Robert Carter - Whitemantle

Through that tremendous portal Duke Richard passed in splendour, but it was not his own sword that he raised aloft, but rather King Hal’s. He lifted it up like a sign – or perhaps a boast – while a few paces behind, on a little bay horse, rode the quiet, plainly dressed figure of the king himself.

Duke Richard’s intention, Will knew, was to show himself to the people – this was Richard of Ebor, the king’s great saviour and Lord Protector once more. He must be seen to be the hero who had saved the sacred sovereign from the grip of greedy friends and a wicked wife. But Will read another message, for in the middle of it all the humble, pale-faced figure of the king seemed hemmed in by gaolers – Sir Thomas Cyrel and Lord Bonavelle, square-chinned men who sat upon massive chargers, and who else but the iron-handed seneschal, Sir Hugh Morte, loyalest of Ebor retainers, bringing up the rear?

Yet, imprisoned though the king was by these huge forces, a moment came when, to Will’s mind at least, everything was stood upon its head and Hal appeared to be the serene embodiment of kingship. The whiff of dragonet made the larger destriers skittish, and though they were blinkered and under short rein it was only with difficulty that their illtempered riders were able to control them. Yet through the commotion the little bay walked on at ease, as if enfolded by the mystic aura that only a true king possessed.

And then clarions called – the sound of silver trumpets recognizing the return of the king to the City, and Will tried to gauge how much of the cheering proclaimed the arrival of the king and how much his captor. There were many in the crowd who waved wreaths of victory, or pinned on their breasts the badge of the fetterlock and falcon. They called out loudly, ‘A Ebor! A Ebor!’ But despite their raucous shouts, Will still detected King Hal’s subde empowerment, for many more of the people were glad to have their monarch back than cared how his deliverance had been accomplished. And Will shook his head in amazement because although Duke Richard knew it not, the truth was that he had placed himself wholly in the king’s power.

As the leading columns of the duke’s formidable army entered the City, drums were beaten at their head and the penetrating buzz of crumhorns and the drone of bladder pipes waxed suddenly loud. Pans of sorcerer’s powder flared up in shows of light and smoke, and petals scattered down from the arch upon the helmeted heads of the soldiery. Suddenly, the whole scene became a riot of flags bearing the colours of the victors. Helmets and bright armour glittered as ranks of mounted knights came on steadily, five abreast. There was a clattering of hooves on flagstones. A great cheer was raised and all the ghastly, glorious panoply of war came surging through the gate, edged weapons displayed to awe the minds of those who gazed on.

Will frowned as he saw the train of great guns. The three greatest of them were named ‘Toune’, ‘Tom o’ Linton’ and – perhaps worryingly – ‘Trinovant’. They had been named for three cities by way of a warning, for these three had the strongest circuits of walls, and the names were a boast that nothing could withstand the might of these engines of war.

Close after the guns came Lords Sarum and Warrewyk, and riding between them Edward, Earl of the Marches and heir of the House of Ebor. Will saw his wife’s eyes as her head turned to follow the duke’s son. Edward was handsome, a manly figure, made even more attractive – or so it had once seemed – by a cultivated air of superiority that was copied from his father. It had been a youthful jealousy of Will’s that Willow must have been in love with Edward.

How easy it was now to see that the lorc had exploited in him one of the three human weaknesses. But back at Ludford Castle he had been ready to kill the heir of Ebor. Despite their boyhood friendship he had been ready to run his heart through with a dagger. Though the murderous impulse appeared ludicrous in hindsight, still he had been scarred by the incident. He had been left with a feeling of shame that was unearthed each time he thought of it.

In response to the burn of embarrassment, Will opened his mind to draw an inner breath and so quench it. Now that Willow had seen the results of Edward’s headstrong, even merciless, nature, the notion that she might ever have harboured desire for him seemed doubly absurd. Before the battle at Delamprey Edward had promised to give common quarter. Yet he had regarded that undertaking so lightly that an unthinkable crime had been allowed to pass. Willow had seen the freshly stained grass, the bloody beheading block, and Will had noted the disgust written in her face. So many captive noblemen had died at Warrewyk’s hands in that hour of madness that a continuation of the war had been virtually guaranteed.

But that’s how ill-wielded magic breaks back, Will thought ruefully. In truth, it was all my fault, and not Edward’s or Warrewyk’s. That’s how the Delamprey stone succeeded against me in the end; though I managed to curtail the fight, I continued the war.

‘There’s Edward,’ Willow said, squeezing Will’s hand. ‘And to think you two were schooled together. Little good it did him, the oathbreaker.’

‘Don’t blame him so easily,’ Will said. ‘It was his bad fortune to have tangled his destiny with the battlestones. The lorc lays out many pitfalls to swallow the unwary.’

She scowled. ‘I suppose Warrewyk and Sarum are bound to be bad influences on anybody.’

‘That’s right enough.’

‘How d’you think Lord Dudlea has fared?’ she asked, scanning the knightly host. ‘Has he kept to his word and thrown himself on Duke Richard’s mercy?’

‘I doubt it. I expect Master Gwydion’s warnings will all have washed off him along with the first shower of summer rain. And even if he does as he promised, Warrewyk will probably take him aside and talk him into some other kind of skulduggery.’ Will’s eye followed Warrewyk and Sarum. ‘Look at them in their finery – they think they’re so important and grand. Yet for all their vanity they’re as driven by the lorc as straws are before the wind – and the joke is they don’t even know it’s happening to them.’

Will looked around at the crowd, then raised a hand to his temple and winced as if afflicted by a sudden pain.

‘What is it?’ Gwydion asked, concerned.

‘Nothing.’

‘Your manner belies your word, my friend. Have you seen some stir among the red hands?’ he asked, looking around. ‘Tell me quickly now!’

‘No, no…’

Gwydion looked beyond him at the crowd. ‘Then is it Chlu? Did you feel him?’

Will gave no answer except a scowl which was meant to tell the wizard that he had again shot wide of the mark. But the truth was that he had indeed felt Chlu.

Gwydion clapped a hand on his shoulder. ‘I think it is time we were gone from here.’

‘Gwydion, no!’

But this time the wizard was adamant. They slipped away, following Gwydion along the City wall and down beside the Luddsgate. As they went out through the paupers’ passage, a new concern overtook Will. He remembered his so-far unfulfilled promise to Lotan.

Master Gwydion must have laid a powerful spell on himself, he thought, one that turns aside seekers after unwelcome favours…

But Will knew he was making excuses. Gwydion was four paces ahead and striding out. Will could easily catch him up and tell him about Lotan right away, but he made no effort. Instead he half convinced himself that he would make a better job of it once they had a little privacy.

The wizard strode on ahead as they made haste across the Hollbourne and along the West Strande towards the main road junction at the Charing Crossroads. There stood the infamous monument, a miniature spire, before which was a place of ashes. From time to time, unfortunates were dragged here in chains by the Fellowship and slowly roasted to death, a punishment reserved for those suspected of being warlocks, though sometimes visited upon the heads of those who voiced open criticism of the Fellowship and were then found to have intractable natures.