He smiled as he saw what lay beyond. The pass was only forty meters away and the ledge ran all the way to it. The far wall of the pass was higher than the one closer to him, so he could see the gap easily. Even more importantly, the cliff itself lost its vertical slope and slanted inward, which would make it easier to climb. And he could see that the rock face was lined with small crevices and rock outcrops, even sturdy bushes growing from the rock. They would provide him with handholds and footholds for the rest of the climb.
He made his way to the near side of the pass, moving carefully and avoiding any undue noise. The surface of the ledge was littered with loose stones and rocks, and he made sure not to dislodge any of them. Probably the noise of rocks falling down the cliff would be unheard inside the steep walls of the fissure. But he wasn’t taking any chances.
Three meters from the edge of the pass, he went down on his hands and knees and crawled forward. If there was anyone, or anything, directly below him, he didn’t want his head and shoulders to be silhouetted against the sky when he peered over the edge. He stopped and checked the sun’s position, making sure it wasn’t behind him so that he would throw a shadow into the pass. Satisfied that this wouldn’t happen, he went down on his belly and crept forward, moving slowly.
A half meter from the edge, he reached back and pulled the cowl of his cloak up. It would hide the white oval of his face and break up the distinctive outline of his head. If anyone did look up, they would see the indistinct shape formed by the cowl, which could be passed off as a rock outcrop.
Not that anyone was liable to be looking up, he thought. But he had learned always to plan for the unlikely. The fact that there was no reason to look up didn’t mean that somebody wouldn’t, and it always paid to expect the worst.
He used his fingers and toes to inch himself closer to the edge. Then his eyes were over the rim and he was peering down into the black shadows beneath him.
At first, he could see nothing in the darkness. The sun was yet to pass overhead and light the interior of the fissure. But he could hear movement. He heard the scrape of a heavy boot or sandal on the rocks below him, and the sharp tink of a metal weapon or fitting hitting the rocks.
Then he became aware of a less obvious sound—a deep, throaty grunting sound. An animal sound that made his scalp tingle.
Gradually, his eyes were becoming accustomed to the gloom, and he could discern movement below. Then he could make out the forms of those in the pass, and his heart beat a little faster. The shadowy figures weren’t completely clear, but they matched the descriptions he’d been given by Pauline and the picket captain.
Dark, heavyset, covered in black fur. He couldn’t make out their features but he could see they moved clumsily and awkwardly, standing erect. And all the while, he could hear the muted grunting, coming from several directions in the pass below him.
He shivered as he thought of how it must have been for the scouting party sent in to reconnoiter. Without warning, they would have found themselves confronted by these inhuman beasts. They would have been taken by surprise, perhaps frozen with fear. And that fear had cost two of them their lives.
Slowly, he squirmed back from the edge and, in so doing, dislodged a pile of rocks with his left foot. They clattered off down the cliff face beside him, bouncing off the rock to spin in the air, then hit the face once more.
He froze. The grunting from the pass fell silent. The beasts shouldn’t have been able to hear the rocks. After all, they were screened by the solid walls of the pass. But they obviously had. The grunting started again, more urgent in tone now. He knew that the top of his head was still hanging over the edge and he stayed perfectly still, trusting the cloak to disguise and conceal him. He knew it was imperative that he make no movement. If anyone were looking, they would see an indeterminate shape at the top of the wall. But if he withdrew, they would see the movement and know someone was there.
The grunting continued. He began to make out different tones, as if the beasts were voicing question and answer. He breathed deeply and quietly, calming his racing heart.
Even if they were suspicious about the falling rocks, there was little they could do about it. They could hardly climb the sheer walls of the pass to investigate.
Unless they had a ladder.
At that thought, the blood seemed to freeze in his veins. He lay still, straining to listen, trying to make out what was going on below him. He heard no sound of wood on rock, which might have indicated that someone—or something, he amended—was fetching a ladder.
Eventually, the guttural discussion below him began to die away as the guards heard no further sound and began to lose interest in the matter. He waited still. Ten minutes. Twenty.
Now the grunts and growls had become more relaxed, losing the sharp edge of inquiry that had met the sound of the falling rocks. He reasoned that by now they had no ladder, or no inclination to investigate the sound, which, in any case, had not been repeated.
He waited another ten minutes. If anyone had been looking up at the top of the pass, chances were good that they had now grown weary of doing so. He worked his way backward with infinite slowness and care, a few millimeters at a time. When he judged his head was well clear of the edge, he slowly raised himself to his hands and knees. He took his canteen from his belt and allowed himself a long drink. His mouth was dry from the tension. Then, when his breathing was back to normal, he turned to face the rock wall stretching above him. This time, there’d be no using the mallet to drive spikes into the rock. He was too close to the pass. He considered moving away but the slope was less severe in this spot and the climbing would be easier. He shrugged. He’d have to do without the safety provided by the belaying spikes.
“If I fall, I fall,” he said philosophically.
Somehow, that didn’t make the prospect any more attractive.
7
CROWLEY KNOCKED ON THE DOOR TO THE KING’S APARTMENTS and waited until he heard Duncan’s voice from within.
“Come.”
He pushed open the door and entered, finding himself in the King’s office. Duncan didn’t stand on ceremony. There was no anteroom or Chamberlain to delay visitors with a load of red tape. When you were summoned to see the King, you saw the King, not a series of underlings.
Duncan was seated at a heavy oaken desk beside one of the windows. Sunlight streamed in, setting motes of dust dancing in its rays. His long legs were splayed out under the desk and he was frowning at a sheaf of papers. He made a quick notation on one, then looked up and smiled at Crowley, waving him forward and gesturing to a chair set opposite his at the desk.
“Come in, Crowley. Take a seat.”
Crowley settled into the seat while Duncan arranged the papers in front of him into a squared-off stack and put them to one side. The shutters were open and there was a light breeze coming through the window, so he placed a heavy granite paperweight on the sheets to stop them being scattered.
“Are you busy at the moment?” Duncan asked.
Crowley hesitated. He was the Ranger Commandant and that meant he was always busy. He had to prioritize the fief assignments. There were too few Rangers for too many fiefs, and he had to try to distribute his available men to the best advantage. Some fiefs could manage without a Ranger in the short term. But he had to remember that this was only a temporary solution and, as more men became available, he’d have to rectify it.
In addition, he was overseeing the training program for the new apprentices he’d appointed. Their mentors would train them but they had to be tested at regular intervals by an independent judge. Farrel was helping out with that. His broken leg might curtail his normal Ranger duties, but it didn’t impede his ability to assess and evaluate the young men so eager to advance in the Corps.
But these were day-to-day matters and, presumably, the King was aware of them. Crowley guessed that his question pertained to any out-of-the
-ordinary tasks that might have arisen. He screwed up his mouth thoughtfully, then answered.
“Not unduly, sir. There are rumors of a witch plying her trade in a small fief on the west coast. It’s one of the fiefs without a Ranger at present, so I’ll have to find someone to go and take a look.”
“A witch?” Duncan asked. “Is she a real witch?”
Crowley shrugged. “Is there any such thing as a real witch?” he asked in reply. Then he waved a vague hand in the air. “Odds are she’s just a lonely old lady who’s playing with potions and spreading the rumor that she’s raising demons and trolls and such.”
“That’s usually the case,” Duncan agreed. Often, the women in question were healers, with a certain amount of skill with herbs and compounds. They would serve a village, tending the sick and usually helping to heal them. But on occasion, their ministrations were of no use and they would lose a patient. In those cases, the villagers often turned on the hapless woman, claiming that she was the cause of the illness that had struck their family member. The woman had tended to a sick person. The person had died. Therefore it was the healer’s fault. From there, it was a short step to claiming witchcraft.
Sometimes, when that happened, the healer would embrace the accusation, claiming supernatural powers in order to cow the angry, frightened villagers.
“Is it serious?” Duncan wanted to know. “I can always send one of my knights to handle it if necessary.”
But Crowley was already shaking his head before he was half finished. “So far it’s just rumors and mumbling. It could even sort itself out. There’s no real urgency if you have something else that needs to be done.”
He made the last statement to move the conversation along. Obviously, Duncan had a task in mind for him and they were wasting time discussing the affairs of an old woman on the west coast.
Crowley saw that he had guessed correctly. The King fiddled with a small dagger he kept on the desk to slit open sealed documents. He seemed reluctant to speak about what he had in mind, and Crowley guessed it was a matter that was an unpleasant one for him to discuss.
“It’s the Queen,” Duncan said finally, and the Ranger Commandant nodded his understanding. The entire court now knew that Queen Rosalind, now seven months pregnant, was having a difficult time. She had been confined to her apartment for some weeks and spent most of her days resting in bed.
“She’s not improving, and the healers say they’ve done everything they can. And of course, as the baby grows, things become more difficult for the Queen.”
“Is the baby all right?” Crowley asked, with genuine concern. Aside from his liking and admiring the royal couple, it was important in such uncertain times for there to be a clear line of succession to the throne. Either a son or daughter could inherit, and the Kingdom needed to be reassured that—if something happened to Duncan—there was a legitimate heir ready to step into the breach.
“So far as they can tell,” Duncan said, the worry evident on his face. “Of course, in these cases, nobody can be sure. But they’ve listened to the heartbeat through that ear trumpet contraption my head physician brought back from Toscana two years ago and they say it’s strong and loud.”
“Well, that’s good news,” Crowley said. He frowned, wondering what the Queen’s health had to do with him. He had no skill as a healer and no experience of such matters. He was a young, single man. Duncan’s next words enlightened him.
“Geoffrey, my head physician, thinks that the situation here might be placing too much strain on her. He thinks she might be better to get away to someplace she can rest.”
The court at Castle Araluen wasn’t exactly conducive to rest and relaxation. There was squabbling and bickering as people sought to gain Duncan’s attention or favor, as well as constant undercurrents of possible treachery in the wake of Morgarath’s machinations. And of course, there was the looming question of the rebel baron and what he intended.
All these things combined to create an atmosphere of stress and worry within the palace. Every day brought a new rumor, a new potential threat. It affected Duncan himself, making him short-tempered and irritable. And, no matter how much he tried to reassure his wife, it was inevitable that she would worry about him and the dangers that he faced each day. The uncertainty nagged at her, making it well-nigh impossible for her to relax, rest and concentrate on having a healthy pregnancy.
And all of that was in addition to the physical side of things. Even under ideal conditions, she would have been having a hard time. Her health was fragile and the demands that a growing baby placed upon her body were simply too much.
“Where could she go?” Crowley asked.
“Geoffrey recommends a health spa called Woldon Abbey, which is around fifty kilometers from here. The waters there are very beneficial and the sisters who run the abbey are highly skilled in looking after delicate patients. He says it could help enormously.”
“And she’d be away from all the day-to-day rumors and uncertainty of the court,” Crowley said.
The King nodded. “Precisely. I’ve written to the Abbess. She says she thinks they can help Rosalind get through the final months of her pregnancy—and ensure that the baby is born safely.”
“How does Queen Rosalind feel about leaving Araluen?”
Duncan pursed his lips. “Naturally, she would rather stay here. She worries about me,” he added with a sheepish grin. “But she’s also concerned for the health of the baby and that’s the most important aspect of the whole matter. If it will keep the baby safe, she’ll go to Woldon until he—or she—is born.”
Crowley leaned back in his chair. “It sounds like that’s the answer then,” he said. He was pretty sure he could see where this conversation was going. If the Queen was transported to Woldon Abbey, she would need an armed escort to protect her on the journey, and someone trustworthy in command. He thought he knew who the King had in mind.
“Did you want me to command the escort for her?”
Duncan nodded. “I can’t think of anyone I’d rather have looking after her,” he said. “Short of myself, of course, and I can’t leave Araluen for a long period.”
“It is only fifty kilometers,” Crowley said.
“But it’ll be slow going,” the King told him. “She’ll have to travel very carefully in a comfortable carriage. She can’t be bounced around on rough roads and she won’t be able to do too many kilometers in a day.”
“What size escort did you have in mind?” Crowley asked.
The King answered immediately, which told Crowley that he had been thinking about this matter for some time. “You in command, of course. And one of my junior knights with a force of twenty mounted men.”
Crowley considered. It was a reasonable escort. But perhaps a little too large. Twenty men would place an unreasonable burden on the inns and manor houses where they would stop along the way, and take time to assemble for each day’s march. In addition, a group that size would draw attention to itself, and people might be tempted to try to find out the identity of the passenger in the carriage. He voiced these concerns to the King. Naturally, Duncan was most concerned with keeping his wife safe on the journey, but he could see the sense in Crowley’s argument and, after considering it for a moment, he agreed.
“Ten men-at-arms under a knight,” the Ranger said. “And I’d like to add some long-range capability as well. Maybe five mounted archers.”
Men like Duncan—knights and warriors—tended only to think in terms of swords and lances. But when it was mentioned, he could see the value of including a force of archers.
“Another thing,” Crowley added. “You could hardly afford to leave twenty men as the Queen’s bodyguard while she’s at the spa. Even ten would leave you short-handed. I’d leave five men-at-arms to look after her, and two of the archers.”
Duncan nodded. “We need to keep this a strict secret. Nobody is to
know that she’s traveling to Woldon. There are still people around here who resent me and I wouldn’t put it past some of them to use Rosalind to strike at me.”
“All the more reason to make it a smaller party,” Crowley said. “I’ll pick the archers. There’s no need for them to know where they’re going or who we’re escorting. I assume you’ll select the men-at-arms?”
Crowley could easily assess the skill of the archers he’d be taking, but Duncan had a better knowledge of the knights and warriors who were in his service.
“I’ll put young Athol in command of the detachment,” the King said. “He’s a fine leader and he has a good head on his shoulders. Of course, I’ll impress on him that you’re in overall command. You’ll be taking any major decisions that come up.”
“Let’s hope there won’t be too many of those,” Crowley said. There was a pause as both men pictured the coming days, and the sight of the little cavalcade making its way through the countryside.
“When do you want us to start?” Crowley asked.
“Is the day after tomorrow too soon?” Duncan replied. Now that the decision had been made, he wanted to see Rosalind on the road as soon as possible.
Crowley thought for a second, then nodded. “That’ll give me time to clear a few things up,” he said. “And hand over to Farrel. In a way, it’s fortunate that he injured himself. It’s very handy having him here.”
“Yes,” said the King, but his tone was distracted.
Crowley leaned forward and placed his hand on the King’s.
“Don’t worry, my lord. I’ll guard her with my life,” he said.
8
THE SECOND HALF OF THE CLIMB WAS EASIER THAN THE INITIAL section. The cliff sloped back now, making it easier to scale than the sheer wall that had confronted Halt at the beginning of the climb. And while there was no long fissure to provide him with holds, there were plenty of cracks and faults in the granite and small outcrops of solid rock that assisted him on the way up.
The Battle of Hackham Heath Page 5