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The Language of Stones
Robert Carter
A rich and evocative tale set in a mythic 15th century Britain, to rival the work of Bernard Cornwell.The Realm is poised for war. Its weak king – Hal, grandson of a usurper – is dominated by his beautiful wife and her lover. Against them stands Duke Richard of Ebor and his allies. The two sides are set on a bloody collision course…Gwydion is watching over the Realm. He has walked the land since before the time of the druids, since before the Slavers came to subdue the people. Gwydion was here when Arthur rode to war: then they called him 'Merlyn'. But for his young apprentice, Willand, a fearsome lesson in the ways of men and power lies ahead.The Realm is an England that is still-magical. Legendary beasts still populate its by-ways. It is a land criss-crossed by lines of power upon which standing stones have been set as a secret protection against invasion. But the power of the array was broken by the Slavers who laid straight roads across the land and built walled cities of shattered stone.A thousand years have passed since then, and those roads and walls have fallen into decay. The dangerous stones are awakening, and their unruly influence is calling men to battle. Unless Gwydion and Will can unearth them, the Realm will be plunged into a disastrous civil war. But there are many enemies ranged against them: men, monsters and a sorcerer who is as powerful as Gwydion himself.
The Language of Stones
Robert Carter
This book is dedicated to Britain’s greatest living Welshman – Terry Jones.
‘First there were nine,
Then nine became seven,
And seven became five.
Now, as sure as the Ages decline,
Three are no more,
But one is alive.’
The Black Book of Tara
Table of Contents
Cover Page (#u167294c4-f92c-5eaf-9b83-aa63f8a66553)
Title Page (#u5bd82520-7d81-5b99-a210-1d2840b83ffd)
Epigraph (#uf6e04c94-1398-58cb-9232-52bedc978ee9)
PART ONE A BOY, A MAN (#u19e733fc-b7ec-51e5-8045-3c0e3b058b9e)
CHAPTER ONE OUT OF THE VALE (#u28761621-c2aa-5111-8505-ba353a7d00c1)
CHAPTER TWO INTO THE REALM (#ud6ccc662-e012-55a7-96ce-03b5d26bfbb9)
CHAPTER THREE TO THE TOWER OF LORD STRANGE (#uc5786dbd-939e-5f09-930e-cf0500482afd)
CHAPTER FOUR A LITTLE LEARNING (#u9bc802e4-53cd-511a-9efd-0dac27ff2f4a)
CHAPTER FIVE THE MARISH HAG (#u13131a93-fb94-5d25-b0b4-add1861d6404)
PART TWO THE POWERS OF THE EARTH (#u483728a3-7444-5175-8513-79f43076ed85)
CHAPTER SIX A NEST OF SECRETS (#ue78f00bc-c9ce-5cbf-8498-3b3b11ab7a9a)
CHAPTER SEVEN LAMMASTIDE (#uaff93833-5d93-58f9-8eb8-5df89e642326)
CHAPTER EIGHT CLARENDON (#u9ecf067b-33ef-55d0-8b97-d383620470ca)
CHAPTER NINE A BARROW ON THE BLESSED ISLE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN LEIR’S TREASURE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN THE STONE OF CAER LUGDUNUM (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE ALONG THE BANKS OF THE NEANE (#litres_trial_promo)
PART THREE THE DUKE OF EBOR’S PLEASURE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN A WINTER OF DISCONTENT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIFTEEN AGAINST BETTER JUDGMENT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIXTEEN COLD COMFORT IN THE WEST (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN IN THE HALL OF KING LUDD (#litres_trial_promo)
PART FOUR WILL’S TEST (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN THE PLAGUESTONE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINETEEN AT THE NAVEL OF THE WORLD (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY THE NIGHT RIDE TO HOOE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE SKIES OF FIRE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO THE SARCOPHAGUS OF VERLAMION (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE ALL IS WON, YET ALL IS LOST (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR THE GREEN MAN (#litres_trial_promo)
AUTHOR’S NOTE (#litres_trial_promo)
APPENDIX I ON THE AGES OF THE WORLD (#litres_trial_promo)
APPENDIX II (#litres_trial_promo)
Preview (#litres_trial_promo)
Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
PART ONE A BOY, A MAN (#ulink_009b1b0b-ab25-5a0e-ac30-f352aa3152ff)
CHAPTER ONE OUT OF THE VALE (#ulink_8d71087e-299c-53b0-b314-86ce5cba8c8c)
Willand son of Eldmar turned his gaze away from the Tops and ran down towards the village. The sun was warm today, the sky cloudless and the grass soft and thriving underfoot. His long hair streamed freely in the sun like golden wheat as he ran past a cluster of thatched cottages and came at last to the Green Man.
‘Is Tilwin here yet?’ he asked, hoping the knife-grinder was already slaking his thirst. But Baldgood the alehouse keeper shook his head. There was no sign of Tilwin, nor of his grinding wheel, so Will went out and sat on the grass.
Sunshine blazed on the white linen of his shirt. It was a fine spot just here. Daisies and dandelions had come out all over the green, as if it had known to put on its summer best. Every year it was fine and sunny at Cuckootide. There was racing to the Tarry Stone, kicking at the campball, and all the other sports. And afterwards there would be the bonfire. Songs would be sung and there would be dances and games and contests with the quarterstaff before the drinking of dragon soup. It would be the same this year as it had always been, and next year it would be the same again and on and on forever.
In the Vale they called today Cuckootide, the day the May Pole was put up and all the world came out onto the green to have a good time. But Will knew he could not have a good time – not until he had talked with Tilwin. He looked up at the round-shouldered hills they called the Tops and felt the longing again. It had been getting stronger, and today it felt like an invisible cord trying to pull his heart right out of his chest. That was why he had to speak with Tilwin. It had to be Tilwin, because only he would understand.
‘Hey-ho, Will!’
He knew that voice at once – whiskery Leoftan, the smith. His two thick braids hung like tarred rope side by side at his left cheek. He wore a belted shirt of white linen like Will’s own and a cap of red wool.
‘Your dad’ll be putting in your braids soon enough now, eh?’
Will shrugged. ‘It’s a hard week to turn thirteen, the week after May Day.’
Leoftan put down his armful of wooden tent-pegs. ‘Aye, you’ll have to wait near another year before you can run in the men’s race.’
Will scrubbed his fingers through his fair hair and stole another glance at the Tops. ‘Have you ever wondered what it’s like up there, Luffy?’
The smith stood up, gave him a distracted look. ‘What’s that you say?’
‘I was just thinking.’ He nodded towards the Tops. ‘One day I’d like to go up and see what’s there. Haven’t you ever thought what Nether Norton would look like with the whole Vale laid out down below?’
‘Huh?’
The moment stretched out awkwardly, but Will could not let it go. Once he had seen a small figure riding on a white horse far away where the earth met the sky. In the spring there were sheep – thousands of them – driven along by black dogs, and sometimes by men too. He had seen them many times, but whenever he had spoken of it to the others they had fallen quiet, and Gunwold the Swineherd had smirked, as if he had said something that ought not to have been said.
‘Well, Luffy? Haven’t you ever wanted to go up onto the Tops?’
Leoftan’s face lost its good humour. ‘What do you want to go talking like that for? They say there’s an ill wind up there.’
‘Is that what they say? An ill wind? And who are they who say that, Luffy? And how do they know? I wish – I wish—’
Just then Baldulf came up. He was fourteen, a fleshy, self-assured youth, and there was Wybda the Gossip and two or three others with him. ‘You want to be careful what you go a-wishing for, Willand,’ Wybda said. ‘They say that what fools and kings wishes for most often comes true.’
Will gazed back, undaunted. ‘I’m not a king or a fool. I just want to go up there and see for myself. What’s wrong with that?’
Wybda carried her embroidery with her. She plied her needle all the time, but still her pigs turned out too round and her flowers too squat. ‘Don’t you know the fae folk’ll eat you up?’
‘What do you know about the fae folk?’
Baldulf swished a willow wand at the grass near him. ‘She’s right. Nobody’s got any business up on the Tops.’
Gunwold grinned his lop-sided grin. ‘Yah, everybody knows that, Willand.’
They all began to move off and Leoftan said, ‘Aren’t you going over to watch the men’s race?’
‘Maybe later.’
He let them go. He did not know why, but just lately their company made him feel uncomfortable. He wondered if it was something to do with becoming a man. Maybe that was what made him feel so strange.
‘There’s a trackway up over the Tops,’ a gritty voice said in his ear.
He started, and when he looked round he saw Tilwin. ‘You made me jump.’
Tilwin gave a knowing grin. ‘I’ve made a lot of people jump in my time, Willand, but what I say is the truth. They’ve sent flocks along that trackway every summer for five thousand years and more. Now what do you think about that?’
Tilwin never said too much, but he knew plenty. He was not yet of middling age, and for some reason he wore his dark hair unbraided. He came once in a blue moon to fetch necessaries up from Middle Norton and beyond. Twice yearly he took the carts down to hand over the tithe, the village tax, to the Sightless Ones. Tilwin could put a sharper edge on a blade than anyone, and he was the only person Will knew who had ever been out of the Vale.
‘Who are the men who send the flocks through?’
‘Shepherds. They come this way because of the ring.’
‘What ring?’ Will’s eyes moved to the smooth emerald on Tilwin’s finger, but the knife-grinder laughed.
‘Ah, not that sort of a ring. Don’t you know there were giants in the land in the days of yore? There’s a Giant’s Ring away up on those Tops. A circle of standing stones. It’s a place of great magic.’
A shiver passed down Will’s spine. He could feel the tightness forming inside him again. Maybe it was the Giant’s Ring that was calling to him.
‘Magic…you say?’
‘Earth magic. Close by the Giant’s Ring stands Liarix Finglas, called the King’s Stone. Every shepherd who’s passed this way for fifty generations has chipped a piece off that King’s Stone until it’s now crooked as a giant’s thumb.’
‘Truly?’
‘Oh, you may believe it is so.’
‘Why do the shepherds do it?’
‘For a lucky keepsake, what do you think?’
Will did not know what he thought. The talk had set his mind on fire. ‘Fetch me a piece of it, will you, when next you go up there?’
‘Oh, and it’s a piece of the King’s Stone you want now, is it?’ Tilwin had a strange way of speaking, and a strange, deep way of looking at a person at times. ‘Ah, but you’re lucky enough in yourself, I think, Willand. Lucky enough for the meanwhile, let’s say that.’
The strange feeling welled up and squeezed his heart again. His eyes ran along the Tops, looking for a sign, but there was none. And when he looked around again Tilwin had vanished. For a moment it seemed that the knife-grinder had never been there at all.
Will wandered down and stood under the painted sign of the Green Man. It was a merry face – one of the fae folk – green as a leaf and all overgrown with ivy. The sign was bedecked now with white Cuckootide hawthorn blossom.
Cuthwal was inside, playing his fiddle, but there was no sign of Eldmar, his father, so Will wandered away, sat down on the grass for a while and watched folk coming up from way down the Vale. Then it was time for the boys’ race and there was cheering as half a dozen lads sprinted across the green and tried to be first to lay a hand on the Tarry Stone.
But Will did not feel like cheering anybody on. Leoftan had mentioned an ill wind, and an ill wind had sprung up – or at least a cold one – and not just over the Tops either. Iron-grey clouds had begun to boil up and gather darkly in the west. At first no one among the villagers seemed to notice, but then as the sun went in, one or two of them started to look skyward, and soon the bunting began to flap and the crowns of the tall beeches in Pannage Woods started to sway and roar. Folk began to feel a sudden chill touch them. It looked suddenly as if it would rain.
