He reined Tug in, sniffing the air experimentally. There was a trace of something on the faint breeze — something that was just a little unexpected, just a little out of place. He turned his head from side to side, still sniffing, trying to determine what it was. Then he had it.
Smoke. Or rather, ashes. The wet ashes of a dead camp fire.
They moved on, the smell becoming stronger and more pungent. A hundred metres further along the track, he found its source, in a spot where the trail widened out to form a substantial clearing. There was ample evidence that the raiders had camped here for the night. There were the blackened circles of four fires, and flattened spaces on the grass where men had rolled into their blankets and slept. More dung showed where the band's half dozen horses had been picketed.
Will sat on a tree stump and considered the scene, Tug watching him with intelligent eyes.
`They camped here, so we can't be too close to their eventual destination,' he said. That made sense when he thought about the escarpment he had seen earlier. It must still be a good half day's ride away from their current position. If darkness had been closing in when they reached this point, it would have been an ideal place for them to camp.
`At least we know we're on the right trail,' he told Tug and the little horse cocked his head to one side.
I never doubted it.
Will grinned at him. Sometimes, he wondered how accurate his interpretations of Tug's unspoken messages were. And he wondered if other Rangers talked to their horses the way he did when they were alone. He had a suspicion that Halt did, but he'd never seen proof of the fact.
He stood, looking at the sky. There were still three or four hours of daylight left. If the trail remained as easy to follow as it had been so far, there was no reason why he shouldn't reach the raiders' camp that evening.
He rode on. The path widened a little and although it was still gradually climbing uphill, it tended to wind and twist less than it had previously. There was no need to proceed slowly. He could see where the trail led and there was no chance in the next hour or two of catching up with the raiders. They were at least two days ahead of him. So he let Tug fall into an easy lope, eating the kilometres beneath them.
As the day wore on, the black cliffs came closer. Just after midafternoon, the sun dropped behind them, throwing the surrounding countryside into shadow. When he estimated that the escarpment was an hour's ride away,
Will eased Tug to a halt. He dismounted and rested the little horse for ten minutes, splashing some water from his canteen into a small folding leather bucket so the horse could drink. He took a mouthful himself and chewed on a piece of dried smoked beef. He smiled quietly as he thought of Horace's grumbling over such rations. Will quite liked the taste of smoked beef. The chewing, of course, was another matter altogether. He might like the taste but the consistency was similar to an old boot.
He remounted and walked Tug forward. From here on, it would pay to proceed cautiously. On the evidence so far, it was unlikely that the raiders would have an outer screen of sentries around their headquarters, but it never hurt to be careful. He nudged Tug in a signal and the horse walked soft-footed, picking his way carefully as he had been trained to do, his hoofs making barely a sound on the damp earth of the track.
Once again, it was his nose that gave him warning. The unmistakable, penetrating smell of fresh woodsmoke wafted through the trees to him. They were riding along the crest of a gully and the black cliffs were ahead, seeming close enough to touch. They were only one or two hundred metres high, he saw. Not the biggest cliffs he'd ever come across. But their sides were sheer, glistening black rock. They'd be unclimbable if there wasn't some tenuous winding track leading to the top. The smell of smoke was stronger now and he thought he caught the faint sound of voices. He brought Tug to a stop and slipped down from the saddle.
`Stay here,' he said and moved silently up to the next bend in the trail. He had resumed his Ranger's cloak when he left camp that morning. Now he ghosted among the
trees, taking advantage of the uncertain afternoon light that made him almost impossible to discern.
At the bend, he stayed in the shadow of the trees and found himself looking across the wide gully to an open space at the foot of the cliffs. Tents were set out in uneven, ragged lines and fires gleamed among them. He could see men moving among the tents, or sitting round the fires. He estimated there must be at least one hundred and fifty men camped below him. Armed men, he saw. He thought about the way the people of Craikennis had dismissed the threat of a raid, and their confidence in their own numbers. If a band this size attacked a town like Craikennis, the defenders would have little chance of resisting.
He slid to the ground, his back against a tree, and studied the camp for the next hour, until night fell. He gradually identified the largest, central tent in the camp. Judging by the number of men coming and going there, it must be the leader's headquarters. Equally important, as dusk was falling he watched the picket line being set — a half circle of sentries who took up their positions where the open ground gave way to the treeline again. Even this group, overconfident as they might be, wouldn't settle for the night without some form of guard.
He noted one man who had moved a little further into the trees than his neighbours. From his elevated position, Will could see him easily. And he could see that the man wouldn't be visible to his fellow sentries. Perhaps he had found a more comfortable spot to spend his hours on watch. Or perhaps he preferred not to be constantly under the eye of the guard commander.
Either way, it was a mistake — and one that Will planned to take advantage of.
* * *
Chapter 19
* * *
After Will had left for Duffy's Ford, Halt and Horace broke camp and took the high road that headed north-west to Mountshannon. They saw only a few other travellers along the way: a single rider on a tired-looking, elderly horse and a small group of traders walking alongside a wagon pulled by a mule.
Halt greeted the traders politely as they rode past. There was no response. Four pairs of eyes followed the two riders suspiciously. Halt's bow and the fact that Horace wore a sword and rode a battlehorse were sufficient reasons for their mistrust.
The grey-bearded Ranger sighed and Horace looked at him, a question in his eyes. It was unlike Halt, he thought, to show emotion so easily.
`What's up?' he asked.
`Oh, I was just thinking,' Halt said. 'This used to be such a friendly place. People would stop and chat on the road if they met. And a road like this would be covered in
travellers, all on their way to somewhere or other, all with important things to be done. Now look at it.'
He indicated the long empty road. It ran in a straight line at that point and Horace could see for perhaps a kilometre in either direction. Ahead of them, the road was deserted. Behind, there was only the plodding cart and its four attendants, becoming smaller and smaller with each passing minute.
If they expected traffic on the road to increase as they neared Mountshannon, they were disappointed. The wide, dusty- highway continued to stretch empty before them.
Gradually, the forest on either side of the road gave way to open farmland. Here, the fields were in slightly better shape than those they'd passed when they first arrived in Clonmel. And the farms themselves weren't deserted. They could see occasional figures moving in the farmyards, although the yards themselves were barricaded in the now familiar way and it was rare to see anyone moving too far from the farm buildings.
`Things don't look quite as bad here,' Horace ventured.
`There haven't been any raids in this area so far,' Halt reminded him. 'People are a little more confident this close to a large village like Mountshannon. And the farms themselves aren't so isolated.'
There was a warning shout from a farmhouse they were passing and they glanced across at it, in time to see two men running in from a field where they had been stacking hay to take shelter behind the barricaded farmya
rd wall. They still carried their pitchforks, Halt noticed.
`A little more confident,' he repeated. 'Not a lot.'
Mountshannon was similar to Craikennis, although considerably larger. One main street held the principal buildings of the village — an inn, and the buildings of the various traders that would be found in any sizeable centre: blacksmith, wheelwright, farrier, tool maker, harness maker and general store, where the ladies of the town could buy cloth and yarn and dried foodstuffs while their menfolk could buy seed, tools, oil and those hundred and one items that were always needed on a working farm.
The store was only a stopgap measure, of course; the main trading would take place in a weekly market.
Small lanes ran off the main street, linking to a network of back streets that ran more or less parallel to the high road. These were lined by houses, where the town's population lived. As in Craikennis, the majority of the houses were single-storey, roofed with thatch and constructed with whitewashed clay set over timber frameworks. The inn was two storeys, as was the farrier's building. There was a hay loft there, with a derrick projecting over the street to raise and lower the heavy hay bales stored inside.
Once again, the two riders had to submit to an examination when they approached the town. There was no barricade here but a small stream ran past the village, at right angles to the road, and a guard post had been established at the bridge that crossed it. As in Craikennis, it was a simple canvas pavilion with a couple of chairs and beds inside and a charcoal-burning brazier for warmth at night. It was manned by two members of the town watch, both armed with heavy clubs and with long daggers in their belts. They stepped out onto the road now, eyeing the new arrivals suspiciously. As before, Halt had tossed the cowl back from his face.
`What's your business in Mountshannon?' the taller of the two men asked. Horace eyed them critically. They were both big men, probably reasonably competent fighters, he thought. But, from the self-conscious way they handled their weapons, it was obvious to him that fighting wasn't their principal business. They weren't warriors.
`I'm looking to buy sheep,' Halt said. 'A ram and a pair of ewes. I need to replace my breeding stock. You'll have a market here, no doubt?'
The man nodded. 'Saturday,' he said. 'You're a day early.'
Halt shrugged. 'We've come from Ballygannon,' he said, naming an area that was well in the south, where the Outsiders had been active for some time. 'Better a day early than a day late.'
The watchman frowned thoughtfully at the name. He'd heard rumours of what had been going on in the south. Everyone had. But Halt was the first person he'd seen in some weeks who had actually been through the troubled area.
`How are things in Ballygannon?' he asked.
Halt eyed him bleakly. 'As I said, I need to replenish my breeding stock. They didn't all drop dead of old age at the same moment.'
The watchman nodded understanding. 'Aye, we've heard dark tales of doings in the south.' He looked now at Horace. Like the man in Craikennis, he could see the broad-shouldered young man didn't have the look of a farmer or woodsman. Besides, there was a long sword at his hip and a round buckler strapped at the back of his saddle. 'And who's this?' he asked.
`My nephew Michael. He's a good boy,' Halt told him. The other man spoke now for the first time. 'And would you be a farmer too, Michael?' he asked.
Horace gave him a cold look. 'A soldier,' he said briefly. `And what's a soldier going to do at the markets?' the second man asked.
Halt hurried to answer. Horace's accent was foreign and he didn't want the youth saying more than the odd word.
`I'm here to make sure I get the sheep home,' he said. `Michael is here to make sure I get home.'
The watchman considered them for a few moments. It made sense, he thought. 'And he looks like the boyo who could do it,' he said, a faint smile thawing his features a little.
Horace said nothing. He simply met the man's gaze and nodded once. Strong, silent type, he thought.
The two watchmen seemed satisfied. They both drew back to the side of the road, waving Halt and Horace into the town.
`Ride in,' said the one who had spoken first. 'There's an inn in the main street or, if you've a mind to save a few pennies, you can pitch camp in the market ground at the far end of the village. Stay out of trouble while you're here.' He added the last statement almost as an afterthought. It was something all watchmen felt the need to say, Horace realised. He probably would have said it if they were two eighty-year-old dodderers hobbling along on walking sticks.
Halt touched a finger to his forehead in a informal salute and urged Abelard forward. Then he stopped, as if the thought had only just occurred to him, calling to the two men as they headed back to their pavilion.
`One thing,' he said and they turned back to face him. `I've heard talk along the road of a man called Tennyson —some kind of priest?'
The watchmen exchanged sceptical glances. 'Yes,' said the leader, 'he's some kind of priest, all right.' There was a hint of sarcasm in his tone.
`Is he ... ?' Halt began but the second man answered the question before he could ask it.
`He's here. He and his followers are at the market ground too. Chances are you'll hear him preaching this afternoon if you've a mind.'
`Chances are,' his companion put in with now unmasked sarcasm, 'you'll hear him preaching every afternoon.'
Halt maintained a noncommittal expression, appearing to think over their words. 'Perhaps we'll listen in.' He looked at Horace. `It'll break the monotony, Michael.'
`Break your eardrums more like,' said the 'second watchman. 'You'd do better to spend your time at the inn, you ask me.'
`Maybe,' Halt agreed. 'But we'll give the man a hearing at any rate.'
He nodded to them again and urged Abelard on. Horace, who had been waiting a few metres down the track, fell in beside him.
* * *
Chapter 20
* * *
While there was still some light left, Will returned to Tug and retraced his steps down the trail, looking or a place to set up his own camp. Two hundred metres back from the spot where they had stopped, he sighted a small glade a short distance from the side of the path. A large tree had fallen here, some years ago judging by the moss that covered its trunk. As it came down, it had taken several of its smaller neighbours with it, clearing an open space. It was an ideal spot. Not far off the path and almost unnoticeable. If Will hadn't actually been looking for a camp site, he would have ridden straight past. Most casual travellers would do the same, he reasoned.
He led Tug through the trees and waist-high undergrowth that marked the edge of the trail and looked around, assessing the spot. The trail was almost invisible from here, which meant that the clearing would be the same for someone on the trail. There was an open space some five metres by four — more than enough for his camp site.
Not that it would be much of a camp, he thought. There'd be no tent and no fire. But there was thick grass for Tug to graze on and Will's real purpose was to find a spot where Tug would be out of sight.
He watered the horse again and made the 'free' hand signal, which told Tug he could graze if he wished to. The little horse moved around the clearing, nose to the ground, assessing the quality of the local fodder. Apparently finding it to his liking, he began to rip bunches of the thick green grass from the ground, chewing it with that grinding noise that horses make.
`Sorry I can't unsaddle you,' Will said. 'We may have to move out in a hurry.'
Tug glanced up at him, ears pricked, eyes alight with intelligence.
No matter.
The horse knew from long experience that Will would never neglect his comfort, unless there was a good reason to do so. Will sat, his back against the fallen tree trunk and his knees drawn up. He'd need to get back to his vantage point soon, he thought. He wanted to see when the guards were changed. He hoped that whoever relieved the man he'd selected would stay in the same spot. There was no reason why he shouldn't, he th
ought, but you never knew.
As the last light was fading, Will stood. Tug raised his head instantly, ears up, ready to move forward for Will to mount him. But Will shook his head.
`Stay here,' he said. Then added the one-word command: 'Silent.'
Tug understood the command; it was one of many that the little horse had been taught when he had been trainedby Old Bob, the Ranger Corps' horse trainer. 'Silent'
1
meant that if Tug were to hear any movement in his vicinity — which in this case meant along the path — he was to freeze in place and make no sound. That, coupled with the gathering darkness, would ensure that no passerby would have the slightest idea that the little horse was just a few metres from the trail.
Gathering his cloak around him, Will moved back to the path. He paused as he reached the edge of the trees, listening both ways for the sound of anyone approaching. Then he quickly crossed the path and slid into the trees on the far side, moving parallel to the track and a few metres inside the tree cover.
An observer, had there been one, might have thought he had seen a grey shadow flit briefly across the open ground and then disappear into the trees. Once that was accomplished, he wouldn't have seen another trace of the silently moving Ranger.
Will regained his previous vantage point and settled down to watch. It had been barely three hours since he had seen the guards take their positions and he reasoned that the original men would still be at their posts. People were creatures of habit, he knew, and the most common term for sentry duty was four hours. Why that was so he had no idea. To his way of thinking, three hours would be a better term. By the end of four hours spent staring into the darkness, most sentries had sunk into lethargy. Of course, a three-hour term meant that more sentries would be needed through the course of the night and, as Will sensed, the posting of guards here was really more of a gesture than anything else. These raiders didn't expect to be attacked or infiltrated.
THE KINGS OF CLONMEL Page 13
