The leader of the group was a burly, bearded man about thirty years old. He was dressed in rough clothes—a jerkin and trousers of homespun—and a bearskin cloak. The bear’s mask, and its upper jaw, served as a cap for the wearer of the cloak. At first sight, it looked impressive and dangerous—a snarling face that surmounted his own bearded, dirty features. But if one looked more closely, it became apparent that the bear had not been in the best of condition when it died. One of its front fangs was broken off halfway and there were several bare patches visible where the fur had rubbed away. The sorry appearance of his cloak and cap didn’t bother the wearer. He had named himself Barton Bearkiller and had gained some notoriety in the district as the leader of a robber band, preying on the common people—farmers and residents of small villages.
Barton was seated on a low branch of a tree, watching the cart squeaking by. He looked down in annoyance as one of his men reached up and tweaked his leg.
“What?” he demanded in a rough whisper. The tweaker, whose name was Donald, grinned inanely and pointed to the cart.
“Lots of goods in that cart,” he said. And when the self-styled bear killer didn’t reply, he continued, “Should us go out and take ’um?”
“Why would we do that?” Barton demanded.
Donald shrugged expansively and rolled his eyes. “Wheat, potatties, punk’ins, ducks and sheep,” he explained, as if Barton couldn’t see it all for himself. “Us could sell a’ that for a pretty penny,” he explained.
Barton shook his head and sneered at his follower. “Why should we go to all that work?” He jerked his head toward the huddled figure of the farmer. “We’ll let him sell them all for us.”
Donald followed the direction of the gesture, nodded, then frowned. “But then,” he said, “us won’t be able to take them, will us? If he’s sold ’um, he won’t have ’um anymore.”
“No,” Barton said deliberately. “He’ll have all the money from selling them. Lovely coin that goes chink.”
Slowly, understanding dawned over Donald’s grubby, unshaven features. “And us’ll take the chink from him,” he said.
Barton nodded, exaggerating the motion. “That’s right. We’ll take it from him.”
Donald smiled, then the smile faded as he saw another problem. “When?” he asked. “When do we take it all from him?”
“This afternoon when he’s heading home from the market,” Barton told him.
Donald smiled as he saw the reasoning behind Barton’s plan. “He’ll come back here, with all the money . . .”
“And we’ll take it from him,” Barton confirmed.
Donald’s smile grew wider as he visualized the scene to be played out later in the day. “He won’t like that, he won’t,” he said, and chuckled throatily.
Barton nodded, the bearskin cap dipping as he did so. “Not one bit he won’t,” he said. “But do we care?”
Donald danced a step or two of a jig. “Not one bit we don’t.”
He looked after the cart as it disappeared round a bend in the road, so that the trees hid it from view. Faintly, the noise of the squeaking wheel carried back to them for another minute or two, then it faded away.
Barton glanced at the sun. “Might as well take it easy for a while,” he said. “It’ll be several hours before he comes back.”
He scrambled down from the branch and found a patch of long, soft grass on the far side of the tree. He lay down and stretched out, pulling the bearskin mask over his eyes to shade them. The other two members of the band—One-Eyed Jem and Walter Scar—followed suit, lying on the soft ground and relaxing. Donald watched them for a few seconds, wondering if he should do the same. But Barton’s voice stopped him.
“You keep watch,” he said gruffly. “Might be another farmer will come along.”
Donald nodded, a little disappointed. The grass grew thickly here and it looked cool and comfortable.
“Aye,” he said, “I’ll keep watch.”
* * *
• • •
It was midafternoon before the squeaking wheel heralded the return of the farm cart. The squeak was more rapid now, as the empty cart was moving faster than it had previously. The mule twitched its tail contentedly as it trotted along. It preferred the lightly laden cart to the heavier version of the morning, and now it was heading back to the comfort of its barn and a full feed bag. The farmer was still perched on the seat at the front of the cart. The tray of the cart itself was empty, save for three canvas sacks.
The cart disappeared from view as it went into a small dip in the road, and Barton gestured hurriedly to Jem and Walter.
“Across the road,” he ordered them. “Donald and I will wait here. Stay undercover until we’ve got him stopped.”
His two henchmen didn’t point out that they had done this sort of thing a dozen times in the past few weeks and didn’t need instructions. There was no point doing that with Barton. He had an uncertain temper at the best of times. Crouching low, although the cart was still hidden from sight, they scurried across the narrow track and concealed themselves among the trees. They were both armed—Jem with a homemade spear and Walter with a heavy spiked cudgel.
Barton retrieved his own cudgel from behind the tree where he had been sleeping and gestured to Donald to move back to the trees.
“Get out of sight,” he ordered. “Wait till I call you out.”
Donald nodded several times and ran in a crouch to the tree line. The sun was lower in the sky now and it cast deeper shadows among the trees. Barton watched, then nodded in grim satisfaction. Unless you were consciously looking for the ragged bandit, you wouldn’t see him.
The squeaking was louder now and he peered carefully around the tree trunk. The cart was emerging from the dip in the road and was only thirty meters away. The farmer seemed ignorant to the presence of the robber band. Barton smiled maliciously.
“So much the worse for him,” he muttered.
He was a little surprised that such a rich prize was traveling alone on this road. He and his men had been preying on farmers going to and from market for the past three weeks. Most of the farmers now took precautions, either traveling in groups or hiring armed guards to escort them. In such cases, Barton and his men allowed the famers to pass unhindered. Barton might style himself as a fearless bear killer, but he wasn’t about to risk his own neck in a confrontation with armed men. Not while there were still fools like this one who traveled alone.
Although, he thought, lone travelers were becoming fewer in number. He and his men would have to switch to a new location soon. He’d been planning to do so for several days. But now this rich prize would make the delay worthwhile.
The cart was ten meters away when Barton stepped out from behind the tree and moved to the edge of the road. He swung the cudgel several times, the big club making a menacing WHOOSH as it beat through the air.
“Stop there!” he roared, holding up his free hand in an unmistakable gesture.
The farmer hauled back on the reins and the mule stopped, swishing its tail and stomping one forefoot. It had been daydreaming about that feed bag, and now it seemed there was going to be a delay before it was strapped on. That was enough to rouse the mule’s ill temper.
Still, most things were.
“My goodness. What do we have here?” the farmer said calmly.
His choice of words and accent were not the sort of rough country speech that one might expect from a simple farmer. And that should have rung a warning bell in Barton’s mind. But he was too pleased with himself for caution. The sight of those well-filled sacks in the tray of the cart, doubtless bulging with coins, was more than enough to make him careless.
“I’m Barton the Bearkiller!” he roared, pointing to the bear’s face above his own. This was usually enough to instill terror into his victims. This time, however, the result was not quite what he expected.
The farmer leaned forward on his seat and peered at the bear’s mask with interest. “Are you telling me you killed that bear?” he asked mildly.
Barton hesitated for a second or two, puzzled by the lack of fear shown by his victim. Then he recovered, raising his weapon and shaking it above his head.
“That’s right! I killed it with one blow of this cudgel!” he snarled.
The farmer peered more closely, then scratched his ear before he spoke again. “Are you sure?”
Barton was considerably startled. This was not the way this conversation was supposed to go. “What?” he finally asked in disbelief.
The farmer gestured toward the bear’s face. “Are you sure it wasn’t already dead when you found it?” he asked. “I mean, look at it. It’s hardly in prime condition, is it? If it wasn’t already dead, it surely must have been at death’s door. You simply put it out of its misery and sent it to a better place.”
“It was . . . it . . . I . . .” Barton stammered, trying to get the words out in reply. In truth, the bear had been dead when he found it. It had lived a full life and passed away from old age. But nobody before had ever questioned his claim. Frustration and rage finally overcame him, and he found his voice once more.
“Of course I killed it!” he said. “It attacked me and I killed it. That’s why I’m known as Barton the Bearkiller.”
The farmer remained unimpressed. “Hmmm,” he said thoughtfully. “Are you sure you’re not known as Barton, the dead bear’s bottom? After all, the bear’s head is on top and you’re on the bottom. That would make more sense to me.”
This was too much for the confused robber. Nobody had ever defied him before. Nobody had ever mocked him before. It was too much for him to take. He stepped toward the cart, raising his club threateningly.
“Get down from there!” he ordered. “Toss down those sacks and get down, or I’ll knock your brains out!”
The farmer studied him quizzically, his head tilted to one side. “No. I don’t think so,” he said.
Barton let out a roar of pure rage, taking another step toward the cart, ready to swat this insolent farmer from his seat. But before he could do so, the farmer raised his hand in the air and made a circling gesture.
A second or so later, Barton felt a savage jerk as the bear’s-mask cap was torn away from his head, ending up pinned to the tree behind him by a quivering arrow.
3
“So, King Philippe, tell us how can we help you?”
It was the morning after the Gallican party’s midnight arrival at Castle Araluen, and Philippe and his brother were in Duncan’s office. Also present were Anthony, the chamberlain, and a tall, broad-shouldered warrior who had been introduced as Sir Horace, Duncan’s son-in-law and the commander of the Araluen army. They were seated around Duncan’s large table. A sixth man, dressed in a curious green-and-gray-mottled cloak, sat to one side as if trying to remain unobtrusive. Philippe had to turn his head to see him. He had been introduced as Gilan, the Commandant of the Araluen Rangers. As far as Philippe was concerned, this man was the key reason for their presence here, and he kept turning to watch the still figure.
“It’s my son, Giles,” Philippe said, coming straight to the point. “He’s being held hostage by one of my barons.”
Duncan inclined his head thoughtfully. This was serious news and it didn’t bode well for Gallica, a country with a notoriously unstable political history, prone to revolt and quarreling among its ruling class. Philippe had ruled over this turbulent situation for the past nine years, having seized the throne in an uprising of his own.
On the other hand, it was not entirely bad news for Araluen. When Gallica was torn by internal strife, it posed little threat to other countries. Many years past, the large and potentially powerful nation had been an aggressive and unpredictable state, threatening the peace of its neighbors and seeking to conquer new territories. But the current internal instability meant the Gallicans were too consumed by their own problems to look outside their own borders.
“How did this happen?” Duncan asked. “And who is the baron in question?”
“His name is Lassigny, Baron Joubert de Lassigny. His castle is the Chateau des Falaises. It’s a powerful fortress,” Philippe told them.
Duncan threw a quick sidelong glance at Anthony. The chamberlain nodded discreetly. He had heard of Joubert de Lassigny. It was part of his job to gather intelligence about ambitious nobles in Araluen and overseas who might pose a potential threat to the current peace.
“And you say this man kidnapped your son?” Duncan continued.
“Nothing so blatant,” Philippe said. “It was more that he took advantage of a situation as it arose. My son was hunting in Lassigny’s province when a violent storm blew up. He and his party sought shelter in the Chateau des Falaises. Unfortunately, Giles is young and didn’t appreciate that Lassigny has ambitions for greater power. By placing himself into his hands, he has given him enormous leverage to advance his own position and power.”
Anthony leaned forward. “Has Lassigny made any direct threat against your son?”
Philippe shook his head, with a bitter smile. “He’s too clever for that. If he made a direct threat, he knows I would be able to seek support from the other barons and force him to release Giles. As it is, he says that Giles has decided to remain at Chateau des Falaises indefinitely—of his own will. The other barons are prepared to accept that at face value and stay out of the argument. None of them are particularly loyal to the crown,” he said scornfully. “It’s a strong fortress and my own forces aren’t sufficient to besiege it and take it. I would need four times as many men as I have for that. And if I were to attack Lassigny, I might well create a revolt among some of the others. I know several of them are looking for any excuse to rise up against me.”
“Has Lassigny made any direct demands from you?” Horace put the question. “Has he set a price for the release of your son?”
Again, the King of Gallica shook his head. “Nothing direct. For several years now he has been agitating for the control of the province adjacent to his own. The baron who had control of that province died some years ago and Lassigny has had his eye on it ever since.”
He paused and his brother took up the narrative. “The dead baron had no heir and Lassigny has laid a claim to the land,” Louis said. “It’s a rich province and it will give him even greater power than he has now.”
“But surely, the King can appoint whomever he chooses as baron of that province?” Horace asked. He knew that would be the case in Araluen. But not, apparently, in Gallica.
“I wish it were so,” Philippe told him. “But Lassigny has a claim to the position, albeit a thin one. A hundred years ago the two provinces formed one barony. They were divided by one of my predecessors—probably because they created a powerful base that might threaten his position. There are members of the council of barons who support Lassigny’s claim. Doubtless they expect some form of reward should his claim be recognized.”
“And purely by coincidence, he has raised this claim again, just at the time that your son has fallen into his hands?” Duncan said.
Philippe turned to look at him. “Exactly. The message is unstated but perfectly clear for all that. Give him the title to the neighboring province and Giles will be allowed to return home.”
“I can see your problem,” Duncan said thoughtfully. “But I’m not sure what help we can give you. We can hardly send troops to Gallica to reinforce your authority over Lassigny. That would be too big a provocation for the other barons. You’ve said that many of them tacitly support him.”
“That’s right.”
“Then our sending troops to help you could spark a revolt among them and even a war between our two countries. I’m not prepared to risk that for something that’s essentially an internal Gallican problem.” He frowned, then continued. “I don’t wa
nt to sound unsympathetic to your needs, but I know how our barons would react if I asked for Gallican troops to help support me.” He glanced around the room at his counselors, who nodded their agreement.
“I’m not asking for troops. I’m not asking you to fight my battle for me. This is not a situation that can be resolved by force. It needs guile and subterfuge. Possibly one man.”
“One man?” Horace interposed. “Who might that be?”
Philippe spread his hands in a slightly perplexed gesture. “I have no particular man in mind,” he said. “That would be for you to decide and to recommend.”
“I don’t follow,” Duncan said. “You feel one man might be able to solve your problem, but you don’t know who he is. You’re speaking in riddles, Philippe.” There was an edge of anger in his voice. Gallicans seemed to find a perverse enjoyment in being abstruse.
Philippe recognized it and made a conciliatory gesture. “I don’t mean to be obscure,” he said. “It’s more a type of man that I think could solve this problem.” He twisted in his chair to look directly at Gilan. “One of your Rangers, perhaps.”
Gilan was unsurprised. His face remained impassive. “What do you know about our Rangers?” he asked.
Philippe shrugged. “They have a certain reputation,” he said. “A reputation for getting things done without necessarily resorting to brute force. It’s said they can achieve the impossible.”
“It’s also said that we’re wizards who practice the dark arts to achieve our ends,” Gilan said. “But neither statement is true. The simple fact is, my men are carefully selected, highly intelligent and well trained. They can fight when necessary but they use their brains first to try to avoid fighting.”
“And that’s the sort of man this situation needs,” Philippe said. “Falaise is a powerful castle. It could withstand a siege for years—even if I had the men and the support necessary to mount such a siege. But one man, using guile and subterfuge and intelligence, might be able to penetrate the castle and bring Giles out.”
The Royal Ranger: The Missing Prince Page 2