The Language of Stones. Robert Goldthwaite Carter

       CHAPTER EIGHT CLARENDON

      The next morning Will awoke covered in diamonds of dew. Silver mists lay over the land, until golden sunbeams put them to flight. He said nothing to Gwydion about what had happened during the night. He found it hard to believe it had not all been a dream, though his heart told him that the meeting had been real enough. But as he packed up and readied himself once more for the road, he noted the glint of bright metal that shone in the top of the bag.

      He pulled out the battered horn he had taken from the dragon’s mound and stared at it in disbelief. It was now as perfect as the day it had been made, bound at rim and tip in finely-worked silver and inscribed with unknown words. As he polished it with his sleeve a shiver passed through him, and he knew he had been thanked and also, in some peculiar way, accepted.

      Gwydion was already dancing out mysterious signs in the air, appearing to cast spells on the trees. When he had finished he collected leaves and threaded them into a wreath which he left by the roadside, then he said, ‘Did you sleep well? I hoped you would.’

      As they moved off, an encouraging thought struck Will: although Gwydion had seemed to be speaking in riddles the day before, what he had said about walking up hill and down dale and supping with the king had, after a fashion, come to pass. Because the Green Man was surely the king of this place.

      ‘There is a saying that goes, “You cannot make a silken purse from a pig’s ear”,’ Gwydion told him, then added knowingly. ‘But sometimes you can.’

      As they cleared the bounds of the Severed Neck Woods, Will became aware of larks singing above the cornfields. There were summer snowflakes on the road verge, downy woundwort and meadow cranesbill and the brilliant yellow of ragwort. There were so many pretty flowers growing that Gwydion whispered his regrets over them, pulled up a few and saved them in his pouch. He said out of the blue, ‘Something has put a spring in your step today. Have you been feeding ducks again?’

      Will smiled. ‘No, Master Gwydion.’

      ‘I would say you look like someone who has lately passed an important test.’

      Will looked askance. ‘Do you think so?’

      ‘I do indeed. Returning respect has settled upon you – I would say.’

      Will shrugged. ‘Maybe I’ve been given the freedom of the wildwood.’

      Gwydion nodded thoughtfully. ‘Maybe. It would be a great honour to be given that. What could you have done to deserve it, I wonder?’

      Will felt proud and humble and a little uneasy all at the same time. ‘Don’t you know?’ he asked.

      ‘I know many things. Many more than most, but not quite everything.’

      Will smiled again, pleased to find that one so powerful as Gwydion also had the capacity to laugh at himself. ‘In that case, I’ll tell you why I was given the freedom of the wildwood when I judge it right for you to know.’

      Gwydion’s eyebrows lifted. ‘Are you mocking me, young man?’

      ‘Fair trade is no robbery, as we say in the Vale, Master Gwydion. And they say every man must have his secrets.’

      The wizard suppressed a smile. ‘Spoken like a wizard, lad! Now let me see what it was that you took from the earth upon Dumhacan Nadir.’

      Will reddened, then bent to undo the bag. ‘It was just an old horn, all battered and tarnished when I found it.’

      Gwydion took the horn. ‘It does not look so battered and tarnished to me.’

      Will passed it across. ‘Whoever visited us last night must have polished it while we slept.’

      ‘Great is the power of that embrace, for all the world is renewed by it each and every spring. Keep this horn with you always, for it is a rare gift. Now put it away from prying eyes, and be more careful with your secrets. Now that you have passed your test and been accepted I must inform you regarding important matters. How much do you know about your king and those who surround him?’

      Will gave an empty shrug. ‘My king? Not a lot.’

      ‘Then hearken to me closely, for the time has come when you must know. The king sits on the throne which is in the palace of the White Hall. He does so with the approval of the Stone of Scions and without demur from either Magog or Gogmagog, who are, all three, the throne’s guardians. Now, if—’

      ‘Whoa, Master Gwydion!’Will’s eyes had begun to glaze at this sudden rush of strange names. They meant nothing to him.

      ‘Hmmm – well, do you know what a usurper is?’

      Will brightened. ‘Is that not a lord who tries to take the crown away from a king?’

      ‘And then becomes king in his stead. Correct. Though you would not know it to look at him, your mild King Hal is the grandson of a most fierce usurper. He had a fearsome warrior father too – also in his time called King Hal – who won lands in conquest across the Narrow Seas from Burgund to Breize. That the fool died of the bloody flux before he had any chance to enjoy what he had won, or even to clap eyes upon the son he had fathered, is down to what his own father did.’

      ‘So Hal the Warrior’s father was Hal the Usurper?’ Will said, trying to keep up.

      ‘Correct. The first Hal seized the crown unlawfully, which was a very great crime. He starved the true king to death in a castle dungeon. No matter that the true king was arrogant and wilful and trustless. No matter either that the usurper was clever and able and acclaimed by all as the best leader of men. Still it was a crime, for the true king must be appointed by sovereignty, and must be approved by the Stone of Scions. He is only allowed to sit on the throne if there is no word of complaint from Magog and Gogmagog, which are the names of two beady-eyed statues that stand in niches behind the throne. Now do you see?’

      ‘Not really,’ Will said.

      ‘It is no matter. All you have to understand is that King Hal is a usurper’s grandson, and that he knows very well how the curse of his blighted ancestor has followed him.’

      ‘Is it a magical curse?’

      ‘Judge for yourself. There was once a common saying: “Woe betide the land that hath a child for a king”, and, though that saying may no longer be uttered upon pain of death, it nevertheless remains true. The crown came to King Hal in the first year of his life, and though he remains king in name, he has always been the pawn of powerful men. He was purposely grown into a weakling by contending barons. Their aim was always to keep him pliable to their will, and so he has proved, for he never grew much of a spine. If the curse that settled on King Hal’s father brought that king’s untimely death, then that which afflicts the present Hal is worse, for he lives on in helplessness and sees the Realm plunged ever deeper into the direst distress.’

      ‘That sounds like a curse indeed.’

      ‘The crown that was placed on the child-king’s brow thirty years ago was a disputed one. Nevertheless, in the minds of many lords so long an elapse of time has served to make Hal the legitimate king. He is, they argue, the third generation of his line to hear their oaths of fealty. They say that true majesty flows in his blood now. But equally, in the opinion of others Hal is – and always will be – no more than the grandson of a murdering usurper.’

      Will could only just follow Gwydion’s explanation, but he was disturbed by it. He had never thought there could be so much to consider about kingship. Suddenly, his childhood notions of what it would be like to be the king seemed simple-minded. ‘But what about the true king?’ he asked suddenly. ‘The one that was usurped and starved. Didn’t he have any children?’

      The wizard looked sideways at Will, as if he had chanced to raise an important point. ‘The dispossessed