Whitemantle. Robert Goldthwaite Carter

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      ‘But do not forget in whose interest lies the peace now, Willand. Friend Richard wants to maintain the comfortable fiction that Hal is back on his throne and that all is now right with the Realm. Richard will be graciously pleased to forgive all who come to Trinovant to kneel before the king.’

      ‘Do you really think so?’ Will looked hard at the gate. ‘Will Richard settle for that? For myself, I wonder what he’s really up to.’

      Gwydion tapped his nose and winked. ‘Soon we will know how it is going to be.’

      Will saw a band of men appear under the great arch. City waits, they were, musicians in motley garb who played merrily upon sackbuts and shawms and beat upon tabrets with long sticks to herald the coming of the king. Each of the Guilds had sent liverymen, and they lined the road. Near them were arrayed the serjeants-at-law in their green finery, and walking at their centre the King’s Serjeant, carrying a golden mace upon his shoulder. Behind him came the Recorders and Justices – the judges of the law, and regulators of the people.

      ‘I’m surprised Duke Richard trusts to his safety at all,’ Will murmured, ‘with so many kinds of lawyer gathered in the road to greet him.’

      ‘Ha!’ Gwydion sniffed. ‘Our falcon does not mind a few toads strewing his path when he has the king himself in his talons. But if you are asking about the niceties of the deal, I will tell you that all the legalities have already been tidied up. Several edicts have been issued in the name of the king. These are writs that overturn those given out at the Great Council that was held under the CorbenTree – the ones that attainted Friend Richard. None of it was ever ratified, and so says the king: “All that was Ebor’s, is Ebor’s once again.” You see how much has been done in preparation for Duke Richard’s arrival? Not least all the counter-magic that I have expended!’

      Despite the heat, Will felt a frostiness issuing from the wizard that seemed to confirm what Willow had said. He wondered, and not for the first time, what exactly happened when a wizard began to fail. Gwydion himself had said that the end of the present Age was nigh. What would become of Gwydion before he went into the Far North in search of his philosopher’s stone?

      Will shut his eyes, feeling a familiar nausea move into the pit of his stomach. His heart began to thump faster. Chlu was somewhere in the crowd, searching, coming ever closer…

      He closed his mind, guarding his talent, doing the equivalent in magical terms of hanging back quietly in the shadows. He was not sure whether that would be enough to hide him from his twin’s murderous awareness, but when Chlu appeared again he would meet him face to face. Beads of sweat stood out on Will’s forehead, but the feeling of danger passed away and his heart slowed again. He wiped his face and scanned the crowd, but there was no one familiar to be seen there.

      ‘Are you expecting anyone in particular?’ Gwydion asked from the side of his mouth.

      ‘Hmm?’

      ‘You seem pensive. Scared perhaps. Are you expecting Chlu?’

      Will grimaced at the wizard’s imputation, and said uncomfortably, ‘The only reason I escaped from the Spire is that Chlu fled his true name.’

      ‘You should have told me that sooner.’

      ‘Should I?’

      ‘Do you feel him now in the crowd?’

      ‘He dare not attack me here.’

      ‘I agree. But only because there is no clear shot of you. He will not keep away for long.’

      ‘I hardly need you to tell me that.’

      ‘Nor will the fact that you know his true name afford you even a meagre measure of protection for long, for sooner or later Chlu will speak with Maskull about the matter and Maskull will tell him the truth.’

      ‘Which is?’

      ‘That you can only use his true name to destroy him by destroying yourself. He will gamble that you have not the skill, or more likely the courage, to use a power like that.’

      ‘Then he’ll be wrong!’ Will said, but he instantly regretted his unconsidered reply.

      ‘Is that so?’ Gwydion nodded judiciously, absorbing the remark and weighing it carefully. ‘Is that truly so, Willand? For, if it is, then you are as great a fool as any that I have ever met.’

      But now the music had grown louder and the ironcollared dragonets were roused to groaning and flapping their stubby wings. The keepers at the capstans heaved on the bars to make the silver beasts draw back into the depths of the gatehouse and the stalls where they were out of sight.

      High up between the towers of the Luddsgate itself stood a great, weathered statue of the ancient Brean king, Ludd. Men had climbed perilously to bedeck it with garlands and oak branches, and now sweepers were rushing to clear the way below. Fellows from nearby chapter houses came with incense burners and sprinklers of rose-water to disguise the air so the horses would not bolt at the stink. And then, almost too suddenly, the waiting was over. Three heralds in royal tabards came in sight. Then Duke Richard of Ebor appeared, bare-headed, sitting astride his famous white warhorse. Save for his helmet, he rode in full battle armour.

      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 СКАЧАТЬ