Whitemantle (11 page)

‘Maglin?’ Will said uncertainly, hardly knowing why he felt dismay at the name. ‘The second phantarch? Wasn’t it Maglin who presided over the Ogdoad during…the Age of Giants?’

‘Maglin’s rule was sorely troubled,’ Gwydion said, ‘for it was his lot to steer the Isle of Albion through turbulent waters. In Maglin’s time we of the Ogdoad were much taken up with the healing of the world after a great mishap befell. We repaired the fabric – plugged a hole you might say, through which all the magic had been draining. We seven guardians stood our ground, and Maglin was our champion. There was a furious fight, and though in the end we succeeded, it was a costly victory. Maglin himself closed up the hole, but he had to give too much of himself. You may judge the bitterness of his fate for yourself, for though he was phantarch for a thousand years, yet in all that time no men dared come into these Isles.’

Gort shook his head at the memory. ‘During Maglin’s
phantarchship the last of the First Men died, you see? Only wyrms and giants thrived here after that.’

‘Until King Brea came?’ Willow asked.

‘Until King Brea came.’

Will looked at the staff with new eyes. ‘So is this the Staff of Justice, then?’ he asked in amazement. ‘The third of the Four Hallows of the Realm?’

Gwydion was quick to undo that idea. ‘Oh, this is not the hallowed staff. This is just an old wizard’s helpmeet. But well-fashioned and supple enough still, I hope, to do daring deeds when put into the right hands. I asked the Wortmaster to bring it out from a place that you know well, Willand.’

‘A place that
I
know well?’

‘You mean the Vale?’ Willow asked.

‘Not the Vale!’ Gort laughed.

Puzzled, Will turned to Gort, but the Wortmaster merely stooped and reached into the crane bag to lift out another article, this time a cloak of white feathers. ‘Appleseeds, appleseeds, appleseeds…ha-har!’

And Will instantly knew the cloak for what it was. ‘That’s the kind that wizards once used to wear. It’s a swan cloak. Maglin’s staff must have come from the tomb of King Leir!’

‘Ah-ha…Right you are!’ Gort danced the cloak by the shoulders so that the sheen on the feathers became otherworldly. ‘This is the White Mande, the cloak that was once draped over that great king’s dead body by Semias.’

‘Leir’s cloak,’ Will breathed, recalling the moment he had discovered the lost tomb. Wonderful things had been arrayed around that vault, but they all belonged to a dead man. He turned to Gwydion. ‘You told me that the cloak was brought out of the Realm Below long ago by Arthur, and whoso-ever wore it would become invisible.’

Gwydion shook his head. ‘These, I believe, were my
words. “He who wears Leir’s mantle
shall remain unseen by mortal eye.
”’

‘Well, isn’t that the same thing?’

‘My meaning at the time was that Leir’s tomb was fated to remain undisturbed by lesser men, until such time as it should be found by one who is greater than Leir. However, you are right that a swan cloak will cause anyone who wears it to fade from view unless that person is a true king.’

Will slowly understood the implications and he began to redden in the face. Then Gort threw the cloak neatly about Will’s shoulders and stood back. ‘It fits! It fits!’

Will tried to shrug it off. ‘Oh, Wortmaster, what are you doing? Of course it fits – it’s a cloak.’

‘Fit for a king, I’d say,’ Gort insisted.

‘Master Gwydion, you’ve put him up to this nonsense.’

But the wizard merely drifted into the shadows as the shimmering feathers settled around Will, sheathing him in glory.

‘Please, Wortmaster,’ he said unhappily. ‘Take it off me. I daren’t wear such a fine thing.’

But Gort would not take it off him. Will looked down at the empty clasp of gold and silver, the setting that had once held a great blue-white diamond called the Star of Annuin, and he could not help but think that the world was rushing headlong towards an unthinkable chasm, and that a great weight would soon fall upon his inadequate shoulders.

T
hree days passed, and the wizard came and went, busying himself in the seeking out of tokens. Much had been hidden away in the palace by Maskull. Three dried toads were found nailed to the rafters of the royal bedchamber. Maskull’s magical traps still tied up parts of Trinovant in a spider web, nor could Gwydion’s dancing unweave it all. He had made many libations at key points, shaping counter-spells at crossroads and leaving sigils under stairs. Yet too often the working required the moon to be at the full, or a vial of royal blood that was hardly to be had. Still, the wizard erected a cordon around the palace in the form of a single flaxen thread, and within its circuit he made scatterings of ash. Various woods were needed to cleanse and restore the White Hall, and so he had hung swags of holly and twisted dried mistletoe over door lintels, and sent Gort out to the royal forests beyond Hammersmyth to fetch back a boatload of oak, ash and elm.

One thunderstruck evening he had ranged up and down like a demon, flinging open shutters to light and air to admit the purifying blast of the west wind. That cool messenger of the middle airs had swept out the stink of incense and guttered the votive candles placed in so many corners by
the Sightless Ones. Gwydion had found slips of paper containing malign formulae, seed pods, withered berries, dead flowers, knots of hair and knuckle bones, old cod-heads, the mummified body of a black cat with the halter still tight about its neck. But nothing had worked to remove the last lingering stench of dismal fortune that hung about the palace.

In cellars as dank as dungeons he had found the carefully arranged shards of a broken mirror, things stolen, things lost, things entombed under stone flags. Equerries and under-chamberlains were disturbed from their beds at midnight. High palace officials were roused up in the misty dawn as the wizard came in bearing in his hands the bones of a long-dead prince, to mutter and dance and run his new-found wand over chest and chimney-breast alike. And finally, in a tower occupied by no one at all, Gwydion had felt his way forward with remorseless care, for in a solitary cell at the top of a stair Maskull had kept his workshop of vile creation.

The sorcerer’s chamber was not without subtle defences. Magic was set, ready to snare the unwary. Walls that were not walls, seemingly thin air that was. And so Gwydion halted his attack. He let his investigation flow around the problem, then proceeded crabwise. At last, he went at it like the village worthy who goes to the local well, draws out on the end of long tongs the wriggling, spitting young of a water drake and dashes out its brains against a rock. A huge wasps’ nest was smoked out and taken down from the roof space, and when the wizard broke it open he found it to contain a human skull. Inside that was a dripping honeycomb that Gwydion sealed in a great jar.

‘But surely wasps don’t make honey,’ Will objected.

‘They do not, for this is a magical manifestation,’ the wizard told him. ‘And such honey as this may not be prized for its sweetness.’

It might, he said, turn out to be a powerful ingredient
in spellbinding one day, but when Gort saw it he removed it to a rubbish heap and ritually destroyed it with vinegar and salt, while phantasms of light danced angrily about his head.

Many more dolorous items were taken from around the dismal portal, things mainly plastered into the cracks of the walls outside the sorcerer’s stubbornly locked cell. But by his patient arts Gwydion drew these thorns, one by one, from the flesh of the body politic.

‘That’s better,’ Will said, as the sun set on the second day. ‘It feels much cleaner now.’

The wizard shook his head grimly. ‘I have lifted not one seventh part of all the filth that was installed here by malicious sorcery. Eheu!…but I must rest my weary bones, for I have more to do tomorrow. I warn you all: the matter is not yet settled – do not attempt to climb those steps.’

But Gwydion’s greatest worry remained the further outrage that Maskull must be planning. The sorcerer had pushed them into a corner, for what could they do now but wait? And waiting was not good for Will’s peace of mind.

He began to fret over which of the battlestones would next come to life. His sleep was haunted by unrestful shadows as the brown river tides rose and fell. Summer nights spent so close to the stinking mud banks of the Thamesis were humid and sweaty. Tiny, fragile flies, grey and lighter than down, came from the marshes of the far bank. They came singing through the open windows to raise red lumps on him at knuckle and elbow and foot, annoyances that made him scratch until blood came. Only the cool dawns were a relief, and the peace that came after thunderstorms. Tomorrow, he knew, would be far worse, for it was the day appointed for the Great Council to convene.

The afternoon grew hotter, and all the establishment of the palace of the White Hall waited on tenterhooks for the great
men of the Realm to arrive. As when the queen had called the Great Council at Castle Corben, all the lords of the Realm had been called. Most had heeded the order, though many seemed less than pleased to be here.

Will went up with Willow and Gwydion to a dusty wooden gallery, a choir stall that had not been opened in years. A plank of wormy wood served as a seat and the panelling of the stall had been carved and chipped and smothered in lettering by bored scholars who had waited out their tedium by figuring memorials to themselves. Will squeezed into the space between his wife and the wizard and moved forward to the rail. Bethe had been left with Gort. Gwydion had said that the child’s unwitting contributions to the day’s oratory should not be encouraged, and Gort said he would look after her for he had always had a hearty dislike of ceremony.

‘Do you see Magog and Gogmagog?’ Gwydion said, jogging Will’s arm. ‘They will be as pleased as anyone to see the king, I dare say.’

Will looked up at the guardian statues which stood in niches above the middle part of the White Hall. They were giants, but giants of a coarse and oafish kind. Big-handed but slow-brained. If the effigies were supposed to be life-sized, Will thought, then those giants of old must have been far bigger than the wood ogres and moorland trolls who still lived in the mountain fastnesses of the north, though not as large as the giant Alba. These heavy-boned guards were twice as tall as men and dressed after the fashion of Brea’s ancient court, or perhaps in mockery of its warriors, for they wore beards and wreaths twined in their locks, and were armed – one with a sort of halberd, the other with a pole that carried a spiked ball upon a chain.

‘A tale tells that these ancient effigies were wrought in the Kingdom of Corinow, made from oaks cut from a
druids’ grove. Another tale maintains that it was a sorcerer who gave them their present form.

‘And which tale is true?’ Willow asked.

‘I cannot say. But these two have guarded the throne of the Realm for a long time.’

Will smiled, but then he saw something that made him start, for as he looked up at Magog the nearer giant’s eyes swivelled until they bored down into him.

‘It’s looking at me,’ he hissed, feeling naked under that simmering stare. ‘They’re alive!’

Gwydion grunted. ‘Oh, they are certainly that. How else do you think they protect the throne?’

Will’s own eyes flickered as he looked around. The interior of the White Hall was a riot of dazzling ornament. Carved wood and white marble below, fluted stone and coloured glass above. The air had the resinous, beeswax smell of ancient chambers, and was so far unspoiled by the incense burners of the Fellowship. There was a lot of air to perfume in this hall, and all of it uninterrupted: no pillars held up the roof, only slender pilasters set against a wall of shining glass. These supports launched themselves upward like great, stone plant stems, branching at the last possible moment into rayed patterns that criss-crossed the plaster-white ceiling. A colourful shield, one for each of the lordly houses, showed on every roof boss, while down below statues and carvings decorated the walls. The finest statues, Will noticed, were mostly of the kings of former times, with an occasional hero and an even more occasional queen. Borders and screens contained the lordly benches, carrying the likenesses of every flower and animal in the land. But here in the middle of the White Hall, the decoration ran out of hand. Everything was gilded and bright, and the reason was easy to see – white marble steps ran up to a dais upon which there was a single golden seat.

Will knew without being told that this was the throne
of the Realm. It was not like the other royal chairs that he had seen before, makeshift thrones used by the monarch on his travels about the Realm. This was the seat on which kings were crowned, a chair guarded by giants.

Under it rested a solid block, one that Gwydion had once called the ‘Stone of Scions’. He had told how it had been stolen away many years ago from Albanay, and had come long before that from Tara in the Blessed Isle. Now Will’s attention was captured by it.

‘What lies under the throne looks to me like the stump of a battlestone,’ he said, pointing.

‘And to me,’ Gwydion said. ‘Indeed I have long thought that its origins may be connected with the fae. Certainly, it has magical powers that lend themselves to the good governance of the Realm. The stone sings a single high note when the rightful king first sits there, but these days only the rightful king may hear it sing.’

‘That’s not much use,’ Willow said. ‘To the rest of us, I mean.’

‘It is, alas, all that this jaded world now affords us by way of royal magic.’

‘The rightful king…’ Will muttered, reminding himself how he and Edward of Ebor had once huddled around a flickering candle flame in Foderingham Castle. The duke’s son had explained exactly how much those words meant to his father.

Just who is the rightful king? Will wondered. It was a perplexing question, a matter of blood and complicated lines of descent. But this family quarrel had seen competing cousins arm themselves to the teeth and ready themselves to murder or die in order to assert the right to rule. What place in such a quarrel was there for an outsider, one who was not family and not of the blood? What place was there for a King Arthur?

Hundreds of nobles had by now gathered in the two
wings of the hall. Edward was sitting with Lords Sarum and Warrewyk and others of the Ebor clan. Will saw Edmund, Edward’s younger brother, placed less prominendy. He was dressed in velvets of sombre black and brown, as if trying to hide the deformity that had twisted his arm and leg. That illness – caused, Will knew, by tragic contact with the Dragon Stone – made his mouth foam at the corner and his eyes wander skyward at times, though his wits were quite intact.

On the far side Will saw Jasper and his father, Owain, who had moved as close to the neutral camp as they dared. Certain luke-warm supporters of the queen, like Lord Dudlea and the Earl of Ormerod and Willet, clustered near them. All the great northern magnates were absent, as Will had known they would be, for the rumour was that even now the queen and Duke Henry of Mells had found a refuge in Albanay and from there were sending promises and favours to the famous Pierce clan of Umberland.

No summons from Trinovant could yet have reached the Earl of Umber and the other lords of the Albanay Marches. And if it had, no reply should be expected from the third earl, for his father had died at Verlamion, choking on his own blood, with a Warrewyk arrow lodged in his throat. Certainly, Henry of Mells and Harry of Umber had common cause against Ebor. And if those whose sires had died in battle found it impossible to attend the latest Council, how much more did the heirs of the lordly houses of Rockingham and Shroppesburgh, Bowmonde and Egremonde? Their kin had been murdered in cold blood.

Not every lord, however, had been infected by the wish for personal revenge. According to Gwydion’s advice, the two sides had been invited to seat themselves striclty in order of precedence, but old habits held sway, and the earls and barons grouped themselves on the benches of their allies, seeking strength in numbers against the
liberties of the new regime. The mood of the gathered lords was surprisingly calm, Will thought. Flintily watchful rather than fearful, coolly disdainful rather than burning with bile. The humour of the hall was sober and subdued, as if the nobility were unable to breach the smothering blanket of peace that had been thrown over them. The lofty white ceiling threw back a soft, pale light, and Will knew without having to open his mind that, here at least, the wizard had done a thorough job of cleansing the air of vile spells, and perhaps he had laid on a few vital influences of his own.

But the restful air of the White Hall did not stay unsullied for long, for now the representatives of the Fellowship began to issue into the north and south aisles. Two lines of Elders were led forward by sighted helpers. These gnarled princes of the Fellowship were caped in heavy cloth of gold. Each wore a tall, glittering hat that swayed this way and that as their heads turned from side to side. The High Wardens were announced by criers and men swinging incense burners, and followed by hooded standard bearers who raised on high flags showing the white heart, the slaughtered lamb and the bloodied thorn. Will’s dislike of their shameless flaunting hardened further, for he knew that every last thread of that shiny apparel had cost some common fieldsman a month of bread and cheese. Will felt the coldness pass along his veins each time the strange scanning movements of the Elders’ heads turned his way. Then he saw that at their head was none other than Grand High Warden Isnar.

He looked away lest his hard stare was latched onto. As the sickly smoke of their silver thuribles and golden fumatories reached the gallery, he guarded his mind against the persuasive odour and against the probings of the strange sense that the red hands had in place of their sight. Will would have liked nothing better than to stand up and
announce himself boldly to Isnar, but this was not the time to give in to such an urge.

After the Elders had taken their places there followed another dirge, and when that was complete, a fanfare rang out. The Lord High Admiral and the Earl Marshal of the Realm walked up the aisles, then came the two Constables and the Keeper of the Tower, followed by an array of Stewards, Chancellors and Chamberlains, men whose titles Will had long ago been tutored to commit to memory. One thing was striking: these were not the same men he had seen holding those titles during the meeting at Castle Corben.