Whitemantle. Robert Goldthwaite Carter

They look down upon the king’s proceedings and call out to give warning whenever his throne is in danger.’

      ‘They must be crying themselves hoarse at present,’ Will muttered.

      ‘And so it may be for the next few months, unless I am allowed to set to work to prevent the catastrophe.’

      ‘What will you do?’ Willow asked.

      ‘Do? I must do many things. But first there is a far greater work of un-doing. As I have already told you, I must pull down the grey skeins of sorcery that festoon the White Hall. Maskull has dwelt here for many a month, and in that time he has crept over every wall and tower like a longlegged spider, spinning webs of deceit about the royal house. Those spells must be swept away before the king and his captor come to town. I must find the workshop of Maskull’s wickedness.’ He sighed and glanced to his left. ‘What say we slake our thirsts at The Bell Without?’

      ‘Bell without what?’ Willow asked.

      ‘Without its clapper, I guess,’ Will said. ‘The Fellows of the Charterhouse yonder are of the White Order, and they keep a ritual of silence.’

      ‘A creditable surmise, but you guess wrongly. The inn is called The Bell Without, because it is without the walls. There is another alehouse inside the City called The Bell Within.’

      Will smiled at that. ‘They seem to like their drink here. That’s a good sign, at least, for those who can drink and be merry are good men indeed!’

      He was pleased they were taking a rest, for his throat was dry. As he dismounted and looked around the inn yard his thoughts lingered on the captive King Hal. The queen had wrought her easy-melting king like wax, but since the fight at Delamprey, she and her allies had fled into the north to find succour and no doubt try to regroup their forces. The captured king had been invited to ride in Duke Richard’s company. The plain truth was that the king was now as much in the duke’s power as he had once been in his wife’s.

      ‘What do you think Duke Richard intends?’ Will asked as they sat down. ‘Do you think he’ll play fair, or does he mean to keep the king under his thumb?’

      The wizard drew a deep breath. ‘That is a most pertinent question. In truth, I am no longer able to read Friend Richard’s heart in matters of state. As for Hal, he wants little more than to be allowed to return to a scholarly cell and to peruse the parchments and papers that are his delight. But still he knows he is the king, and he may not prove as pliable to Friend Richard’s plan as the latter might wish.’

      Willow frowned. ‘Do you remember what Mother Brig once told Duke Richard at the Ewle revel at Ludford all those years ago? She warned him that he’d die if ever he dared lay his hand upon the enchanted chair. Could she have meant the throne of the Realm do you think?’

      The wizard became circumspect. ‘We all die – eventually.’

      ‘But she said more than that,’ Willow insisted. ‘She said that Duke Richard would die in his first fight after he touched the chair.’

      ‘You have a surpassing excellent memory, my dear.’

      ‘It was a surpassing memorable night, Master Gwydion. But tell us – did Mother Brig really mean the throne of the Realm? And is what she foretells bound to come to pass?’

      Gwydion looked down the passageway towards the stables. ‘Brighid makes many a claim regarding future happenings. Some are important, while others are not. It is the way with seers.’

      ‘But all she says does come to pass, one way or another,’ Will said, not letting Gwydion off the hook. ‘I believe she swore a destiny upon the duke.’

      But the wizard was not to be drawn further on the matter of great prophecies. Instead he said, ‘You know, one thing has already come to pass as you foretold – Duke Richard has given the Delamprey battlestone to Edward.’

      ‘A gift of thanks to recognize his victory, I suppose.’

      ‘Indeed.’

      Since the fight, the battlestone had shrunk down twice. The first time was just after pouring forth its stream of malice, when it had transformed itself into a nondescript plinth of brown ironstone incised with words that even Gwydion could not read. Later it had shrunk again, once Will had used the remaining powers of the stump to burn away the manacles from Gwydion’s wrists. That time, it had been as if the very substance of the stone had collapsed, and it had faded to grey.

      ‘What can Edward want with it, I wonder?’ Gwydion mused.

      Willow said, ‘I suppose he’s fetching it to Trinovant in hopes that it’ll be a touchstone to his ambitions. But isn’t it now drained of the power even to confer boons?’

      Will nodded. ‘If I know Edward, he’ll delight in it mostly because his father has given it to him. He’ll value it because his father values the stumps of Blow Heath and Ludford, and he’ll tell himself it has virtues even when it does not.’

      ‘In that, then, he will be like most men,’ Gwydion said regretfully.

      ‘But aren’t you going to claim it from him, Master Gwydion?’ Willow asked.

      The wizard shrugged. ‘I might have to.’ Then he took a draught of ale.

      ‘Have you had any fresh thoughts on the inscription?’ Will asked. ‘Or are you still, ah – stumped?’

      Gwydion raised an eyebrow. ‘If that was meant to be a joke it was not very funny. But since you ask, I am no further forward. The verse is not written in any tongue that I have ever met with.’

      ‘At Delamprey you said that that was Maskull’s doing.’

      ‘It is one of his nasty little snares. His arrogance shines through in all that he attempts.’

      ‘And he knows you well enough to be able to pose a problem that you cannot solve,’ Will said. ‘But that in itself could be a clue, don’t you think?’

      The wizard gave him a look that told Will it was a mistake to teach grandmothers to suck eggs. ‘Maskull has done enough dirty work – I could not read the marks I found in the stone.’

      ‘Well perhaps it’s only the script that’s unknown to you,’ Will said, hoping his optimism would infect the wizard. ‘The language itself may be one that you know.’

      Gwydion stroked his beard. ‘True. It might only be a cipher that I have to crack…’ He fell silent, but it was a silence unlike the dark ones that had overtaken him lately.

      Willow had taken out a heavy bronze coin and she had begun spinning it on the table top. Will watched it whirl faster and faster as it settled down. He picked the coin up and spun it again, fascinated for the moment by its odd behaviour, at the rising sound it made before it came to a sudden dead stop. Is that what’s happening to us, to the war? he thought oddly. Getting faster and faster until suddenly everything stops on doomsday?

      Knives and trenchers were laid before them, and with more ale came pie and cheese and warm bread. As they ate and drank, they talked of lesser matters, and when Willow excused herself and Bethe briefly from their company, Will took the opportunity to ask a rather more pressing question.

      ‘Chlu’s true name, Master Gwydion – pronounce it again for me.’

      Gwydion flashed a glance at Willow’s departing figure. ‘And give you a knife to fall on?’

      ‘I think I must have that knife, whether it is safe or not.’

      ‘Very well then – Llyw.’

      ‘Thloo.’

      ‘That will not do at all. It is a difficult sound for those unused to the language of Cambray. But see – put the tip of your tongue against the roof of your mouth as if you are making a luh sound, then breath past it.’

      ‘Dzzllll…’