`That's far enough, you men,' the sentry called. A sensible man would have realised that his tone brooked no argument. But these weren't sensible men. They were drunk.
They stopped. Will could see they were swaying slightly.
`Wanna word with Padraig,' one of the men said, slurring the words badly.
The sentry shook his head. 'That's Captain Padraig to you, Murphy. And you can believe he doesn't want a word with you.'
`We've got a legitimate complaint to make,' the man called Murphy continued. 'Any man can make his case to Padraig. We're brothers in this band. We're all the equals of each other.'
His companions chorused their agreement. They all took a pace forward and the sentry lowered his spear. They stopped again. A voice from inside the pavilion caught the attention of all of them.
`We may be equal in this band, but I'm more equal than anyone, and it pays to remember that. Quinn!'
The sentry straightened, turning to look back at the pavilion. The voice obviously belonged to Padraig, the leader of the band of cutthroats, Will thought. It was a harsh, uncompromising voice — the voice of a man used to instant obedience.
`Yes, Captain !' the sentry replied.
`Tell those drunken fools that if they continue to disturb me, I'll start taking their ears off with a blunt knife.'
`Aye, Captain!' Quinn said. Then, in a lowered tone, he said urgently to the four drunks, 'You heard him, Murphy! And you know the captain is not a man to cross. Now get yourselves out of here!'
Murphy swayed belligerently, unwilling to back down in front of his friends. Yet Will could tell from his body language that he was cowed, and after a show of defiance, he would give in.
`Well then,' he said, 'we wouldn't want to disturb the great captain's rest, would we?'
With an exaggerated bow, he turned away with his companions and they lurched back down the sloping ground to the tent lines.
Realising that the sentries' eyes were on the drunk men, Will slipped forward quickly, slithering into the dark shadow at the rear of the pavilion. He pressed forward, easing the cowl back away from his ear to hear what was being said.
... so at first light, Driscoll, you'll take thirty men and head for Mountshannon. Take the valley road. It's more direct.' It was Padraig speaking, the man who had threatened to separate the drunks from their ears.
`Is thirty men enough?' a second voice asked.
Another man answered impatiently. 'Twenty would be enough for what we have in mind. But with thirty I can make a better show of it.'
Obviously the one named Driscoll, Will thought. Then Padraig resumed talking.
`That's right. Now, you others, I want the rest of the band ready to move out by midday. We'll follow the ridge trail and head for Craikennis. Driscoll can rendezvous with us at the intersection with the Mountshannon road the morning after tomorrow. Then we'll put on another show for Craikennis.'
The one called Driscoll chuckled. 'More than a show, I think. There'll be no holy man to send us packing.'
There was a ripple of laughter from the others. Will frowned. He had the uncomfortable feeling that he had just missed something important. He edged a little closer to the canvas wall. He heard the clink of glasses from inside and the sound of pouring. The men were refilling their drinks.
There were one or two appreciative sighs — the sound a man makes when he has taken a deep draught of wine.
`You keep a good cellar, Padraig, and no doubt to it,' said a voice he hadn't heard so far.
`There'll be more where that came from in a few days,' Padraig said. 'Now, once we've rendezvoused with Driscoll, here's what we'll. . .'
Whatever they were going to do, Will never learned. At that moment, there was a shout of alarm from outside the camp. Then a voice was raised in anger and men started shouting and running towards the open space that led to the forest.
Will knew what had happened. The unconscious sentry had been found and the alarm had been raised. He'd hear nothing further tonight, he realised. He wriggled back a few metres from the tent, then, knowing that all attention would be turned towards the point where the shouting was going on, he rose into a crouch and melted back into the tent lines again.
He began running towards the sentry line, following scattered groups of men. As he passed one tent, he saw several spears stacked together outside it. He grabbed one, sending the others clattering to the ground like giant pickup sticks, and ran out onto the open grassy area that separated the camp from the forest. He passed several other men as he did so. He could hear sergeants bellowing orders, trying to bring some sense into the chaos of the disturbed camp. But for now, this confusion was exactly what Will needed.
`This way!' he shouted, to nobody in particular, and angled towards a point in the trees which he knew to be
some fifty metres from where he had knocked the sentry out. The more noise he made, the more conspicuous he made himself seem, the less notice anyone would take of him. If anyone actually followed him into the forest, he was confident that he could lose them within a few minutes.
He glanced over his shoulder but nobody had followed his lead. Already, as word filtered back that it was nothing but a sentry found sleeping on watch, men were beginning to slow down and stop. Some had even turned back to the camp.
None of them noticed when Will plunged into the forest. Within seconds the darkness beneath the trees seemed to have swallowed him. All that was left was the spear, lying half concealed in the long grass where, having no further use for it, he had tossed it to one side.
He smiled to himself as he ran silently through the trees. There'd be several unhappy men in the camp that evening. The owner of the spear would wonder what had become of his weapon — good spears were expensive. And the man who had gathered the bundle of kindling would be furious to discover that one of his comrades had stolen it.
As for the unconscious sentry, Will didn't envy him having to convince his superiors that he had been attacked. Particularly as he would be reeking of brandy. Chances were he'd be punished — and severely. In a band like this, sleeping on watch would attract savage punishment.
So the evening would be ruined for at least three of the outlaws, Will thought.
`All in all, a good night's work,' he said to himself.
* * *
Chapter 22
* * *
The market ground was a large meadow at the eastern end of the village. To the north and south were open farmlands — ploughed fields and fields under crops. Several small farmhouses were visible in the near distance. On the eastern side of the meadow there was a thick band of trees where the forest began again.
`Look who's here,' Halt said quietly. Horace followed his gaze. In the south-western corner of the meadow was a large white pavilion. Several figures in white robes were moving around the pavilion, tending a fire and preparing food.
`That's them?' Horace asked and Halt nodded once. `That's them.'
They pitched their two small tents by a blackened ring of firestones some distance from the pavilion.
`What now?' Horace asked.
Halt looked up at the sun. He estimated that it was past noon.
`We'll have a bite to eat,' he said. 'Then, later on, we'll go and listen to what Tennyson has to say.'
Horace's face brightened at the mention of food. `Sounds like a plan to me.'
***
In the late afternoon, people began making their way towards the Outsiders' camp. Halt and Horace joined the rapidly growing crowd. Halt raised an eyebrow as he saw that Tennyson's followers had set up several casks of ale and wine under a large, open-sided marquee and were serving generous mugs of both to all comers.
`That's one way to get a congregation together,' he muttered to Horace. They edged their way through the throng who were jostling for position at the refreshment tables. 'Try to look diffident,' he added to Horace.
The tall warrior frowned. 'How do I do that?'
`Look as if you're not certai
n you should be here,' Halt said. 'As if you're uncertain of yourself.'
`Well, I'm not certain I should be here,' Horace said.
Halt sighed. 'Then stop striding along so confidently. Look as if you think I'm going to whack you over the head any minute. That'll do the trick.'
`Are you?' Horace asked, smiling to himself. 'Are you going to whack me over the head?'
Halt turned a baleful glance on the younger man. But before he could speak, another voice interrupted them.
`Greetings, friends! Greetings!' The voice was deep and resonant, the powerful, well-modulated voice of a trained orator. Halt and Horace turned to view the speaker, who was walking towards them. He was a tall, heavily built man in a long white robe. In his right hand, he held a staff.
Flanking him, but a few paces behind him, were two startling identical figures. They were massively built, well over two metres in height. Tall as the leader might be, he was dwarfed by these two men. Both were totally bald. Horace studied them for a few seconds, then turned his attention back to the speaker.
His face was broad, with strong features and a prominent nose. The eyes were a startling blue. They gave the impression that their owner was looking far into the distance and seeing things normal folk could not. Horace was willing to bet that this was a look the man had carefully cultivated. On a closer inspection Horace realised that the man was well built but somewhat overweight. Obviously, he wasn't a warrior. He was bare-headed and his hair was shoulder length, brushed back from his forehead, and grey all over. Not pepper and salt grey like Halt's, but a uniform shade of white-grey throughout. The man assessed Halt and Horace quickly, then addressed himself to Halt as the obvious leader.
`You're new to the town.' His tone was friendly and he smiled in greeting. 'I saw you arrive earlier today.'
Halt nodded. He made no attempt to return the other man's smile. 'And you're taking a census, are you?'
Horace stayed silent, content to let Halt take the lead. He realised that the Ranger was playing the role of a typical country person — guarded and suspicious of strangers. His manner didn't seem to bother the newcomer, however. He seemed genuinely amused by Halt's curt rejoinder.
`Not at all. I'm just always glad to greet a new friend.' `I wasn't aware that we were friends,' Halt said.
The burly man's smile widened. 'I'm a servant of the
Golden God Alseiass. And he says all men are my friends — and I should be a friend to all men.'
Halt shrugged, still unimpressed. 'Can't say I've heard of Alseiass, either,' he said. 'He's new, is he? Just arrived from another part of heaven, perhaps?'
The man chuckled. It was a rich, deep sound. Horace found himself thinking that, if he didn't know who this man was, he would find him easy to like.
`I'll admit that Alseiass isn't well known in this part of the country,' the man said. 'But that will change. My name is Tennyson, by the way. I'm the Golden God's minister and these are my assistants Gerard and Killeen, who are also disciples of Alseiass.' He indicated the two silent giants behind him. 'We bid you a warm welcome to our camp site.'
Neither Gerard nor Killeen looked particularly warm or welcoming, Halt thought. He could read the underlying message in Tennyson's words: Welcome to my camp site te and here are my two tame bruisers in case you get out of hand.
`Please enjoy our hospitality,' Tennyson continued smoothly. 'Alseiass tells us we should all share our bounty with our friends.' He smiled again. 'Particularly new friends.'
This time, his warm smile embraced both Halt and Horace. Then he turned to look at the crowd gathering around a dais at the far end of the marquee.
`The people are waiting,' he said. J should go.'
He raised a hand, describing a curve in the air in what was obviously a form of blessing. Then he turned and strode away. Flanked by his two disciples, he made his way through the crowd, stopping here and there for a quick word or a smile or to deliver a blessing.
`So that's Tennyson,' Halt said softly. 'What did you think of him?'
Horace hesitated, then, a little reluctantly,, he replied: `Actually, I found him rather impressive.'
Halt nodded. 'So did I.'
There was an buzz of interest from the crowd as Tennyson mounted the dais, smiling at those around him and holding up his hands for silence. An expectant hush fell and he began to speak, his deep, resonant voice carrying easily to all corners of the marquee so that nobody had to lean forward to hear his words.
He was a polished performer, there was no question about it. He began with a joke at his own expense — a story about a disastrous attempt at milking a cow. Such a task was second nature to a rural audience like this and the laughter swelled as he described his complete ineptitude. Then he segued neatly to the fact that all people had varying skills and the trick to life was to find ways for people to work together and make the most effective use of their abilities. From there it was a short step to the need for people to stick together in troubled times such as the ones they were going through.
`There are evil, lawless men abroad in the world. They are the servants of the black spirit Balsennis. I see his hand everywhere I go, bringing sorrow and despair and death to the people of this wonderful country,' he said. 'Where will we find the help we need to defeat them, to drive them out? To put this country back to the way it was before? Who will help us do this?'
`The King?' said a tentative voice from the side of the crowd. Halt was willing to bet that it was one of Tennyson's own followers who had said it.
The burly orator allowed himself a small, sad smile. `The King, you say? Well, I'll agree with you that he should be the one to set his own country to rights. But can you see him doing so?'
An angry muttering swept through the crowd. Tennyson had hit a sore point with that thrust. But the people's dissatisfaction wasn't quite strong enough for them to come out in the open and agree with him. Privately, and to each other, they agreed. Publicly, they weren't quite ready to commit themselves. Open criticism of a king was a dangerous path to tread.
Tennyson let the dissatisfaction grow for a few seconds, then he resumed. 'I can't see him doing anything. I can't see his troops on their way to flush out these bandits and outlaws who are destroying the country. After all, he's the man with the power, isn't he? Does he allow anyone else to keep a body of trained soldiers for protection?'
The word 'No!' rang out from several points in the crowd. Tennyson's stooges again, Halt thought. Then the cry gathered strength and momentum as more and more people began yelling it. A few fists were raised and shaken in the air. Tennyson raised his hands for silence and the shouting gradually died down.
`Now a king, any king, deserves the loyalty of his
subjects. We all know that. . .' he began. An angry under-
current of muttering went through the crowd again as they
disagreed with him, thinking he was about to make
excuses for King Ferris. Again, Tennyson held up his hands
for silence and, reluctantly this time, the crowd went quiet.
`But. . .' he said, then repeated it with greater emphasis,
`But! That loyalty must pass both ways. If subjects must
be loyal to their king, then kings must apply that same loyalty to their subjects. Otherwise . . .' He paused and the crowd seemed to lean forward, seeing where he was going before he actually went there. 'The king abandons any claim to loyalty from his people.'
There was a roar of agreement from the villagers. Halt leaned close to Horace and said in his ear, 'Dangerous stuff. This is sedition. He must be pretty sure of himself.'
Horace nodded and turned his own head to reply in a similar soft tone. 'From what you've told us, he's had plenty of practice.'
As the crowd settled down once more, Tennyson continued. 'King Ferris has done nothing to save the people of Clonmel from the depredations of the outlaws and bandits and killers who roam the land, doing the evil work of Balsennis. What did he do for the people of
Duffy's Ford?' He paused and looked expectantly at the faces before him.
A ragged chorus rose from a dozen or so throats. `Nothing.'
Tennyson cupped a hand behind one ear and turned his head a little, a puzzled look on his face.
`What was that?' he asked and this time the answer was a full-throated roar from the entire assembly. `NOTHING!'
`Did he help that innocent twelve-year-old girl who was murdered at the ford? What did he do for her?'
Again: 'NOTHING!'
`It's not that Ferris can't help. The fact is, he refuses to do so!' Tennyson thundered. 'He has the power, if only he would choose to use it on your behalf. But he's content to
hide behind the walls of his castle at Dun Kilty, on soft cushions, with plenty to eat and drink, and do nothing. He will not raise a finger to help his people. He has no loyalty!'
His voice rose to a crescendo on the last few words. He paused, looking out over the crowd. In twos and threes, they called their agreement. Hesitantly at first, then with growing conviction. Tennyson said nothing. And this time, he made no sign for silence. He let the resentment seethe, let the people build to a pitch of anger. Then, as they realised he was waiting for them to fall silent, they did so. This time, when he spoke, he forsook the dramatic thundering and said in a quiet, carrying voice:
`And if he shows no loyalty to you, then you owe him none at all.'
THE KINGS OF CLONMEL Page 15