The Language of Stones. Robert Goldthwaite Carter

      

      The Language of Stones

      Robert Carter

      

      This book is dedicated to Britain’s greatest living Welshman – Terry Jones.

       ‘First there were nine,

       Then nine became seven,

       And seven became five.

       Now, as sure as the Ages decline,

       Three are no more,

       But one is alive.’

      The Black Book of Tara

      Table of Contents

       Cover Page

       Title Page

       Epigraph

PART ONE A BOY, A MAN

CHAPTER ONE OUT OF THE VALE

CHAPTER TWO INTO THE REALM

CHAPTER THREE TO THE TOWER OF LORD STRANGE

CHAPTER FOUR A LITTLE LEARNING

CHAPTER FIVE THE MARISH HAG

PART TWO THE POWERS OF THE EARTH

CHAPTER SIX A NEST OF SECRETS

CHAPTER SEVEN LAMMASTIDE

CHAPTER EIGHT CLARENDON

       CHAPTER NINE A BARROW ON THE BLESSED ISLE

       CHAPTER TEN LEIR’S TREASURE

       CHAPTER ELEVEN THE STONE OF CAER LUGDUNUM

       CHAPTER TWELVE ALONG THE BANKS OF THE NEANE

       PART THREE THE DUKE OF EBOR’S PLEASURE

       CHAPTER FOURTEEN A WINTER OF DISCONTENT

       CHAPTER FIFTEEN AGAINST BETTER JUDGMENT

       CHAPTER SIXTEEN COLD COMFORT IN THE WEST

       CHAPTER SEVENTEEN IN THE HALL OF KING LUDD

       PART FOUR WILL’S TEST

       CHAPTER EIGHTEEN THE PLAGUESTONE

       CHAPTER NINETEEN AT THE NAVEL OF THE WORLD

       CHAPTER TWENTY THE NIGHT RIDE TO HOOE

       CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE SKIES OF FIRE

       CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO THE SARCOPHAGUS OF VERLAMION

       CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE ALL IS WON, YET ALL IS LOST

       CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR THE GREEN MAN

       AUTHOR’S NOTE

       APPENDIX I ON THE AGES OF THE WORLD

       APPENDIX II

       Preview

       Acknowledgements

       About the Author

       Copyright

       About the Publisher

PART ONE A BOY, A MAN

       CHAPTER ONE OUT OF THE VALE

      Willand son of Eldmar turned his gaze away from the Tops and ran down towards the village. The sun was warm today, the sky cloudless and the grass soft and thriving underfoot. His long hair streamed freely in the sun like golden wheat as he ran past a cluster of thatched cottages and came at last to the Green Man.

      ‘Is Tilwin here yet?’ he asked, hoping the knife-grinder was already slaking his thirst. But Baldgood the alehouse keeper shook his head. There was no sign of Tilwin, nor of his grinding wheel, so Will went out and sat on the grass.

      Sunshine blazed on the white linen of his shirt. It was a fine spot just here. Daisies and dandelions had come out all over the green, as if it had known to put on its summer best. Every year it was fine and sunny at Cuckootide. There was racing to the Tarry Stone, kicking at the campball, and all the other sports. And afterwards there would be the bonfire. Songs would be sung and there would be dances and games and contests with the quarterstaff before the drinking of dragon soup. It would be the same this year as it had always been, and next year it would be the same again and on and on forever.

      In the Vale they called today Cuckootide, the day the May Pole was put up and all the world came out onto the green to have a good time. But Will knew he could not have a good time – not until he had talked with Tilwin. He looked up at the round-shouldered hills they called the Tops and felt the longing again. It had been getting stronger, and today it felt like an invisible cord trying to pull his heart right out of his chest. That was why he had to speak with Tilwin. It had to be Tilwin, because only he would understand.

      ‘Hey-ho,