The Giants' Dance (38 page)

T
he weather turned warm and springlike for the next week. The splash of otters was heard in the Afon's waters, while the flash of kingfisher blue was seen among the reed mace. Buds burst and flowers began to brighten the grounds of Castle Corben. Even the dour walls of the keep were lightened by the warmth of sunshine.

As Willow had supposed, Maskull's next reappearance heralded a burst of activity around the king, but it was not another move that was in the offing – there was to be a gathering.

Will was glad. For all its austerity, Corben Castle was not troubled by the same joining of ligns that had made Ludford a place of madness and misery for him. Even so, whenever he cautiously opened his mind to his surroundings he could taste the odour of tainted magic hanging like a mist about King's Hill and along the banks of the Afon. Over the roofs and towers of the castle a ghastly power writhed with a glow like King Elmond's Fire, and Will wondered what events could have left so long-lasting a mark on the place.

Before Morann had left he had reluctantly given something of the history of Corben, telling what had taken
place a thousand years before. He had spoken of royal brothers, Cynsas and Orelin, ninety-eighth and ninety-ninth kings of the line of Brea, who had first raised the sceptre here. Cynsas had reigned for fifty years, and Orelin for thirty-two, and when the latter died, in his ninety-second year, he was succeeded by the grandson of his younger brother, Robilax. This was the hundredth king and his name was Uther, later called Pendragon. It was a time of upheaval, for the famed wizard, Merlyn, had lived in those days and had come to Corben to consult with the birds of the air and to work his high magic – magic that would bring about the second coming of Great Arthur to the land. But later, in the time of the greatness of Arthur, madness had afflicted Merlyn, an insanity brought on by the death of a friend, which drove him first to the Forest of Arden and then eastward to the linden woods and the solemn rookeries of Corben. There, in the mystic glades, Merlyn had wandered many a year, living on roots and berries, riding a stag for his steed, and suffering only the company of wolves and other wild beasts. And in those days, Merlyn sought out the warlock's doom-ground and talked with the stars and danced magic that was akin to sorcery, though it was not quite sorcery, for Merlyn had been mad and his intentions uncertain.

‘You see, Master Gwydion once knew what it was like to be a man in torment,' Morann had said. ‘He has known love and death, for in those days he took himself a wife and then he lost her. In his madness he killed a man, the one whom his abandoned wife would have married. And what was the reason for it? It was because he thought himself the betrayer of the Ogdoad. Some beliefs a man cannot live with. They rot the mind. The blame was what sent him mad.'

On tempest nights, Will could hear the echoes of those
dangerous times still hanging in the air. And he could feel now that a delicately poised web of magic enfolded the royal court, centred on the king. Regardless of where Hal went, Maskull's spells and Gwydion's counterspells remained locked in place about him, always vying, blocking, exerting precise magical force to and fro, the one always counterplaying the other. Although the sum of those spells was nil, Will appreciated that was not the same as there being no magical forces in place at all. And it seemed that King Hal's spirit was wholly weary of the tensions. He appeared strained and drained and afflicted by a terrible pressure, so that what fragile sanity he possessed seemed overready to crack. And yet something prevented it. Will wondered at the unguessed personal strength that lay within the king's heart. He was no weakling, but an embattled spirit, one enduring a monstrous burden. Perhaps that was what the churlish folk saw in him and loved.

Yet Will was able to see, as few others could, why Maskull had brought the court to Castle Corben and held it here as if in preparation for some crucial event. It was not only a place of bad aspect, but the very place where Gwydion had faced his sternest personal test. And the crucial event seemed to be connected with an announcement. There was to be a banquet, or so it was rumoured, a banquet to celebrate the king and queen's fifteenth wedding anniversary.

But was that just a pretext? Beyond it, as yet, lay only more debate and uncertain rumour. Will had come up here to the Long Gallery to decide what must be done. Beyond the gallery was an uninterrupted view across the greensward that lay between the castle walls. A hundred paces away stood the lind tree that Morann had spoken of – the infamous Corben Tree. He had slept on Morann's words for a week, but no clear way had yet emerged.
Should he go, or should he stay? What to do for the best?

Will's thoughts were reaching for an answer when he passed close by a stocky man with an unsmiling demeanour and an archer's arms. The man lingered at a corner, and when Will came close he whispered, ‘Hsst, my lord! A moment, if you will!'

Catching what he thought was his real name, Will turned sharply, his hand giving warning on the handle of his dagger. ‘What did you say?'

‘Easy, my lord…' The man's eyes strayed briefly to the dagger, then he took a step back. He was no lord or squire, but if he was a servant he wore no livery colours or badge to show who he served. ‘I have a message for the Maceugh of Eochaidhan.'

‘A message from whom?'

‘I'm to ask the Maceugh if he'll come along with me.' The man seemed overeager, agitated. He looked around as if he did not quite like the business he was about.

‘Why should the Maceugh come with you?'

‘To attend a private meeting.'

‘Private, you say? Or secret?'

‘That's all I am to say. Will the Maceugh come?'

Will calculated swiftly, thinking that if it was Duke Henry who had sent the man there might be deadly peril at the end and no simple way of avoiding it. But if it was not Duke Henry, there might be something interesting to be learned. He nodded and followed the man across the castle court, up a flight of stone steps and along a short, open gallery. He sweated as he approached the door at the far end. When the servant opened it Will was surprised to find Lord Dudlea waiting for him.

‘Greetings to you, Maceugh,' Dudlea said. He dismissed his servant, then invited Will to sit down, an offer Will declined. He also refused the cup of wine that was poured for him.

‘Have no fear,' Dudlea told him, ‘we're quite alone here.'

‘That's what worries me. Plots are hatched in private meetings. If you have something to say to me, you should say it in public.'

Lord Dudlea's eyes were unmoving. ‘The duke has asked me to speak with you – in private.'

‘The duke—' He stopped himself, suddenly feeling danger close in on him. For some reason, when Dudlea had said ‘the duke' his thoughts had flown straight to Richard of Ebor – and to Bethe.

Dudlea looked hard at him for a moment, then he said, ‘The duke needs to know where the Clan Maceugh stands in our present struggle.'

Will returned the stare, but he was thinking furiously. He knew he must tread with care. After what seemed like an age, he said, ‘My clan stands where I stand.'

‘And where is that?'

Will stiffened. ‘That remains to be seen. I was sent into this Realm as emissary of the High King. So far, I have not been allowed to present my credentials to your sovereign, and this is an affront.'

‘Come now, Maceugh. You know the reason for that, or we are both fools.'

‘If you mean that your king has the mind of a child and is ruled by others, then I must agree with you. But he is still your king, and I can speak with no other.'

Lord Dudlea gave his guest a withering look. ‘Don't make this more difficult than it need be, Maceugh.'

‘Take my words as you will.' He decided to gamble. ‘I have two eyes in my head, my lord. I can see that you are loyal to your king, but that you have little time for the queen and her manoeuvres. Now what of the duke? Has he a message for me, or not?'

Dudlea's face became stony once more. ‘Maceugh, you're a candid man. Therefore I will not beat about the
bush with you. Duke Henry does not want Richard of Ebor to cross from the Blessed Isle. To that end we have been looking to acquire an ally who is prepared to prevent his leaving.'

‘And you want the Clan Maceugh to be that ally?'

‘Not…quite.'

‘Then what?'

‘We need someone to get close to Richard of Ebor.'

‘Close?'

Lord Dudlea drew a breath. ‘Close enough to slip a knife between his ribs.'

Will let the astounding moment run through him. ‘By that, I guess you would have me kill Richard of Ebor.'

‘Yes.'

‘And why should I agree to that, when it would mean certain death for me?'

Dudlea put his fingertips together. ‘In truth, it will be the death of you if you refuse.'

Will bristled. ‘You threaten me, my lord!'

Dudlea gave a world-weary laugh. ‘What you do not know is that I was a prisoner at Ludford in the weeks before the castle fell. There was no emissary of the Blessed Isle imprisoned in the dungeon there, for I was housed there myself. Therefore, what you told Duke Henry about yourself cannot possibly be true. I don't know who you are, or what your game is, but you are certainly a liar and a fraud, and I know from long experience that men who are that can generally be persuaded to do the bidding of others.'

‘You're talking of blackmail.'

‘Yes. And your choice may be simply put – do this hazardous thing for Duke Henry and succeed, and you will be rewarded richly. Try his cause, and fail, and your wife will at least outlive you. But refuse him, and you both will die painful deaths.'

Will's blood flowed cold in his veins. He reminded himself that Dudlea was only doing the dirty work of another. He made sure his face gave no clue and said, ‘I have heard your offer.'

‘And?'

‘And I will think on it.'

‘Do.' Lord Dudlea sat back, a tight smile on his lips now. ‘But do not think overlong, Maceugh, for affairs are now beginning to move again. Duke Henry cannot afford to wait long for an answer.'

Will turned, bringing the interview to an end. At the door, he nodded the slightest of bows and withdrew. He knew that finally he had been put in the dragon's mouth, and already he could feel the dreadful jaws closing on him.

The Great Hall of Castle Corben was ablaze with candlelight. Servants loaded the long feasting tables with a spread of meat and drink fit to honour those who had gathered. There were many nobles present – two dukes, six earls, a dozen barons, a hundred knights, all with their ladies. Many had come in haste to the royal summons, to show fealty to their king and his beautiful queen, for this was a banquet none dared miss.

Willow had listened closely to the gossip that circulated among the queen's ladies-in-waiting. She had learned that a mysterious ‘advisor' had told the queen that she must take every opportunity to show her closeness to her husband, and that the fifteenth anniversary of the royal marriage would provide the perfect setting for an important announcement.

But before the announcement must come the feast. Jarred, the queen's conjuror, danced a parody of magic in the hall. The conjuror always painted his face for his performances, making it unnaturally pale, reddening his lips and rimming his eyes in black. It was also his habit to
stick a little silver moon on one cheek and a little golden sun on the other. He blew coloured fires and made doves fly up from his hands above the laughing revellers. As the hall waited for the king to arrive festive music played. There was juggling and tumbling by a troupe of acrobats and dwarfs, and lastly a poor bear trained to dance, or at least to move its limbs to the orders of a fearful wretch with a whip.

Will suspected that it had been brought in as a joke, scorn aimed at Earl Warrewyk's heraldic badge, which was a muzzled bear. He was sorely tempted to bend his skills in favour of the animal's plight, to utter a spell that would break the muzzle from the bear's collar and send the beast bounding free towards the high table, but he remembered Gwydion's warning that he must not do magic unless he was also willing to risk his disguise. The time for that was not yet come. To Will's eyes, the Great Hall was a landscape of shifting quicksands that might easily swallow him. Not to have turned up tonight would have roused everyone's suspicions, but sitting here among so many enemies had already made him uncomfortable, and the arrival of Maskull had made him sweat.

Now trumpets blared and the conjuror, Jarred, danced a semblance of magic before them all as they prepared to feast and to drink. Will paid the entertainments scant heed – poor Jarred, who wanted only to be admired, though everyone had seen his tired tricks a dozen times. He little suspected there was one moving invisibly among his audience tonight who could have burned him to a black skeleton with no more than a fierce glance.

Maskull was known to be at court, though he had chosen to remain unseen by everyone save the queen. But Will had the knack of seeing him too. The sorcerer threaded his way through the feast like a black viper as the queen made her entry on the king's arm. All saw how
she turned her head this way and that as she walked, and many surely counted her movements as haughty watchfulness, though she was in truth listening to what Maskull told her. The king himself, mute, wan of face and seemingly bewildered beside her, tried to shut out the voices in his head. He carried a daffodil in his thin fingers, and the badge of the white swan had been pinned on his breast. He seemed remote and unworldly, living deep within himself now, in an inner dungeon that was the only refuge of his spirit.

At high table, King Hal took his place beside the queen. And, on the other side of her, Duke Henry sulked, severe in his lordly fur-trimmed velvets. Rich, heavily pleated robes hid an undershirt of mail that he always wore against the unlooked-for dagger. The queen's allies had been foregathering so there were many seated at high table whom Will did not recognize, but there were also many whom he did. Beyond the king sat Lord Strange, tossing his long head and grunting temperamentally. His grey lady ate little – she sat insipid and unsmiling at his side. And there, Baron Clifton, whose wild stare showed the damage that had been inflicted upon his mind by the Blow Stone. The last guest Will's gaze fell upon was Lord Dudlea, watchful and calculating, and accompanied now by his wife, a woman who was reputed to be his shrewdest advisor.