Whitemantle (42 page)

‘Looked at squarely, perhaps,’ Gwydion answered, fussing now with a lantern. ‘But it is not given to many men to look squarely at truth, for truth is as bright and shining as the sun. It may not be viewed directly by ordinary mortals without damage. Now think on that.’

‘But I’m not an ordinary mortal,’ Will said, feeling the ground slipping away from under him. ‘I’m just an aspect, one half of an original that was split asunder by fae magic.’

‘That is a realization I supposed you would arrive at eventually,’ the wizard said with great deliberateness.

‘How long have you known it?’

‘“Known” is too strong. “Suspected” would be more apt.’

Will tried to focus his thoughts on something other than himself. ‘So, what’s to be done?’

‘The main question is this: if we are to take the middle path, then whose instincts shall we follow? When your hunger for the truth simply mirrors Chlu’s ravenous taste for lies? If Chlu is determined to prove the villain, are you, then, determined otherwise? Do you want to spread a little unsolicited kindness about? Consider this question well, and make your choice! Come out with me if you dare and we’ll
wake the sleeping people of Trinovant up to what they must be told – for their own good, and also yours.’

Will nodded slowly. ‘I’ll go with you, and if parts of the truth can effect the looked-for change, I shall speak those parts too. But I will go no further.’

‘Then we will work together. But first we have another task: I must know if Maskull has been here in our absence. Come!’

Will followed him down echoing passages, crossing by dark diagonals from wing to wing of the palace. He could not guess where they were going until the lantern was thrust at him and he saw the wizard draw from a fold in his robes a great iron key.

When they came to Maskull’s turret Will saw that the lock was broken and the door unhinged.

Gwydion gasped with frustration. ‘I knew it!’

‘He’s been here,’ Will said, mastering the obvious. ‘But how? With his magic failing?’

‘His and mine both! Every fetter and magical lock that I placed upon this cell has failed me.’

Will felt the shreds of magic hanging limp from the walls, rotting away like forgotten treasures.

‘We must find if he has – oh! It is worse than I feared!’ exclaimed Gwydion.

‘What?’

‘The window!’

Will raised the lantern and tried to peer past its glare into the space beyond.

‘It’s gone!’

Will looked into the gloom and he searched for an opening onto the world to come. But all he found was a blank stone wall.

The following day was long and wearying. It passed in expectation of doom while the seeds of fear that Gwydion
had planted overnight began to thrust up a myriad grey shoots in every corner of the City.

Will had gone out to meet Gort, but he had decided to set off early and take stock of the City first. He disliked the rumours he heard as he went about the streets. In the Cheap the morning traders had nothing better to do than talk of what might befall, their breath steaming, their arms folded and feet stamping. Yesterday there had been a rush to buy, but now the stalls were bare, and all the stock pens empty. Trinovant was not a city that had taken the trouble to prepare for a siege, and now its people were beginning to rue the oversight.

The market ways seemed strange without their familiar sounds. The lowing of cattle, the bleating of sheep and the honking of geese would normally have added to the hubbub, but now there was no hubbub at all. And where the granite gutters of the shambles habitually ran with blood, where mendicant Fellows jostled to dip their bowls into the gory flow, today there was an eerie quiet.

Only outside the Guild Hall and the Lord Mayor’s mansion were there crowds and those were threadbare. Folk with big decisions hanging heavy upon them stood in knots, speculating on what might be. Elsewhere life was so thin on the ground that Will wondered whether a great number might not have already left the City. Certainly, if folk were hiding in their houses they were doing so behind locked doors and barred shutters.

Perhaps they felt naked now their gate guardians had died. A sudden plague had laid the last of the silvery dragonets low during the time of Will’s absence, and the City did not seem the same without them. But there were other defenders now.

In one or two of the wider thoroughfares Will saw small companies of men and boys, so-called trained bands, standing in rows with rusty iron hats jammed down over felt caps.
Red, blue or white ribbons were tied around their arms to signify what parts of the wall they were to man. They practised ham-fisted movements with sickle and scythe. Butchers and bakers and candlestick makers, listening to college manciples and white-bearded franklins tell them how best to bring down a charging horseman or hamstring a northern ogre.

That the City’s fate was down to defenders such as these appalled Will, and he shuddered to think what would happen if just one squadron of the Duke of Umberland’s veteran horsemen ever got among them.

Of Gwydion, Will saw nothing that morning. He knew the wizard would be out and about, acting at the fulcrum of events. At one and the same time he would be a moving force and a counterpoint to Maskull’s efforts. Both magicians were down to their last glimmer of influence, but both were still in the fight, and all was still to be won or lost. Will supposed there would have been some hard negotiations between the queen’s lieutenants and the officers of the city. That was work for which Gwydion had invited no aid, perhaps for fear that his delicate strokes might be upset by Will’s blundering.

In that, you’re no different to Duke Richard, Will thought grimly. You don’t want meddlers messing with your plan. Well – you’ve nothing to fear from this quarter. I just hope your burgesses and aldermen are up to their task.

Will had not known what to make of the blank wall they had found in Maskull’s tower.

‘Maybe it’s just healed up,’ he had offered. ‘I mean, if our world’s been turning into the world beyond the window, what point would there be in having a window at all?’

‘Healed up, you fool? He’s taken it away with him!’ the wizard had cried, impatient of Will’s sluggardly thoughts. ‘What I fail to understand is
why
?’

But that would have to remain Gwydion’s problem, for Will had concerns of his own. He knew he should busy
himself with an examination of the lorc, but within the City there was neither rhyme nor reason to what he felt. All the walls and the nearness of so much masonry interfered with the flow of power, and that was before he even began to consider the brooding presence of the Spire.

Even so, he could hardly fail to notice the tension that made his head hurt. The great bow of the Realm was drawn to snapping point. And he could feel the flow growing once more, drifting northward this time. It tasted bitter and sharp – like holly. And this was a fresh conundrum, for Verlamion was on the holly lign, while the nearest lign to the City was the hazel, on which the Baronet Hadlea doomstone also stood. Yet that lign was quiet, which could only mean that the lorc was orienting itself according to a different intent. It was not doing what he had expected, but rather gathering power for a final battle which would be fought in a place none of them had yet foreseen.

It seemed that relief from all the anxious waiting was going to come at noon, when Will noticed hundreds of men clattering through the streets towards the northern walls, as if in response to an alarum.

Eldersgate! Will thought. That’s where they’re going. And with such haste that the queen’s army must be hard upon us!

He set off at a trot to see for himself, but soon discovered that he had been wrong-footed. Will suspected that money had changed hands and secret orders been given. Foreriders and heralds came to Luddsgate and were received by the gatemen. At a signal the doors were thrown wide and in came the first heavily armoured mounted columns. Will, running westward, saw them thundering towards him along the Warding. Knowing well the better part of valour, he threw himself into an alleyway, trying all the while to make out the devices that flew at their lance tips.

First the white lion, then the black bull, then the boar and the bear…crimson banners and long battle standards, azure over murrey, grounds scattered with the white rose. All doubts fled from his mind. The sons of Ebor were here. Edward had come, and the City was his!

The next important news that Will learned was that King Hal was not dead.

Around the City the manner of his capture was now common knowledge. It was not a pretty story. On the day that Lord Warrewyk had been soundly thrashed on the ridge beyond Verlamion, Sir Thomas Cyrel and Lord Bonavelle had been the king’s keepers. They had seen Warrewyk’s defeat looming but they had elected to stay with poor Hal to protect him from harm, for though Warrewyk had used Hal to persuade everyone of their unity of cause as the army had ridden from the City, still he had not dared to risk the king’s life in battle. Instead Hal had been held in a tent a full league distant from the battlefield. But after the battle the secret had come out and the queen’s people had found the king counting his beads. Both Warrewyk’s knightly minders had been dragged before the queen and her young son, and lengthily humiliated. At last the men had been forced to their knees and beheaded by order of the boy. King Hal, horror-stricken and babbling, had been returned to the care of his loving wife.

Will did not know what credence to give the tale, for in time of crisis there was no shortage of folk willing to thrill their neighbours with colourful talk. But the portrayal of the king seemed to Will to be the important detail. Certainly the common folk of Trinovant no longer cared what happened to their sovereign, for in time of peace scholarly Hal could be approved and even loved, but he was no hero, and so in time of war he did not afford them the protection they thought was their due. Thus, in his meekness, Hal had failed them.

Besides, the churls had worries of their own. Will saw them creeping from their cellars and lofts now, summoned by an age-old sound. The bronze bells of all the curfew towers had been set a-ringing. A multitude began to gather in the Cheap. Then Lord Falconburgh paraded ten thousand Ebor troops through the Poultery and up Corn Hill, so that the heart of the City was packed with townsfolk, all of them hemmed in by his soldiery, and the mood was one of awe and great expectation.

Will found the Wortmaster waiting for him by an iron rail outside the Guild Hall.

‘Wshhht!’ Gort beckoned. ‘I’ve just come from Master Gwydion. He says the queen’s force is in tatters. It’s falling back into the north.’

Will’s heart leapt. ‘Then she’s failed!’

‘Oh, but she’s not finished! She’s only falling back to gather fresh strength.’

‘No, Wortmaster.’ He gripped the other’s arm. ‘She’s missed her chance. She’ll never win now. Remember the rede that says, “He who hesitates is lost”? It applies to queens too.’

Gort looked around. ‘Well…the City is now safe at least.’

‘And that’s a relief. How did Master Gwydion manage things?’

‘The crux came this morning, just after nine of the clock. Our friend managed a little simple magic on the heads of the Aldermen. He could not prevent them from agreeing to meet with the queen’s people, but he did persuade them to insist on the time and place of the meeting.’

That threw Will. ‘So?’

‘He told them not to wait there like so many scarecrows! He said, “Go out and see Queen Mag in all her glory. See the king too if she will allow it.
But see their strength for yourselves before you bargain with them.!
” That’s what Master
Gwydion advised. He speaks the language of merchants very well when he has a mind to, hey?’

Will nodded and a smile escaped him as he began to grasp the wizard’s wile in its fullness. ‘Oh, indeed he does.’

‘Well – the Aldermen saw no ogres, did they, hey? They saw no trolls either! Only five thousand or so hungry, wretched men yet remaining, and all camped in a muddy field and wishing they were back home in the north where they rightly belong. And there was old Hal, counting his beads like a madman – he said nothing, but wet himself with fear to be brought out of his tent. The queen has plenty enough warriors with her to call an army, but hardly enough to equal what the honest burghers of Trinovant had been fearing all night long. You should have seen their faces, Willand. And the change in their manners! What new resolve came to them, I can’t tell you!’

Will looked northward, to the patch of blue sky that showed between rags of grey. He felt the ancient power rumbling through the land. ‘He has to follow them,’ he muttered.

Gort turned, eyes wide at the odd paleness that had overtaken his friend. ‘Hmm? What’s that you say?’

‘Edward. If Mag’s gone into the north, then he has to follow her and finish the job. He must harry her all the way to Ebor and beyond. No hesitations. Edward must go, and he must go with all speed before she has chance to catch her breath!’

Gort rubbed his face and squinted. ‘Aye, he must, if the old redes have meaning any more.’

As they watched, a deputy Grand High Warden of the Sightless Ones, whom Will knew to be a younger brother of Earl Warrewyk, threw wide the upper-floor windows of the Guild Hall then stepped out onto the balcony. Lord Falconburgh came forward too, and with him Warrewyk, then lastly Edward. But it was Warrewyk who began to address the mob of churls who were gathered down below.

‘Let me tell to you, good people, a tale of Hal the idiot king, and Mag a proud, insulting queen who caused her husband to lose his reason!’

And at that the soldiers raised their pikes and jeered.

‘Nor may this scandal be allowed to run on. A strong right hand must pluck the diadem from faint Hal’s head and wring the awful sceptre from him who durst not wield it! Tell me, good people, is that not so?’

Now the people gave voice to their wrath, shouting that it was Hal’s fault, and his alone, that they had been brought to so lowly a condition.

‘But in this troubled time what’s to be done? Are we to throw away our coats of steel and hide ourselves in holes? Or shall we beat upon the helmets of our foes and put these proud birds to flight? Tell me your mind, good people! If for the former course, then hang your head in shame and call yourself unworthy coward, for never was fair fight won by faint heart. But if you are for the latter course then shout, “Aye!” and fill your fists with iron and prepare to come with us!’