Whitemantle (15 page)

A single servant showed Will to a guarded door. Hal sat in a shaft of light cast from a narrow window as he worked alone in his stone-cold cell. Yet he seemed content enough at his little desk, quill dipping and scratching, dipping and scratching. It was common knowledge that the king sat like this for hours at a time, seeing no one.

Will waited until the figure, who was wrapped up in a long black coat and black cap, eventually looked to him.

‘Your grace asked to see me.’

‘Ah…’

The quality of the king’s grace was unlike that of other men’s. Will was instantly aware of it, just as he had been on their only other meeting. Something inside him seemed to resonate with an aura of royalty, and Will suddenly knew why the common people loved Hal as a sacred figure. Despite his grandfather’s terrible crime, he had become their king. It was as the rede said: ‘It taketh three generations for great events to repair themselves.’ And now that
time was up it was almost as if the usurpation had never been. Almost…

‘Approach us closely,’ the king said. ‘Ah, now we remember you.’

‘Your grace.’ Will stepped up to the desk and saw that it was strewn with ancient documents, dozens of cracking parchments all annotated in the king’s regular, formal hand.

‘We should apologize for the sparse surroundings in which we are obliged to receive you, but the Ebors are a large family and they are presently occupying the greater part of our palace.’ He gave a smile as pale as the winter sun. ‘They have asked poor Hal to make do with a small apartment, and he has consented, for he can do no other.’

It was odd, in private, to hear a man refer to himself as if he was more than one person, and even odder to hear him speak as if he was someone else. Will had expected Hal to take easily to captivity, for he had been a prisoner of one kind or another all his life, yet somehow, despite it all, he still retained the personal dignity of a monarch.

‘Your grace,’ Will offered, ‘I can make it my business to speak with the duke, so that if you are uncomfortable…’

Again there came that penetrating look from eyes that were as dark and liquid as an old dog’s. ‘You are kind. But we do not take our lodgings amiss. This is as much as we have ever been accustomed to. And if now we might enjoy a life of quiet study and the freedom of the palace cellars, then so much the better.’

Will reminded himself that Hal’s best received acts of kingship had been the endowing of schools and other places of learning, and that the cellars that ran beneath the White Hall were where the record rolls were kept. These ancient documents were the king’s only delight.

Will waited respectfully for the king to speak again, but saw Hal’s eyes flicker to the guard who waited at the door.
Will turned suddenly and danced with a nimble step, so that even before the guard had shifted his weight from his halberd he had been struck on the forehead by the weight of Will’s spellcast.

‘Sleep!’

The guard’s expression of surprise changed to one of bliss, and he slid slowly down to the floor.

Will looked at the man mistrustfully and muttered to the king, ‘Your grace, I have a strong dislike of spies and eavesdroppers.’

Hal took the magic in his stride. ‘So I see. But that was well done, perhaps, for we have asked you here to discuss our predicament.’

Will’s fears grew. ‘Did you say predicament, your grace? Then would it not be more fitting for you to discuss it with Master Gwydion, whose skill in difficult matters is very much greater than my own?’

‘We think not. If we wished to speak with Master Gwydion we could have asked for him by name. This time we are minded to go another way, for we think that a lad such as you came to our aid once before and may do so again.’

‘Your grace speaks in riddles.’

‘Do you not recall what you once did for us? It was after the battle in our good town of Verlamion.’ The king’s inky hands began to knead one another, revealing something of the anxiety he had been keeping in. ‘Had Lord Warrewyk’s men found poor Hal’s hiding place, then he would not be speaking to you today. Will you help us in our plight?’

Will knew he was being gently – but expertly – drawn into a position that would put him in conflict with Gwydion, and he wondered how to refuse without giving offence. ‘I’m no advisor of kings, your grace.’

The king’s unblinking eyes looked through him. ‘Then you must advise us in a personal capacity, man to man.’

Will felt a distracting pressure along his left side, a glow
where the sleep spell had broken back against him too weakly. Something was amiss.

He took the king’s quill knife and stepped over to the felled guard. ‘But first, what’s to be done with Sleeping Beauty here?’ He lifted the man up by the buckle straps of his jerkin, and felt a weight that seemed deliberately limp. ‘Now, if he was awake and listening then all I’d have to do would be to kick his behind and send him away for his impudence. But since I’ve laid him down with a spell, I’ll have to test that he’s truly asleep. Look away, your grace – I’m going to cut off one of his ears. If he wakes then I shall have to take his tongue also.’

The moment Will took hold of the man’s head he opened his eyes and tried to struggle to his feet. ‘Get your bloody hands off of me!’

‘Fortunately for you, they’re not bloody yet.’ Will cuffed him down and tore open his shirt. ‘Oh! And what do we have
here
?’

The soldier tried to grab the medallion back. ‘That’s mine!’

But Will had the man by the throat and the medallion by its leather thong. He cut it away and then examined it. It was a disc of pewter with a hole in it. It dripped with cheap magic, and not only cheap magic but a crude specific against his own sleep spell.

‘A nasty little amulet, this! And come very recently from the Spire if I’m not mistaken. Who gave it to you?’

‘It’s my own business where I got it!’

‘Oh, you’re a very bad spy.’ He cast a leonine look at the guard that burst off the remains of his bluster. ‘By the moon and stars, word gets around quickly in this warren! Is there nothing that happens here that the red hands don’t instantly get to hear about?’

It was a monstrous question. The guard gasped and gritted his teeth in fear but still tried to give nothing away.
A blue gleam grew on the tip of the knife in Will’s hand, grew into a pentacle, then burst. He let the man go, got up and hardened his eyes at him. ‘Does the duke know about you reporting to other masters? Well? Does he?’

‘I…’

Will stepped dangerously, feigned indecision. ‘What will the duke order done with you when I tell him?’

‘No! Please…’

‘Perhaps it would be a mercy if I turned the air in these lungs—’ He splayed his fingers and stabbed them, serpent-like at the man’s chest’—to glass!’

‘Nnnng!’ The guard stiffened, his eyes bulged as he clawed at his throat, suddenly terrified that he could no longer draw breath.

‘There’s fresh air outside,’ Will told him. ‘Go and get it! Run for your life! Run, before you turn blue!’

As the man fled, Will closed the door and reached up to bolt it. But then he laughed a despairing laugh that was soon replaced by a weary shake of the head – the door bolt was no longer there to be shot. It seemed a gross pettiness that it had been removed, and he pitied the king the loss of this little piece of privacy.

He tossed the pewter token onto the desk, seeing that perhaps the king had read his laugh wrongly. ‘I apologize for frightening the man, your grace, but he deserved it. This palace is awash with intrigue, and if you have something to say to me it’ll be better said in privacy.’

The king seemed to Will more saddened than he should be by what he had witnessed. He held out a limp hand and took the quill knife back. ‘I think you have changed since last we met…’

‘I’ve grown up. When last we met I was but a lad.’

‘Whereas now, we see, you are educated in the ways of power.’

‘I’ve learned how best to deal with certain difficulties.’

‘And in so doing you have lost your innocence.’ There was more regret than accusation in the king’s voice. Delicate fingertips played with his ring of state. He wore only one ring, his personal seal. ‘We pity you.’

Will bowed his head, feeling admonished. ‘It’s the way of things these days. I regret it, your grace, but if we are to live in the world as it presently is…’

‘Aye…
if.
’

The moment lingered strangely, but then the king’s next gesture disposed of the matter and he tried to pass over it. ‘Ah, well. You would rather be elsewhere, we suppose, for there is much that needs mending in this Realm, but since you are here in this city we hope you might spare us a moment. As for our own feelings, we greeted Trinovant with a heavy heart. This is no city of ours, however much the churlish folk seem to delight in us. We have no stomach for kinghood, you see. We would much rather our place was filled by another, our sceptre lifted from us, our balm washed off at last. We would that no knee might bend, no lord call us king, no humble suitor press us for favours. For how can poor Hal help the common man when he cannot help himself?’ He left a space that seemed like a sigh. ‘But still, we
are
king, and born unto it, and no man may take that away. King we must be until we die – that has been our sovereign promise.’

‘I understand, your grace.’

‘Though…there are many these days who say that promises are like piecrusts.’

‘Piecrusts, your grace?’

The king gave a wan smile. ‘Aye, made to be broken.’

Will bowed his head even lower, feeling for the lonely monarch whose reign had been such a disaster. Hal was not used to making light conversation. He did not have the directness that Will was used to among men of power, nor did he understand the humour of the common crowd. His
only ambition was to be left alone to study his papers and to write what he would in peace.

Silence stretched out almost beyond endurance while Hal tucked a wisp of grey hair under his hat. ‘Our days are as simple as we can make them. We make a friend of habit. We enjoy nothing better than to sit here at this desk, or to go down with the only trusted servant who remains to us, to search ancient records.’ He brightened. ‘We are compiling a “Historie”, you see. This is our great work, done in dark and dusty places, with the squeak of rats our only music. It is a labour that is, as the Duke of Ebor has told us, “as pointless as counting crows,” but we value it. And we would say this to him if we could: he who thoroughly knows the past may come in time to know something of the future. And those who are ignorant of the past are doomed forever to repeat it. Do you not think that is correct?’

Will was losing patience. ‘I suppose it must be, if it please your grace.’

The king’s expression softened, and he almost smiled. ‘But now we want you to tell us something.’

‘If I can I will, your grace.’

‘Then say all that you know about the Ebor children.’

The request surprised Will and he let his surprise show. ‘What sort of thing would you have me say?’

‘Whatever you wish. But we would rather you were truthful.’

Will considered. Not only had it been a while since he had lived among the duke’s family, there was politics to consider. What was the reason Hal had asked him to speak? And what decisions hung upon his answer? Nevertheless, Will had encountered several of the duke’s brood about the palace, and he had picked up bits of news from Willow about the others. And what harm could there be in telling the king bare bones?

‘The older children are hardly children any more,’ he began slowly. ‘The Lady Anne is now twenty-one. She’s married to Henry, Lord Exmoor who attended the Great Council that your grace called at Castle Corben. Lord Exmoor fought against the duke at Delamprey. He did not attend the last Great Council, nor is it thought he’ll attend the next.’ He paused, knowing that Anne’s marriage was a failed political ploy, that Exmoor had sided with Henry of Mells, Mad Clifton and the Hogshead, helping the queen to gather forces secretly in the north. But it was hardly the time to broach the matter of the queen’s continuing struggle, so he said, ‘After the Lady Anne comes Edward. He’s now twenty, while the second son, Edmund, is yet seventeen. After them comes—’

‘Tell us more about the two sons.’

Will trod carefully. ‘Edward is the Ebor heir. You must have seen him many times. He’s now much concerned with affairs of state and the maintenance of his father’s army, whereas Edmund, having been touched in the past by an illness, has been declining in health. He’s the one who limps and has a withered arm.’

‘We have noticed the lad. Was it sorcery that struck him down?’

Will had meant to gloss over the matter of Edmund. He had not wanted the king to question him on the matter because he feared mentioning the Dragon Stone, which had been the real reason for Edmund’s infirmity. Instead of the intelligent, considerate youth that Will remembered, Edmund had been ruined in body, and, some said, in mind also, though Will had seen no sign of that.

‘It is not sorcery, your grace, but an old accident that has not yet come right. After Edmund—’

‘Tell me: does Edward behave well towards his brother?’

‘Towards Edmund?’ The question gave Will pause. ‘I would say so, your grace. A little while ago I asked him, “Is your brother still afraid of the dark?” and Edward’s
reply was short and to the point. He said, “My brother is not afraid of anything.”’

‘That is well. Go on please…after Edmund?’

‘After Edmund comes the Lady Elizabeth, who is sixteen. Her marriage to the Earl of Southfolk was arranged long ago, though she has still not seen her prospective husband, and complains loudly of that. She is much taken up with perfume, paint and powder. As for the Lady Margaret, she is fourteen – quiet and no fit company for her sister, who has become somewhat…shall we say, flouncing. The Lady Margaret would rather have a book in her hand than a looking glass. Sadly, she is by no means the beauty that was portrayed in the painting recently made of her. The two girls are chalk and cheese, and I shall leave it to your grace to decide which may be which.’

Will’s attempt to make the king smile failed. Hal said only, ‘Perhaps, if ever the Lady Margaret thinks kindly of her king, she might come and read to us. In the afternoons, when the light begins to fade.’