“Do you think that you’re up to the task? Just you and Will?” Crowley asked.
“And Horace,” Halt added.
The Commandant nodded, conceding the point.
“And Horace. You don’t think you need a larger force?”
“We can hardly invade Hibernia. King Ferris hasn’t asked for our help. Nor is he likely to. I think we’re better suited fighting trickery and superstition with more trickery and superstition. There’s an old Hibernian legend about a master swordsman from the East that I thought I could make use of.”
“Horace,” Will put in, and his old teacher smiled at him.
“Exactly. I feel we can approach King Ferris and convince him to resist the Outsiders. If we can break their power in Clonmel, we can roll them back through the other kingdoms.”
“And keep them out of Araluen,” Alyss said.
“It’s a matter of momentum. If we can stop theirs, people will have time to see that they’re being tricked.
“A movement like this either keeps rolling or collapses. It can’t stay still.”
“What makes you think you can get this King Ferris to listen to you? Does he know you?” Crowley asked.
“Yes, he knows me, all right,” Halt said. “He’s my brother.”
15
“I CAN’T GET OVER THE FACT THAT KING FERRIS IS YOUR BROTHER,” Horace said.
It wasn’t the first time he’d said it. Since he and the two Rangers had left Redmont and headed for the coast, he kept coming back to the fact, each time with a wondering shake of his head.
“So you keep saying,” Halt said. There was a warning tone in his voice that Will recognized. Horace, however, seemed oblivious to it.
“Well, it’s a bit of a surprise, Halt. I’d never have thought of you as . . . well, being royalty, I suppose.”
Halt’s baleful gaze turned to focus on the tall young knight riding beside him.
“Oh, really?” he said.“I suppose I’m just so unroyal in my bearing, is that it? Too coarse and common altogether?”
Will turned away to hide a smile. Horace seemed to have a real knack for getting under Halt’s skin with his attitude of innocence.
“No, no, not at all,” Horace said, realizing that he’d annoyed the Ranger but not sure how it had happened. “It’s just you don’t have the . . .” He hesitated, not quite sure what it was that Halt didn’t have.
“The haircut,” Will put in.
Halt’s glare swung toward him. “ The haircut.” It was not a question. It was a statement.
Will nodded easily. “That’s right. Royalty has a certain sense of fashion to it. It has to do with bearing and behavior and . . . haircuts.”
“You don’t like my haircut?” Halt said. Will spread his hands innocently.
“Halt, I love it! It’s just that it’s a little Rufus the Roughnut for the brother of a king. It’s not what I would call . . .”
He paused, leaning across in his saddle to study Halt’s salt-and-pepper hair more closely, ignoring the drawn-together brows and the dangerous look in Halt’s eyes. Then he found the word he was looking for.
“. . . sleek.”
Horace had been watching this exchange with interest, grateful that Halt’s ill temper had been channeled away from him for the time being. Now, however, he couldn’t help buying back in.
“Sleek! That’s the word. That’s it. Your haircut isn’t sleek enough. Royalty is sleek, above all other things.”
“Do you find King Duncan . . . sleek?” Halt asked.
Horace nodded emphatically. “When he wishes to be. On state occasions. There’s a definite sleekness to the man. Wouldn’t you agree, Will?”
“Absolutely,” the young Ranger said.
Halt’s gaze swiveled back and forth between the two of them. He had a sudden impression of himself as a bull between two dogs as they darted in on alternate sides to nip at his heels. He decided it was time to change the point of his attack.
“Horace, remember when we were in Gallica, when we challenged Deparnieux?”
Horace nodded. A shadow flitted across his face for a moment at the memory of the evil warlord.
“I remember.”
“Well, I said then that I was related to the royal line of Hibernia. Remember?”
“Yes. I seem to recall words to that effect,” Horace said. Now it was Halt’s turn to spread his hands out in a perplexed gesture.
“Well, then, did you think I was lying?”
Horace opened his mouth to reply, then shut it. There was a long and uncomfortable pause as the three horses trotted along, the only sound being the irregular clopping of their hooves on the road.
“Is that a red-tailed hawk?” Will said, pointing to the sky in an attempt to change the subject.
“No, it’s not,” Halt said, without bothering to look. “And to hell with it if it is. Well?” he said to Horace. “You haven’t answered me. Did you think I was lying?”
Horace cleared his throat nervously. Then in a small voice he said, “As a matter of fact, yes.”
Halt drew rein on Abelard and the small horse stopped. Will and Horace had to conform to his action, turning their horses so that the three of them faced each other in a rough circle in the center of the road. Halt regarded Horace with a hurt expression on his face.
“You think I was lying? You challenge my basic honesty? I am deeply, deeply hurt! Tell me, Horace, when have I ever lied?”
Will hid a smile. Halt was laying it on a little thick, he thought. The indignation, the hurt expression—he knew that his mentor was trying to get the better of Horace in this exchange, working on Horace’s basic good nature to make him feel guilty.
“Well . . . ,” said Horace uncertainly, and Will thought he saw a small self-satisfied shift to Halt’s shoulders. Then Horace continued. “Remember those girls?”
“Girls? What girls?” Halt asked.
“When we first landed in Gallica. There were some girls at the harbor front in rather short dresses.”
“Oh, those . . . yes. I think I recall them,” Halt said. There was a wariness to his manner now.
“What girls were these?” Will put in.
“Never mind,” Halt snapped out of the corner of his mouth.
“Well, you said they were couriers. That they had short dresses because they might have to run with urgent messages.”
Will let out a snort of laughter. “You said what?” he said to Halt. Halt ignored him.
“I might have said something along those lines. It’s been a while.”
“You said exactly that,” Horace told him accusingly. “And I believed you.”
“You didn’t!” Will said incredulously. He felt like a spectator at a boxing match. Horace nodded solemnly to him.
“I did. Because Halt told me, and Halt is a Ranger. And Rangers are honorable men. Rangers never lie.”
Will turned away at that. Now it was Horace laying it on a bit thick, he thought. Well played.
“But you did, didn’t you, Halt?” Horace continued. “It was a lie, wasn’t it?”
Halt hesitated. Then, gruffly, he replied, “It was for your own good.”
Abruptly, he touched his heels to Abelard, and the little horse trotted away, leaving Will and Horace facing each other in the middle of the road. As soon as he felt Halt was out of earshot, Horace allowed a broad grin to spread over his face.
“I’ve waited years to get him back for that!”
He wheeled Kicker in turn and headed off at a fast trot after Halt. Will stayed where he was for a few moments, pondering his best friend’s new cunning streak.
“He’s been around us too long,” he said, then turned Tug after the others.
Later that night, wrapped warmly in his blankets, his head pillowed on his saddle, Will looked up at the stars, clear and bright in the night sky, and smiled. He could feel the chill of the night air on his face, but that only served to make the rest of his body, under the blankets, feel warm and comfortable
.
It was good to be back on the road, heading for another adventure. It was even better to be doing so in the company of his two closest friends.
As the stars wheeled in the night sky above him, he found he couldn’t sleep, and his thoughts turned to the morning they had left Redmont. Crowley, Sir Rodney, Baron Arald and all their friends were there to see them off, of course. But Will’s memory focused mainly on two of them: Lady Pauline and Alyss.
Alyss had kissed him good-bye and then whispered a few private words in his ear. He smiled now at the memory of them.
Then Alyss had moved to bid farewell to Horace, who had arrived to join them the previous night, and Will had found himself facing Lady Pauline. She kissed his cheek softly, then leaned forward to hug him. As she did, she said quietly, “Look after him for me, Will. He’s not as young as he thinks he is.”
Will had been surprised. He could think of no one who needed looking after less than Halt, but he had nodded, nonetheless.
“You know I will, Pauline,” he’d said, and she’d looked deeply into his eyes for several seconds.
“Yes. I do know,” she’d said, and then she moved to embrace her husband and retie the fastenings of his cloak, patting them into place the way wives do for husbands.
It was strange, Will thought now. He had been desperately sorry to leave Alyss and his other friends at Redmont, and the moment of parting brought an uncomfortable lump to his throat. Yet now that they were on the road again, camped under the night sky, enjoying the close-knit bond of true friendship that existed between the three of them, he felt remarkably happy. Life was good, he thought. In fact, life was close to perfect. And he fell asleep with that thought.
Two hours later, Horace shook him awake to take over the watch and he rolled blearily out of his warm blankets into the cold night.
Perhaps, he reflected, life wasn’t quite so close to perfect at that moment.
16
IT TOOK THE TRAVELERS FIVE DAYS TO REACH THE KINGDOM OF Clonmel.
They traveled first to the coastal village of Selsey, where Halt prevailed upon the head man to provide a boat to take them and their horses across the narrow stretch of sea to Hibernia.
They landed on a deserted stretch of beach in the southeast corner of Clonmel, just before first light. The three companions quickly mounted their horses and rode into the woods fringing the beach, out of sight of any possible prying eyes. Will looked back as the trees loomed over them, cloaking them in shadows. The boat was already far offshore, the sail no more than a pale speck among the dark waves as her skipper headed back out to sea, wasting no time getting back to the fishing grounds.
“They were a friendly lot,” Horace said. In fact, the sailors had hardly addressed an unnecessary word to their passengers. “I’m not sorry to be off that tub.”
Halt concurred with the thought, although not entirely for the same reason. As always, his stomach had betrayed him once the boat had left the calm waters of the harbor and begun to plunge and roll on the open sea. The all-pervading smell of stale fish guts hadn’t helped matters either. He had spent the greater part of the voyage standing in the bow of the boat, his face pale, his knuckles white as he gripped the railing. His two young companions, familiar with his problem, decided the best course was to ignore it and leave Halt to his own devices. From past experience, they knew that any show of sympathy would lead to a snarl of dismissal. And any sign of amusement would lead to far worse.
They rode into the wood, soon crossing a path. It was a narrow, winding game trail and there was no way to ride abreast. They rode in single file, following Halt’s lead as he headed northwest.
“What now, Halt?” Will asked. He was riding second in line behind his teacher. The gray-bearded Ranger twisted in his saddle to reply.
“We’ll head toward Ferris’s castle, Dun Kilty. It’s maybe a week’s ride from here. That’ll give us a chance to see how things are in Clonmel.”
It soon became apparent that things in Clonmel were far from good. The game trail meandered haphazardly and eventually led them to a broader, more permanent high road. As they followed it, they began to see farmlands interspersed with the woods. But the fields were untended and overgrown with weeds, and the farmhouses they saw were shuttered and silent, with the farmyard entrances barricaded by wagons and hay bales, so they resembled improvised armed camps.
“Looks like they’re expecting trouble,” Will said as they passed by one such collection of farm buildings.
“Looks like they’ve already had it,” Halt replied, pointing to the blackened remains of one of the outbuildings, where a pile of ashes and collapsed timbers was still smoldering. They could also make out the huddled shapes of several dead animals in the fields. Ravens perched on the swollen carcasses, tearing chunks out of the rank flesh with their sharp beaks.
“You’d think they’d have buried or burned those carcasses,” Horace said. He wrinkled his nose as the breeze brought the unpleasantly sweet smell of rotting flesh to them.
“If they’re afraid to go out to plow and plant, they’re hardly going to expose themselves to bury a few dead sheep,” Halt told him.
“I suppose not. But what are they afraid of?”
Halt eased his backside from the saddle, standing for a few seconds in the stirrups before resuming his seat.
“At a guess, I’d say they’re hiding from this character Tennyson—or at least, from the bandits that work with him. The whole place seems like a country under siege.”
The farms and smaller hamlets that they passed all exhibited the same evidence of fear and suspicion. Wherever possible the three Araluens bypassed them, remaining unseen.
“No point in revealing our presence,” Halt said. But by mid-morning of the second day, his curiosity was beginning to nag at him, and when they sighted a small settlement of five ramshackle houses grouped together, he jerked a thumb toward it.
“Let’s go and ask the price of eggs,” he said. Horace frowned at the words as Halt led the way out of the trees.
“Do we need eggs?” he asked Will.
Will grinned at him. “Figure of speech, Horace.”
Horace nodded, assuming a knowing expression just a little too late. “Oh . . . yes. I sort of knew that.”
They urged their horses after Abelard, catching up when they were fifty meters short of the hamlet. This was the closest they’d been to one of these silent groups of buildings, and as they drew near, they could see the rough palisade that had been thrown around it in more detail. Farm carts and plows were formed in a circle around the buildings. The gaps between were piled with old furniture—benches and tables—and the remaining gaps were filled with hurriedly constructed earthworks and spare timber. Halt raised his eyebrows at the sight of one table, a family heirloom that had been lovingly polished and waxed over the years, now shoved roughly on its side into a gap in the defenses.
“Must be dining alfresco these days,” he said softly.
As they looked closer, they also realized that the hamlet was far from deserted. They could make out movement now behind the barricade. Several figures were moving to group together at the point they were heading for. At least one of them seemed to be wearing a helmet. The mid-morning sun gleamed dully off it. As they watched, the man clambered up onto a wagon that obviously served as a gate through the barricade. He was wearing a leather coat studded with metal. It was a cheap and primitive form of armor. In his right hand, he brandished a heavy spear. There was nothing cheap or primitive about it. Like the helmet, it reflected the sun’s rays.
“Someone’s been sharpening his spear,” Horace observed to his friends. Before they could reply, the spearman called out to them.
“On your way!” he yelled roughly. “You’re not welcome here!”
To reinforce the statement, he brandished the spear. Several of the other occupants growled in agreement, and the three travelers saw other weapons waving above the barricade—several swords, an ax and a selection of far
m implements like scythes and sickles.
“We mean you no harm, friend,” Halt called back. He leaned his elbows on the saddle pommel and smiled encouragingly at the man. They were too far away for the farmer to see the expression, but he knew the body language was nonthreatening and he hoped the smile would soften his tone of voice.
“Well, we’ll mean you plenty if you come any farther!”
While Halt parleyed, Will was studying the barricade intently, particularly the weapons that appeared sporadically to be waved threateningly above the top. After a few seconds, he saw a small figure pass behind a narrow gap in the defenses, followed by another, heading for the left-hand end. A few seconds later, weapons were being brandished at that position. He noticed that none were now visible at the right-hand end, where a few minutes ago they had been waving energetically.
“Halt,” he said out of the corner of his mouth, “there aren’t as many of them as they’d like us to think. And some of them are either women or children.”
“I thought as much,” the Ranger replied. “That’s why they don’t want us any closer, of course.” He spoke again to the spearman. “We’re simple travelers, friend. We’ll pay well for a hot meal and a tankard of ale.”
“We don’t want your money, and you’re not getting our food. Now, be on your way!”
There was a note of desperation in his voice, Halt thought, as if any moment the man expected the three armed riders to call his bluff. Halt knew then that Will was right and the majority of the ‘defenders’ behind the barricade were women and children. There was no reason, the Ranger concluded, to cause them any further concern. Things seemed bad enough in this part of the country anyway.
“Very well. If you say so. But can you tell us if there’s an inn anywhere close by? We’ve been on the road for some time.”
There was a slight pause, then the man answered.
“There’s the Green Harper, at Craikennis. It’s west of here, less than a league. Mayhap you’ll find a place there. Follow the road you’re on to the crossroads and you’ll find a sign.”
Ranger's Apprentice, Book 8: The Kings of Clonmel: Book 8 Page 10