The Giants’ Dance. Robert Goldthwaite Carter

she did.’ Duffred set down two tankards. ‘She was fetched back by a man in my Lord of Ebor’s livery as I recall.’

      ‘Always happy to render Master Gwydion a service if I can.’ Dimmet glanced shrewdly at the wizard. ‘And in return he’ll often put a good word on my vats, or he makes sure my thatch don’t catch fire.’

      Duffred tugged at his father’s sleeve and said, lowering his voice, ‘You might think to tell them about the odd one who’s been sat in the snug all day.’

      Will looked sharply to Gwydion, knowing it was not usually possible to get into the snug.

      ‘Easy, Will,’ Gwydion said, as if reading his mind. ‘The Sightless Ones do not agree with the drinking of wine or ale. Nor would Dimmet here take kindly to one of them poking his nose in at the Plough, much less getting into his snug.’

      ‘Oh, yes,’ Dimmet said. ‘He’s a shifty one. Got wilted primroses on his hat, though I don’t know where he got them. Said he wanted “privacy”, if you please!’

      Dimmet’s eyes rolled as he made the last remark. The last reason anyone would come to the Plough, Will thought, was to be alone. He looked to Gwydion again in puzzlement, but then followed the wizard into the passageway and along a swept stone floor that was so footworn it shone.

      They passed a great oaken table that was stacked with platters and bowls as if a celebration had only just been cleared away. In the middle was a trencher decked with flowers and a large pig’s head with a red apple in its mouth. The head seemed to be grinning. It reminded Will of Lord Strange.

      When they came to the great empty hearth with its stone chimney and inglenooks on either side, Gwydion paused and raised his arms. Then he muttered words and laid a spell on the little room that lay behind the chimney breast.

      ‘What are you doing?’ Will mouthed, suddenly anxious about what might be lying in wait for them inside.

      The wizard looked around, then whispered, ‘Calling down a defence against eavesdroppers.’ Then he ushered Will through the hidden entrance.

      The snug was cool and dark, for it was summer and the little grate was empty. The only light came from a small window and the polished oak boards that made it seem like a ship’s cabin gave the room a rare cosiness. At the table sat a man Will was delighted to recognize.

      ‘Tilwin!’

      The dark-haired travelling man rose with a heartening greeting and gave him a bear hug. His eyes were as blue as chips of summer sky. ‘How are you now, Willand?’ he said. ‘And Master Gwydion, well met, my old friend!’

      Then Will heard Tilwin utter words half under his breath to the wizard, and something made him think that a formula had been spoken in the true tongue, words of recognition, a greeting between men who stood tall in one another’s esteem. He watched them embrace briefly, then all three sat down together.

      ‘You’re the last person I expected to meet here,’ Will said.

      ‘Whereas I’ve been waiting for you to turn up like a bad penny all this fine afternoon!’ Tilwin grinned, and there was laughter in his eyes, but also, Will thought, a deeper gleam that spoke of troubles.

      In all the years of Will’s childhood Tilwin the Tinker was the only outsider who had ever come up the Vale as far as Nether Norton. He was a knife-grinder and a trader who travelled far across the Realm. He had always helped take the tithe down to Middle Norton, and he had brought many necessaries to the Vale – tools, medicines, bolts of cloth, pretty gems and love tokens too, for he knew all the different kinds of precious stone and what could be done with them. One day he had given Will a black stone to put under his pillow to ward off nightmares. Another time he had cracked a glassy pebble for Breona, cutting it with a series of skilled blows, and so had made a false diamond for her to wear as a brooch on high days.

      Some of the Valesmen swore it was Tilwin who had thought up the game of cards, and as if to prove them right he always carried a faded card stuck in the band of his hat. He usually put wayside flowers there too, to lift the spirits of those he met. Today, as Dimmet had said, there were primroses but, like Tilwin, they seemed a little worse for wear.

      ‘Tell us why you’ve stopped coming to the Vale,’ Will said. ‘We’ve all missed you, you know.’

      Tilwin glanced at Gwydion, and some more of his smile faded. ‘I’ve had a deal to do lately, and little time to do it.’ Then his smile came bravely again, and he poked Will’s shoulder. ‘Besides, there’s less need for me to come to the Vale these days. Now the tithe has stopped and Nether Norton can afford its own grinding wheel. That was hero’s work you did for your folk, Willand. I hope they appreciate you.’

      Will reddened, embarrassed.

      ‘I sent word for…Tilwin…to meet us here,’ Gwydion said. ‘But a word of warning to you: do you recall my saying that Tilwin the Tinker is not necessarily what he seems?’

      Will looked uncertainly from the wizard to Tilwin and back. ‘I’ve long known there was something rare about him, but I never knew quite what.’

      ‘My name is not Tilwin – it is Morann.’

      Gwydion smiled. ‘He is, among other things, a lord of the Blessed Isle.’

      ‘I can see that now you mention it,’ Will said. And it was true, there had always been an assured manner about the man. Will jumped up and took his tankard in both hands. ‘Allow me to greet you properly in your own name: here’s to you, Morann, Lord Knife-grinder, as keen a blade as ever there was!’

      ‘And here’s to the meadows and mists of the Blessed Isle, where strange tales begin!’ said Gwydion, rising and lifting his tankard also.

      Then up got Morann. ‘And here’s to you, Willand of the Vale. And to you, Master Gwydion Pathfinder. You’re both of you no better than you should be!’

      They clashed tankards and supped, then all laughed together and sat down again as one.

      ‘You’re a loremaster like Wortmaster Gort,’ Will said. ‘Isn’t that it?’

      Morann made a modest gesture. ‘Where old Gort’s learning concerns all the forests and all the herbs of the field, mine only touches bits of pebbles and such like.’

      Gwydion laughed. ‘He gives himself no credit. He’s a “magical lapidary” – the greatest jewelmaster of latter days.’

      Like Wortmaster Gort, Morann was another of the ageless druida who had wandered abroad, collecting magical knowledge for a hundred generations and more. They had no homes, but attached themselves here and there as circumstances arose. They were not quite wizards, but their magical skills were great, and they had lived long.

      Will thought immediately of the strange red fish he had found at Little Slaughter. How could it be that a thing so exactly like his own talisman had been there for the finding down in the dust? Surely a jewelmaster as knowledgeable as Morann would be able to cast light upon its origin.

      But as Will put a hand down towards his pouch a powerful feeling came over him that he should not tell Morann about the talisman any more than he had told Gwydion, which was nothing at all. He examined the feeling suspiciously, and had almost decided to put his doubts aside and draw out the red fish, when Duffred arrived with cheese and bread and apple jam.

      Then Morann unsheathed his favourite long, thin knife and in deference to Gwydion laid it handle inwards on the table before him. He said to Will, ‘Be it hidden or carried openly, in former days it was thought a deadly crime to wear a blade in the presence of a druid, much less a person of Master Gwydion’s standing.’

      ‘I’m thinking you’ll be cutting no flesh, nor even bread with that knife, Morann,’ Gwydion said, his eyes twinkling.

      ‘Indeed not, Master Gwydion. However I like to respect the Old Ways when I can.’

      Will saw that a wonderful pattern like knotted cord was worked into the old steel.