or called out. No one dared to speak. Only when the sorcerer had gone did Will's flesh stop creeping. Only then did the scent of roses come back to his nostrils. Folk turned to one another, muttering fearfully, asking what it was that had passed among them.

Will's eyes settled on Jarred. When not preening before an audience, the conjuror was usually as fidgety as a ferret. But he was not fidgeting now. He had seen Maskull go by.

Will was sure of it. He recalled the trick Jarred had pulled at the banquet. The need for admiration was what had made him a royal conjuror, but the queen, captivated now by the powerful magic of a real sorcerer, had tired of poor Jarred's caperings. Perhaps his desire to rekindle her interest had driven him to meddle with powers that were beyond him.

When Will turned he saw something that interrupted his speculations. Lord Dudlea's servant was approaching.

‘I have a message for the Maceugh from my master,' the man said flatly.

Will shaded his eyes. ‘And what message is that?'

The man's face was empty. ‘My lord asks that you come to meet with him.'

‘On what business?'

The other did not move. ‘I do not know what business. Only that the Maceugh must come.'

‘Must?' Will stared back, but did not stand up. ‘What language is this in which to frame a request? Tell your master that the Maceugh will meet with him at noon tomorrow.'

The other edged closer. ‘My lord means to meet with you now.'

Will got swiftly to his feet. ‘The Maceugh is not at your master's beck and call. If he says he will come at noon tomorrow, then that is when he will come!'

Heads turned at the sharpness in Will's voice. Seeing the whittling blade, the lord's man took a pace back. ‘Your pardon, Maceugh.' He put his hand to his chest and bowed his head, but the bow was shallow, and his apology unmeant. ‘I will take your reply, but I warn you that this will not satisfy my master.'

‘Noon tomorrow,' Will growled. ‘And tell your master that his servants have poor manners.'

The other nodded shortly, then left. But Jarred's curiosity had been stirred. The conjuror gestured at him. Will shrugged as if to dismiss the disturbance, but Jarred said, ‘Beware Lord Dudlea. He's dangerous.'

Will shifted to avoid the splash that leapt from Jarred's flask.

‘Want some?' Jarred said, thrusting out the flask.

‘What is it?'

Jarred laughed. ‘Does it matter?'

Will put the flask to his nose, then to his lips. It turned out to be cowslip cordial, powerful and over-sweet. He looked closely at Jarred's face. Without his face-paints and conjuror's tokens, he appeared ordinary and prematurely aged. His skin was papery and creased by lines. Tiny veins could be seen coursing beneath the surface. His hair had withered to grey wisps and his teeth had yellowed. He
looked to Will like a man who had given so much of himself over to appearances that his heart had died inside him.

‘Are you…
unwell
?' Will asked.

‘There are to be no more performances,' the conjuror told him. ‘Her grace has tired of Old Jarred. When he protested she banned him from court. She sent her sergeants to turn him out an hour ago. Two filthy brutes. They said his quarters were needed by an earl, that he must make do with the hayloft above the stable if he would stay.'

‘That's not so bad.'

‘Not so bad? It's a lodging fit only for peasants!' The conjuror stared desolately at the castle walls. ‘Why has she sent me away?'

But Jarred knew why, and Will knew why too.

The conjuror tried to rise from the bench, but failed. ‘I'll take my revenge upon her,' he murmured darkly. ‘On all of them!'

‘Don't tell everyone your plan,' Will said, alarmed at his open treason.

But Jarred would not be hushed. He became maudlin. ‘When first she came to court she always called for me. My three blind mice illusion was always her favourite. She used to love my magic. But ever since
he
arrived, she's treated me like an old shoe.'

Will shook his head in sympathy. ‘Who do you think
he
is?'

‘You don't know?' Jarred's eyelids drooped. He seemed to find something briefly amusing, then, ‘I hate him.'

‘Why? Because he does real magic?'

‘
Real
magic?' Now Jarred's anger spilled out. ‘What about
my
magic? That's the kind that takes a lifetime of practice. My skill is the sort that's hard won. Intricate. Difficult to do! It's not old-time sorcery, not some mystic power that flows out of the veins of the earth!'

Will's hands tingled. He wondered again at how little Jarred must know of real magic. How had such a man ever succeeded in uncloaking Maskull? But as Gwydion had once said, Maskull was arrogant, and arrogance often led to carelessness.

‘Where does he come from, this sorcerer?' Will asked.

‘He's another of those meddling wizards, those so-called loremasters. I've seen their comings and goings. They're very good at giving advice, issuing orders to one and all, using the king's court as if it were their plaything! Who do they think they are?'

‘You mean like that fellow…Gwydion? He comes at times to the Blessed Isle. He presents himself at the court of the High King in just the fashion you describe.'

‘Yes, he's one of them. “Master” Gwydion, as he likes to be called. With his rings of blue fire and his disappearances. I was doing rings of blue fire years ago! I did rings of blue fire for the royal marriage! It amazed everyone. They talked of nothing else for days, weeks. But who remembers that now, eh?'

‘They don't appreciate true talent,' Will said, watching Jarred knock back more of the heady cordial. ‘But you were saying about Maskull…'

‘I'll tell you something about him, Maceugh.' Jarred leaned on Will now as if he was an old friend. ‘Nobody knows it, but he's here now.'

‘No!' Will tried to appear surprised. ‘Here?'

‘Oh, yes. He thinks no one can see him. But I can. I know more than he supposes. He always keeps a private place for himself in whatever stronghold he brings us to. He has one here, a chamber in the south-east tower. He thinks no one knows when he goes there. But I do!'

‘Doesn't he keep it secret?'

‘He tries, but I use these!' Jarred pointed to his eyes. ‘Any magician will tell you – folk who know how to use
their eyes are very few. People always think they see, but they don't.'

‘So Maskull has a chamber in the tower?'

‘And the tower has a window. And every two or three nights he receives a visitor through it.'

Will pictured the tower. Its only window was an arrow-slit set high above the ground.

‘What kind of a visitor?'

Jarred wagged a finger at Will's apparent doubts. ‘It
flies
to him whenever it would speak with him. It grabs onto the sheer stone like a great big bat. Then it scuttles across the wall and squeezes in through the slit.'

Instantly, Will thought of the ked. That would be small and agile enough to get in through Maskull's window. He asked, ‘This flying thing – do you mean something like a goggly?'

Jarred's eyebrows lifted and his eyes closed. ‘That is the vulgar name for such creatures, I believe.'

‘But you said it
speaks
with him?'

‘Of course it speaks with him. It's his spy. It does his bidding.'

‘But…aren't such creatures always in thrall to the red hands?'

‘Many are. But this one is wild.'

‘Wild?'

‘They come from the Realm Below.'

‘How do you know it's wild?'

‘A-ha!' Jarred tapped the side of his nose. ‘Because this is the one that led Maskull out of the labyrinth of halls that lies beneath the earth.'

When Will heard that a pang of excitement passed through him. Until that moment he had not connected the ked with Maskull, but now it made perfect sense. The trouble was, the conjuror was now in a very loose-tongued mood. He could upset everything.

Jarred's red eyes swam as he took another swig of cordial. ‘You didn't know? He's been down there for years. It's common knowledge at court. He was forced to dwell there in exile after a fight with one of his fellow meddlers. That goggly, as you call it, is the creature that guided him out, and he enslaved it for its trouble. Now he uses it as his night-eyes.'

‘How do you know all this?'

Jarred yawned widely and sighed a deep, drink-sour sigh. ‘I have…asked…the spirits.'

‘You certainly have.' Will propped him up again. ‘Come on, Master Magician, this day has worn too thin for you to enjoy any further. Let's get you to your new quarters. And I, for one, will hope you sleep like a man unburdened.'

Will took Jarred to his loft. By now it was early evening and the sun was golden in the west. With luck Jarred would not come to his senses until morning. But what then? Will climbed down the rough ladder, his new-carved staff in hand, thinking what to do about the black-swathed figure that Maskull had led through the garden. Then he recalled Gwydion's words: ‘
…If I know Maskull, he will have bound Chlu upon a magical chain before letting him out into the world. One day soon, I think, he will try to reel him in and begin to wring the truth from him…
'

He knew for certain that the figure must be Chlu.

Events were moving fast now. It was time to find Willow, so he headed back towards the castle. Dozens of noblemen had been arriving all day with their entourages, and the sward was filled with painted tents. Smoke rose from camp fires. Tethered horses were being attended to by grooms. Will recognized many of the colours that emblazoned the camp. Most belonged to lords who had marched their contingents to Ludford at the king's command, but there were many others now, attracted by
the imminent break-up, not only of Ebor's possessions, but also those of his two rich allies. Maskull had succeeded in harnessing their greed, and it looked as if he must soon have his way.

Will's heart sank as he returned through the camp. Servants ate and drank, caroused, threw scraps to their hounds, rode horses up and down, practised with sword and buckler. A year ago, many of their masters had sworn that Richard of Ebor was justly trying to save the Realm from a wicked queen and her loathsome friends. Now they called Ebor a traitor.

As he tried to pass a large group of men drinking ale, he collided with one who backed hard into him and put an elbow in his ribs.

‘What's this?' the man roared.

Will stepped away from a man of about thirty years of age, a westerner from his mode of dress, perhaps from Cambray. He had flaming red-gold hair and a face that was heavily freckled. Though Will recognized a princely bearing, the man held a drinking bowl in his right hand, and his left was poised on the hilt of a broadsword.

Will lowered his staff and put a hand on his breast, bowing slightly. ‘Your pardon, sir.'

‘My pardon?' the other repeated loudly. ‘
My
pardon, did you hear that?'

Will nodded slightly and began to move on.

‘Islander! You spilled my ale! What do you mean to do about it!'

A hand was on his arm, spinning him, sending his staff flying from his grasp.

‘If I've disturbed you, friend, then I apologize.'

The other cast his drinking bowl down. ‘He spills my ale then calls me his friend!'

As Will recovered his staff he saw the drinkers nearby nudge one another. Their eyes brightened with anticipation
as the Cambrayman stood in his path and kicked the staff out of reach.

‘Let me pass,' Will said.

‘Not until you've made amends. And if you refuse—' The stranger grasped the hilt of his sword and ran it half out of its scabbard. ‘I'll make you pay in blood.'

The Cambrayman was showing off. His clothes were fine and raffish and his movements practised and showy.

Will's blank expression should have warned him. He said, ‘Blood for ale? Only a fool would fight to the death over a mouthful of either.'