Whitemantle (30 page)

Will urged Lotan to clear a way, and the big man cut a path to the castle gate. Normally the bailey was barred to all except those who had business with the king’s steward. Tonight it was packed tight, so that even knights of middling rank who had arrived late found it difficult to reach the Great Hall. Lotan shouldered his way through like a giant mole and Will followed as if he held higher authority.

He did not dare apply magic here. The taint of Maskull’s corruption grew in Will’s nostrils as he entered the Great Hall, and he knew he had walked into the gravest jeopardy.
There was the queen, accompanied by her solemn young son and surrounded by the nobles of her party. Tonight she wore crimson velvet trimmed with royal ermine, and her slender figure occupied the High Chair of the city, the one reserved for the sovereign. Not far from her, and all in black, stood Maskull. Will was staggered by the air of expectation about the hall, so thick that it could almost have been sliced and served.

What were they waiting for? His eye danced from person to person. There were many here that he knew – the Hogshead, Lord Exmoor, the Duke of Umberland, even Lord Dudlea and the white-haired Owain of Cambray. Will’s blood boiled to see Lord Clifton among them with his smooth-shaved jaw and his insane smile, but where was that prime mover and favourite of the queen, Henry de Bowforde, Duke of Mells? Was not this his greatest hour?

Hot wax spattered down from the candle wheels that hung on chains above, bringing Will back to the moment. Then there were shouts of ‘Make way!’ and a bodyguard dressed in the blue and white Bowforde livery entered. Will saw the golden portcullis badges glittering on their breasts, saw an aisle open that revealed floor tiles of red and ochre. And down that aisle marched Duke Henry, a fierce expression on his face. He looked to Will like a man damming back a great torrent of feeling, as if this moment was the one that his efforts had been leading him towards for the whole of his life.

Silence descended. Henry walked straight down the aisle and approached the queen to within a sword’s length. He carried in his hand a short pike, its top obscured by a sack. It seemed to Will that Henry had conceived some grand surprise for the queen and was about to reveal it. But then Will noticed that a thin red juice ran down the pole and onto Henry’s hand, as if a fresh chicken carcass had been spiked there.

And it dawned on him what horror crouched ready to pounce on the scene and devour it.

Henry set the foot of the pike down on the ground, saying, ‘Gracious queen, I come tonight bearing gifts.’ And he flung off the sack to reveal his first ghastly present. ‘Your war is done, my queen! Here is your king’s ransom!’

There, atop the pike, was the impaled head of Richard of Ebor.

Will turned away, disgusted by the sight, all his hopes now in ruin. Around him there were shouts of delight and a burst of rejoicing. Will felt like giving out a warning that he who made merry at the death of another today would surely rue it upon the morrow. But he said no such thing, for he knew that if he did it would be Willow who would have to bear the consequences of his bravery.

He knew suddenly that he must get out of the hall or else soon be spotted, for he could not join the celebration nor even seem to. But the gleeful rituals were by no means complete, for now two more heads were brought in on spikes to general approval. The first was the Earl Sarum’s, and the other was poor Edmund’s.

Then Duke Henry, warming to his grim comedy, produced a paper hat cut in the shape of a crown, and he clapped it on Richard of Ebor’s head with much ribaldry, so that the fierce queen and all in the Great Hall laughed to see the mocking respect a ‘subject’ paid to his ‘rightful king’.

‘And what shall we say to him who is the other son of this “rightful king”?’ Duke Henry asked now turning to the queen’s child.

And the six-year-old boy gazed back and announced, as if having been previously schooled to say the line, ‘Death to Edward! Off with his head!’

There was laughing applause, which Duke Henry cut off, saying, ‘And what shall we do with his head when we have it?’

The prince giggled. ‘Stick it on a hook and let the crows pick out its eyes!’

In the uproar of mirthful approval none paid any heed to Will and Lotan as they burrowed their way out of the hall and then out of the castle.

First they sought the darkness of cramped alleys, and Will gnashed his teeth and raged against the cruelty he had witnessed. He knew he must range far into the frozen fields and settle his boiling mind and finally gather his powers. Unless he could do so he would not be able to pledge himself again to peacemaking, for this barbarity had truly struck home with him.

But it was no mean task to get out of the city. The crush of men entering now was twice what it had been, and the gateway was packed tight to the jambs. Again Lotan took the lead and somehow they made their exit to find a great crowd gathered expectantly outside, including many wild-men and trolls who had so far been denied entry into the city. The crackling fires threw an uncertain light up at the gatehouse, and when a roar went up from those around, Will turned to see the queen herself and all her entourage coming out onto the wooden balcony.

The queen stood stern and remorseless. And there too, in his white garb, the queen’s son, as innocent as a swan yet already turned to the dread path by those who would see war promoted. And soon the son of the man many thought was the child’s true father, the Duke of Mells, came there also, and the Hogshead, and all the others, parading out to stand beneath the place where carpenters had already fixed a bracket with five up-curving hooks on it.

And Will saw the duke’s head placed up there, still wreathed in its mocking paper cap, and he recalled the words Richard of Ebor had spoken that very morning:
‘I fight for the crown!’
That was what he had said, and how true the sentiment, for now in the end he had got his
heart’s desire, but not in any way that he would have wanted.

‘Now he looks like a king, does he not?’ Queen Mag asked, working her oratory upon the crowd. ‘Behold the traitor who dared to set his rebel hand upon my Hal’s golden throne! The impostor would have sat himself down there in majesty had not so many gallant men denied him. Do you see these five hooks I have ordered to be sharpened? I think Ebor’s head should take centre place, flanked to left and right by the traitor, Sarum, and the cripple, Rutteland. We have but three heads to show you this night, but two more shall soon adorn these walls. The far hook awaits the coming of treacherous Warrewyk! And this, above me now, is reserved for the head of Edward of Ebor! He is hereby attainted and made outlaw! Now raise the father up above this town so that Ebor shall overlook Ebor!’

That gloating speech made by the queen was cheered rapturously by the multitude below. As the bonfires blazed higher, trolls and wild-men shouted and stamped, adding their bass voices to the noise. Will looked on, wordless and numb, seeing how vilely the war – and the world – had slumped to a new low. He was sad and sorry, like one of those great, dumb ogres in their midst, who could not understand anything of what passed, but who felt it all keenly.

Will saw that the ogre closest to them was roaring and crying now as competing influences vied inside its slothful brain. Men around it had taken note of its agonies, and they laughed and poked fun at it in a dangerous game, like dogs baiting a bear.

Slow of mind it may be, Will thought, yet it feels both the power of the lorc and Maskull’s enchantments, and they are tearing apart what little there is of its rudimentary emotions.

But now, up on the balcony, it was the Duke of Mells’ turn to address the soldiery and rouse his men to a new passion, for he told them that their great army would rise
up on the morrow and march unstoppably into the south, where all the riches of Trinovant awaited them.

‘There lies such bounty as makes this city of Ebor seem like a bare hillside! In Trinovant, treasure is at every hand! Silver apples and golden pears hang down from the trees for the taking! Who among you will come with me to shake those trees and make the treasure fall?’

Whereas the shouts from the crowd had been vengeful when the queen had spoken, now they were shot through with veins of pure greed. Lotan seized Will’s shoulder and hissed through gritted teeth, ‘His intent to move the army south is something your wizard has to know about. We must find him right away!’

But Will had no time to make a reply, for the nearby ogre, maddened now by its tormenting neighbours, lifted itself suddenly up off its haunches and ran amok, dashing men down as it began to flail its fists.

A space opened up around the commotion, but Will and Lotan stepped bravely forward, the first trying to calm the stricken half-beast, while the second urged the fevered crowd back.

Will raised his hands and began to step dangerously before the enraged creature. For a moment it seemed he would be stamped down, but then it looked as if it had bethought its violence, and though the lone man was now at its mercy it refused its chance to kill and merely swept him aside with an open hand.

Will crashed to the ground, and then keepers and collarmen came, holding up gaudy charms before them. ‘Back, Scabbe! Stand down, I say!’

Scabbe did not stand down, but defied them and roared out its anger, but in the end the rebellion petered out, for those amulets were oozing magic that coshed the ogre into submission.

When Will picked himself up and began to dust himself
down worse happened. A not-so-gentle blow fell upon his own head from behind. He sank to his knees, not knowing who had singled him out, or for what reason, but as he knelt he was hit again and this time the blow knocked him cold.

First came the nightmare – pain and bright hues swimming in his head and Chlu riding through the night on a blown horse.

Then, very slowly, he became aware that the resonant sound he could hear was snoring, though he was himself no longer asleep. The pain and the nightmare became real. He found that breathing was hard. Confusion disorientated him. It made no difference, it seemed, if he opened his eyes or not. There was only darkness, a void written over with ghosts of vivid colour like those that came after a heavy blow to the head. And then he began to remember.

The pain swelled as he tried to adjust his position. He realized there was something wrong with his hands which were held up and out somewhere above his head. That was why his chest was stretched, and what made breathing so hard. A surface, hard, damp and gritty, pressed lightly against his back, but when he moved his feet only his heels touched solidity. He was floating in the form of a human letter Y, strung up by his hands against a wall…

The sound of laboured breathing was speckled not by the jangle of horse tackle, but by the chittering of rats, and something else – the clink of iron that called a certain person to mind.

‘Lotan?’ he said.

His voice was dry and weak and went unheeded. He swallowed hard and tried again. This time his call was louder, then the breathing faltered and there was a groan.

‘Lotan, is that you?’

He had to repeat the name three times before he got a reply.

‘Willand…are you hurt?’

‘My arms are dead. I can’t feel them. I can’t move my fingers. How about you?’

‘It’s either totally dark in here, or I’ve lost my eyes again.’

Chain rattled and there was the sound of a man sitting up. Will felt Lotan’s head against his feet as he recoiled from the contact.

‘It’s only me.’

‘What are you doing up there?’

He would have found the question ripe for retort had not the pain dissuaded him. ‘Can you stand up?’

‘There’s an iron hoop around my neck. And my wrists are bound…’

Will heard rusty chains being snapped taut. They sounded sturdy enough to keep a dragonet tethered. ‘Sit up and let me rest my feet on your shoulders for a little while.’

Lotan obliged, taking his weight.

‘I’m…trying to get the blood back into my hands,’ Will groaned. He dwelt on advancing the tingling that was the first glimmer of sensation. The pain rose and rose, as torturesome as cramp, but he suffered it in the hope that it would soon reach a peak and begin to fall away. He muttered in the true tongue to help himself through, then when the worst was over he tried to distract his mind with more commonplace words.

‘I wonder how long we’ve been here.’

Lotan’s growl was heartfelt. ‘I’m more interested in how much longer we’ll stay.’

‘I know the answer to that.’

‘Along with the dungeon master’s first name, I hope.’

‘There’s not a great deal of choice, but I’d rather it was Henry of Mells. I’d prefer him to the queen or Maskull. Wouldn’t you?’

‘Compared to them even the pig-headed lord would be a welcome host.’

‘I know a thing or two about pig-headed lords.’ Will tried again to flex his fingers, releasing another torrent of pain. ‘Whoever’s put us here, we won’t have long to wait. My brother…’

He stopped himself. Until now he had made no mention of Chlu to Lotan. But now he wondered why he had said nothing before. Perhaps he had been affected by Gwydion’s unreasoning suspicion.

Now he explained about Chlu, haltingly but leaving out nothing.

Lotan braced his back more comfortably against the wall. ‘So…your brother knows you’re here, and he’s coming to kill you?’

‘He’s bound to try. My drifting mind saw him on a horse. He’s riding here as fast as he can. He was at Awakenfield or somewhere close by when the battle was fought. And if I felt him, then he’ll have felt me. He’ll know that I’m in pain and confined somewhere in Ebor. There can’t be that many dungeons in the city, even a city as big as this.’

‘He has a choice of two castles and the guild prison. His guess is as good as ours.’ Lotan’s words sounded resigned.

‘I’m sorry to have got you into this.’

‘I’m not worried.’

‘You’re not?’ Will managed an incredulous laugh.

‘No. Didn’t I tell you? I’ve always been lucky.’

A great deal of time seemed to pass while they heard no sound other than the squeaking of rats. In the darkness, Will’s imagination made a picture of their cell. From the smell he knew the floor was earthen and filthy. From the touch on his back he knew the walls were as thick and damp as only castle foundations could be. And from the way the sounds echoed he knew there were four walls, a barrel-vaulted ceiling and a single door. Beyond that, he surmised, must be a passage and steps and probably another door beyond, for the lack of light was total
and they must have been imprisoned for longer than even the longest of winter nights without the least smudge of light reaching them.