The Giants' Dance (29 page)

I
t was early in the morning grey two days later when Will looked to the beacon upon Cullee Hill and saw it trailing dark smoke – the king's army had been sighted. But it was not until the day after, when the duke's scouts had made their report, that the lords of Ludford sent men out to rouse up their forces.

As the moon swung higher Will's feelings of disquiet had begun to rise again. He began to feel feverish. His eye ranged along the lines of fresh earthworks and trenches – great heaps of brown soil had been piled up and many young trees cut down and hauled away to make breastworks and timber walls to secure the approaches to the town. The Earl Warrewyk's great guns had already been drawn up to face the place from which the attack would most likely come.

The wizard too looked out over the cold, misty morning. Smudges of smoke rose in the distance, marking the place where the king's host now rested. A thousand camp fires had flared through the night, tainting the air. Down below, the earthworks were manned and everything stood in readiness.

‘Hearken to Friend Richard's voice,' Gwydion said,
looking down from the town walls near Broad Gate. ‘Do you hear how he goes at it too loudly? Such strength of conviction often bespeaks an inner doubt.'

Willow cuddled her daughter close to her. ‘You read folk deeply, Master Gwydion. Do you think Duke Richard believes Ludford will fall?'

‘Not yet. The castle is strong. And Richard has stout confidence – in himself and in his kinsmen. Nor is it without cause. It has been a good harvest and his granaries are full. He believes he can hold out here as winter begins to bite. It is then, or so he thinks, that the king's host will begin to falter and dwindle.'

‘Do you think it will be otherwise?' Will asked.

Gwydion's expression gave nothing away. ‘What I have been telling Richard may soon give him some pause for thought.'

‘What have you told him? Has the Blow Stone spoken to you?'

The wizard continued to measure the town with his eye. ‘My interrogation has revealed nothing more. The badge it carries is the duke's signet. That seems, in itself, to be the message.'

Will wiped his face. ‘Do you think so? Perhaps the stone warns of the duke's death.'

The wizard turned back. ‘Willand – you are sweating.'

He nodded, feeling suddenly much worse. ‘The moon is moving towards syzygy. It happens tonight. This is where the lign of the birch crosses the lign of the rowan. These feelings come upon me like waves. Each is worse than the last. I don't know how long I can resist.'

‘Let me help you,' Willow said, trying to take his arm.

‘Come,' Gwydion said. ‘Let us breakfast together.'

But Will did not feel hungry. He let them go, saying he could not bear to come down off the walls. All seemed hopeless. Now that the king's host had arrived he could no
longer safely scry the ligns more than a hundred paces or so from the castle or the town walls. Yesterday, hidden archers had taken a dozen unwary defenders, and the report of their ambushes had thrown a pall of fear over the defenders. The queen was setting a ring of iron about Ludford. Will knew it was her intention to stamp out her enemies once and for all.

That afternoon, the hunt for the battlestone continued. Despite Will's increasing agitation, he tried again, walking up and down the trenches and breastworks with his split hazel wand. But after an hour or two Willow's concern for him had grown.

‘I just can't scry here!' he shouted. ‘It's these great towers and curtains of stone. What comes from the lorc gets broken up by them and lost and changed like light in a forest.'

‘Come inside, Will. It's affecting you badly.'

‘Oh, it's so powerful! I can feel it pressing on my mind all the time. I'm having to fight to keep a grip!'

As she hugged him he stiffened and turned away.

‘Willow, I'm sorry! My thoughts are going round and round so fast it feels as if my head's going to come off!'

She chewed her bottom lip and pressed her head to his chest. ‘Poor Will. Come on, let's see if the Wortmaster can't do something for you.'

He shook his head. ‘Gort's already done what he can, but his powders and poultices are too mild. He can't make the medicines stronger without dulling my senses. I'll be able to survive this because it's only the moon's last quarter, but a week from now it will be at the full. That'll drive me to the very brink.'

‘At least you have your talisman now.'

He breathed a little easier. ‘Yes. That's a great comfort to me. Thank you for bringing it.'

She put her hand in his and they walked further along
the walls. They looked out across the broad sweep of farmland that surrounded the town. He said, ‘I told Gwydion that two ligns cross here, but it feels more like three.'

‘Three?' Willow said, realizing the importance of his words. ‘Three ligns crossed at Verlamion.'

‘Yes.'

‘But…they marked the Doomstone. You don't think Ludford Castle might have a Doomstone of its own, do you?'

He tensed, shivering, sweat streaming from him now. ‘All I know for sure is that I'm glad you're here.'

‘Come on, you'll get a chill and catch your death.'

They started down, but two disappointments awaited them. When they came to the outer ward a crowd was gathering. Willow got the rumour from the gateman. ‘Water's been poisoned a-purpose,' he said. ‘Some bad-hearted swine's thrown a dead sheep down the well!'

They hurried to the inner ward. Below the walls men were rigging up barrels and awnings to catch whatever rain might fall. They found Jackhald arguing loudly with the cooks, then they saw Morann leading a horse. He was wearing long riding boots and travelling apparel.

‘You're going away?' Willow asked, crestfallen.

‘There's an errand I must accomplish. It cannot wait, and I must make my escape before the postern is closed. I'll be able to get through the Forest of Morte if I leave now.'

‘Did you hear? They're saying the well has been poisoned,' Will said.

‘So Gort told me.' He leaned forward and softened his voice. ‘Don't tell anyone, but he's had a sheep's carcass hauled out of there.'

‘It's already common knowledge.'

‘Aye, well this place is a-flush with gossips.'

‘Morann, where are you going?'

‘I'd better not say.'

Morann kissed Willow's hand, clasped Will like a true friend and wished them well. Then he mounted up, clattered across the drawbridge and was gone. When they reached Gort's quarters they found Wortmaster and wizard closeted together. The two were grinding something aromatic in a mortar that sparked and spat back at them.

‘I think we might have solved the problem,' Gort said, sniffing his fingertips. ‘Yes, yes. Solved the problem. Hmmm. You know, it's rumoured there's a traitor among the duke's household. Now then! What about that, hey?'

‘Who says that?' Willow asked, unimpressed.

‘The duke himself does,' Gwydion said. ‘But I doubt it. He is trying to concentrate minds for the coming battle.'

A bell pealed out, and there was shouting outside. That was the signal, Gort said, for everyone from the household to muster in the inner ward, and soon there were hundreds of folk crowded around the well. It was deep, one of the deepest castle wells in the whole Realm. Its mouth was a round, stone-lined hole, eight or nine feet across, with a stone lip shin-high running around it. An iron rail stopped folk from falling in, and a winding handle and drum were set above. From that there dangled a bucket.

Everyone watched as Gwydion leapt up onto the stonework and made a great show of dancing out magic around the well. Gort muttered as he blew powder from his hand. It glittered and crackled and filled the air with a minty smell. When they had finished, everyone packed in closer around the well-head, until Duke Richard's personal bodyguard appeared and began to clear a path for him, urging lesser folk back with the handles of their helm-axes. Duke Richard came in procession, bringing the duchess, Edward and his other children. His chief allies came too – Lord Sarum, Lord Warrewyk and Lord Strange. The duke
spoke privately with Gort, then stepped up onto the lip of the well.

‘I have heard it said by malicious folk that the water in this well is impure. That it gives a gripe to the guts of those who taste of it. That it will kill children. That it is not fit for a dog to drink!'

‘We could smell the stink of it this morning, your grace!' one of the younger cooks ventured.

The duke ignored the remark. ‘I promise you: the water is now wholesome.'

The duke's seneschal held up the well-pail for all to see, then threw it down the hole. The long rope snaked after it into the blackness, the winding handle twirled and squeaked then there came a splash from far below and one of the duke's guards began hauling the rope hand-over-hand. It took a long time for the pail to reappear, but when it did it was full of water. The duke took it and showed it to the crowd, who gawped at it. ‘You see – it is now quite clear!'

But when the duke raised it up a warning of great power overwhelmed Will and he started forward.

‘No, your grace! You must not!'

The duke's bodyguard tried to intercept him, but he leapt forward and made a grab for the rope, trying to tug the pail away.

‘Your grace – no!'

The rope was snatched from Will's fingers. One of the brawny bodyguards caught him and thrust him back into a corner, forcing him to his knees. Instantly four helm-axes were pointed at him.

‘Leave him!' the duke commanded. All eyes were on him as he dunked a drinking cup into the pail and raised it to his lips. ‘To our victory!'

But as he put his head back and downed a deep draught from the cup, those who watched cried out.

The duke drew the back of his hand across his lips defiantly, but he saw that even the two earls were staring at him aghast, and when he looked at his bloodied hand he recoiled.

The duke spat a mouthful of bright red gore onto the ground and cursed. Gwydion stepped forward, his voice calming the horrific moment. ‘Easy! Do not be afraid. It is only an illusion. He has taken no harm!'

The duke's shock turned swiftly to rage. He grasped Gort's robe briefly as he passed him, then thrust him away. ‘Old fool! You promised me the water was clean!'

‘Your grace, I…'

But the humiliated duke was already striding away with his hands over his mouth, his entourage following him.

T
hat night, as the moon headed towards the full, Will found himself slipping helplessly into nightmare. He had dreaded the coming of the dark. His half-waking thoughts teemed with visions of wells that turned into human mouths, of shrieking in the night, of fissures that yielded up fierce flying creatures, of figures swathed in dark rags slipping in over walls and running noiselessly along the ramparts of the castle…

When morning came he awoke to find a beautiful white cat curled up on his bed, but as soon as he reached out to it, it vanished.

Gwydion, who had sat in vigil with him most of the night, came in and laid a sign on his forehead and offered him kind words and a powder. ‘Gort says to drink this in water. Do you want me to bring Willow in? She's worried about you.'

‘I'm all right.' He croaked drily. His eyes swam. ‘What about the duke?'

‘He blames Gort for the embarrassment, though it was not his fault. Friend Richard must bear the responsibility himself. I told him he should have set a guard on the well, and a closer watch over Lord Dudlea.'

‘Dudlea? You mean—'

‘He made his escape yesterday.'

‘Then he's the one who dropped the sheep down the well…'

Will got up. Paradoxically, he felt better than he had for days. But he knew it was only a brief respite. Already his senses were starting to feel out of kilter. Willow brought him a filling breakfast, which he wolfed. Soon after, he complained of feeling sick. Despite her protests he went out as soon as he could to cut himself a fresh hazel wand, then he spent the rest of the day doggedly scrying the approaches beyond the outer ward. Once more, his efforts proved fruitless, but just before sunset, as he lingered by the lion cages near the main gate, he felt twitches in his thighs and he began to feel there was something flowing in his arms.

At his back the moon was appearing above the eastern horizon. He felt a weird sensation prickling all down his neck and across his shoulders. It made him shudder violently. An old beggar at the gate grinned up at him and, as he passed, called out to him, ‘Somebody's walking on your grave, stranger!'

He turned to look at the old man, but the madness seized him, and a great roaring and grinding filled his head. There was the clanging of steel on stone. The next thing he knew he was thrown down on his left side by an irresistible force. When he put out his hand to lift himself up he was amazed to find that a lattice of thick timbers had appeared beside him. The portcullis had come down. Its great weight had driven its iron teeth hard into the mud-filled gutter designed to receive them. Two gatemen on the far side dashed from their door to discover what had happened. One of them asked if he was hurt. The other's face was upturned, examining the recess from which a dead weight of timber and steel had unexpectedly dropped.

‘It's nothing,' he said, testing his left ankle. It was a light sprain, no more. He looked up in wonder at the portcullis. If he had not paused a step when the beggar had spoken to him he would have been impaled. But when he looked to find the old beggar, the man was nowhere to be seen.

It was dark by the time he hobbled up with Gwydion to the winch house above the gate. Together they looked at the winding drum. Gwydion showed him where the rope had been cut.

‘Did you foresee this last night in your dreams?' Gwydion asked, picking up a hatchet from where it had been allowed to fall below the winding drum.

Will took the axe and ran a finger along the rope. ‘I don't know.'

The charms about the wizard's neck clattered. ‘Recall what I once told you about the nature of premonitions.'

‘You said they're warnings sent back from the future.'

‘Then you know what you must do.'

Will closed his eyes, and for a moment he was one with his memories, back in the past with his former self, feeling what he had felt then. An eerie flow connected across a gulf of time, and he made an effort to cross that gulf with his thoughts. When he had projected the warning, he drew a deep breath.

‘Who was the old man who spoke to me?'

‘Who do you think he was?'

‘When he first spoke to me, I thought perhaps that it was you again. In disguise. Testing me.'

‘It was not I. What did he say?'

‘He called me “stranger”, and said someone had walked on my grave.'

‘Ah! That is the usual form of words used hereabouts when a person sees someone shiver. Did you shiver?'

‘I suppose I must have. The moon was rising. It's almost at the full.'

‘As the flows rise and fall in the land so do dark currents move in our bodies and minds. Believe me, I am not wholly blind to your sufferings, Will.'

‘Someone chopped the rope,' he said, meeting Gwydion's eye. ‘Who did this? And why? Is it because of who you say I am, Gwydion?'

‘Certainly.'

‘What do they want with me?'

Gwydion said, ‘Maskull wants to kill you because you are the one who will prevent the fulfilment of his desires.'

That was too much, and his mind turned away from it. He sat down beside the great windlass that raised the portcullis. The pain in his ankle throbbed as he bent to pick up the severed rope. ‘Perhaps someone else did this. Or perhaps what Maskull really wants is to get at you through me.'

‘Perhaps…'

He let the severed rope fall. ‘And there are hundreds of red hands at the cloister. Their Elders are admitted into the castle. Maybe it was one of them.'

‘Maybe.'

Will put his finger into the groove where the axe blow had fallen, then positioned himself by the drum and moved as if swinging an axe himself. ‘Well, that's something we can say at least,' he said, looking up at the wizard.

‘What?'

‘Whoever swung that axe was left-handed.'

As Will prepared alone for his ordeal, the moon opened a great, bloated, unblinking eye over the world. At the tenth chime of the castle clock it was riding at its highest, flooding wan beams across the stars of the south, and Will's terrors began to grow unbearable. He sat upright, drenched in
sweat, his breathing fast and shallow. And when he sprang from the bed he almost fainted from the pain that knifed through his ankle.

On Gwydion's advice much of the room had been cleared and Willow had taken herself and Bethe into the adjoining chamber. But now, unable to ignore his cries, she broke in on his solitary agony and helped him into a chair. Gort's magical walls were alive with flames – the world was burning, as giants and dragons disputed for possession of the land. She fought him as he raved, comforted him and calmed him, nursed his head to her breast.

He was as tense as harp wire, feeling the violence of the currents that moved within him. It seemed that running madly through the moon-drenched fields was the only thing that would take away his fever. It seemed like death to resist.

Pangur Ban was in the room, watching him unreadably. Willow brought an ember from the fire and blew on it. Soon a gentle candlelight had filled the room. But now her voice mocked him. He tore at himself, rambling about his wizard's mark.

‘Behold!'

‘Calm yourself. You don't have any wizard's mark.'

‘
Then what am I?
Where do I come from? Help me!'

‘I'll fetch Gort.'

‘No! Gort was never one of the nine! He had a mark once, but it faded! He no longer has the power!'

She gripped him. ‘Let me bring Gwydion, then.'

‘I've tried to ask him! He won't tell me!' He felt his eyes rolling in his head as he looked over his own body. He tried to twist himself about, to see what could not be seen. ‘I cannot find a mark anywhere! But what if it lies in the middle of my back? Or under my hair? Willow, what if it's under my hair. Look there! Under my foot? A dark patch! A dark patch on my sole!'

‘The duchess has a looking glass. Tomorrow, we'll ask her—'

He raved with sudden panic, seized his foot in both hands. ‘No! The mark will not show in a glass!' His staring eyes met hers as she bent to mop the sweat from his face.

‘Try not to trouble yourself…'

Her voice was as soft as butter. It humoured him. When she reached out to touch his braids, he recoiled. His eyes were wild and fevered as he forced himself back into the corner of the room.

‘I must find it!
I have to know!
'

‘Hushhh…'

Again she calmed him with gentle coaxing. And when he subsided, she took out a knife and tore strips from a sheet. She bound him hand and foot to the chair, fearing that when the next outburst came she would not be able to hold him.

His eyes opened wide and he laughed madly. ‘I have tried to be a
good
man!'

‘Will…it'll soon be midnight. Then the feelings will go away. I promise.'

But she could not promise. She did not understand. His muscles were taut, his limbs rigid. He would not – could not – control them. When she held him he suffocated.

She closed his fingers round his talisman and let him be, but she would not leave him, and so they waited together in the unwavering candlelight for his affliction to break.

When the next wave came he began to writhe and scream, and though she fought him with all her strength she could not keep him down. His hands spasmed. Blood welled in his eyes. Still she clung to him, and thrust him down. She put a stick between his teeth, fearing that if she did not he would bite off his own tongue.

‘Nnnngh! Nnnnnngh! Nnnnnnnngh!'

But just as his shouts reached a pitch of agony that she
feared he could no longer bear, the castle clock tolled midnight. The sound was like a charm. The fight began to go out of him, and within moments his struggles had died away. A bead of sweat trickled down her temple, dripped from her chin onto his face, and her own terror began to fade. Pangur Ban jumped up onto the bed and looked with serene golden eyes at the naked, sweat-drenched man. He put one white paw on Will's chest, and at the sight of that, Willow began to cry.

Will's breathing eased. His thoughts slid back into focus as the moon started its long fall away into the south-west.

‘I've found it!' he said with rapturous, limitless gratitude, still tied, still grasping the leaping green salmon in his wet hand. ‘Oh, Willow! I've found it.'

‘There, there. Of course you have,' she told him, knowing the fever had made him believe he had found the stone. ‘Sleep now, if you can.'

He drowsed for a little while and twitched once or twice, like a man who jumps in his sleep. In his dreams he saw a large black slug oozing from the Blow Stone. It wriggled up the snout of Lord Strange…

Will coughed as he came awake. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and blinked. There were red marks on his wrists. Cool light was streaming through the window and Willow had just finished feeding their daughter.

‘And how are you this fine morning?' she asked, reaching out to touch his face. ‘You've been asleep for a long while. That's good.'

‘How long?'

‘Since just after midnight. The castle clock has chimed six bells. How are you feeling?'

‘As twitchy as a squirrel. And my head's still filled with bits of dream, but I'm sane again.' He kissed her hand, then her forehead, then her mouth.

‘Good. I'm pleased about that. Gort looked in on you. He's made up another powder for you to drink.'

Bethe looked at him, grinned and reached out a small hand. The innocence of the gesture went straight to his heart.

‘Da da da da.'

A tear filled his eye. ‘By the moon and stars…I love you, child.'

There was a moment filled with warmth and light, then Willow, practical as ever, took Bethe for a wash. As he lay back he found he could put facts together seamlessly without everything flying apart inside his head. He began to think about his attacker at the Plough. Why did he have no memory of the man's face? The answer had to be magic. A spell of concealment. Then there was the gargoyle creature he had saved, the ked. Having tasted his blood it had been able to lead the would-be killer to him. Gwydion had said that the creatures were often kept by the Sightless Ones…and the Sightless Ones often mixed up left and right!

He sat up, excited by his partially connected insights. Here was another clue – when he thought about the fight at the Plough, two things stood out. The first was that he and his attacker had been evenly matched; the second was that he had equalled the strength of his attacker's right arm with his own left, yet at the same time his own right arm had been unable to overpower the other's left. That could mean only one thing – his attacker was left-handed.

He told Willow that he had finally worked it out.

She gave him a hot infusion to drink. ‘Are you sure?'

‘Don't you see? It fits with the left-handed axe stroke, the one that sent the portcullis plunging down. Before you arrived here I saw someone escaping over the walls. I chased him through the upper floor of the gatehouse. His face was masked, but I recognized him.'

‘Rest,' she said. ‘Last night has taken a lot out of you.'

He blew across the surface of the hot brew and sipped. It tasted of lavender honey and summer strawberries. ‘Gwydion told me not to doubt my inner feelings so much. They're telling me it was the same man who fought me at the Plough. Whoever loosed that portcullis was the same one who stole the red fish. I think he's been sent by the Sightless Ones. Where's Gwydion?'

The leech garden was bleak and windy. Blackbirds hopped in the bare autumn beds, turning over dry leaves. He heard their fluting cry of warning as Gwydion and Pangur Ban came by.

‘You must find the Ludford Stone, Willand. And you must find it soon.'

He stroked the cat's head then nodded at the wizard. ‘I'm doing my best. If you want to help, you might try buying us a little more time.'