Will noticed how the color had returned to her cheeks. “Got your sea legs?” he asked. He was one of those fortunate people who had never been affected by the rolling or pitching of a ship under his feet.
She nodded. “It was touch and go for a few minutes there,” she said. “But I’m all right now.”
She had never been on board a ship at sea before and, to be truthful, her discomfort had been initially due to uncertainty and fear. It took her some time to realize that the Lady was riding the waves like a gull, and when she rolled one way, she inevitably would roll back. Once that realization came, she could relax. And once she relaxed, the tension in her stomach subsided.
Will nodded. “Always be careful if you’re on a ship with Halt,” he said. “Never lend him your hat if he asks for it.”
She frowned, trying to figure that one out. He explained by miming the action of throwing up into a hat and she looked at him wide-eyed.
“Halt gets seasick?” she asked.
He grinned cheerfully. “Every time.”
She shook her head in disbelief. The idea that the indomitable Halt, so self-assured, so confident, could ever suffer from something as mundane as mal de mer was a revelation.
The crossing took the better part of two days. Jaunty Lady, despite her name, was a slow sailer and the prevailing winds were adverse to their course. But in the midafternoon of the second day, they slipped through the harbor entrance of Ontifer, a small port on the Gallican coast, and secured alongside a stone pier. Since the pier was only a meter and a half higher than the deck of the ship, there was no need to rig a hoist to lift the horses and cart ashore. A wide section of the bulwark was removed and a sturdy gangplank was shoved in place. Tug and Bumper were led up the wooden ramp, stepping gingerly as it flexed under their weight and moved up and down with the action of the small waves inside the harbor. Then the sailors, with the help of three stevedores from the shore, tailed onto the cart and ran it easily up the gangplank and onto the quay.
Will thanked them and paid them for their work, then hitched Bumper into the traces on the cart.
“Your turn, boy,” he said quietly, and Bumper flicked his ears at him. Like Tug, he accepted the indignity as part of the job. Will mounted the cart and settled into the driving seat. The whip remained in its socket. It was for show only and would never be needed. With horses like these, all that was needed was a click of the tongue.
At that sound, Bumper leaned forward against the neck yoke and strode off down the narrow street that led from the quay and into the village proper.
“We’ll head for Philippe’s castle first,” Will said. “I want to make sure the situation hasn’t changed and that his son is still being held at Falaise.”
There was no need to tether Tug to the cart. Like all Ranger horses, he was trained to remain with his master. Tug trotted alongside his friend. Maddie rode on the seat beside Will, peering around her curiously at the sight of a foreign village.
The village returned the favor, with its inhabitants stopping in their mundane tasks to stare at the gaily colored, be-flagged cart and its brightly dressed inhabitants. Nothing much happened in Ontifer and the sight of the two jongleurs riding past drew considerable attention. Most of those watching were hoping that the newcomers might stay the night and perform. That would add a spice of novelty to the uneventful day-to-day life of the little fishing port.
But Will had other ideas. “We’ll make as much distance as we can today. We want to meet with Philippe as soon as possible,” he said.
Of course, that didn’t mean they wouldn’t stop en route to perform. If they simply rode straight to the palace, they might arouse suspicion. But on this, their first day ashore, Will wanted to make up as much distance as he could.
“So where will we stop tonight?” Maddie asked. Will had studied the map of the surrounding area the night before on board ship.
“There’s a small town called Aules about fifteen kilometers inland. We should make that by sundown. We’ll camp on the common there and see about performing in one of the taverns.”
“Why not stay at an inn?” Maddie asked.
But Will shook his head. “We’re jongleurs. We don’t have the money to stay at inns and taverns. We’ll perform there, but we’ll camp on the green or the common. That’s what people would expect.”
Maddie nodded. She hadn’t thought of that. After the hard plank bunk she had slept in on Jaunty Lady, the thought of a soft bed in an inn had been very tempting. She sighed. Undercover work meant making sacrifices, she thought.
15
They continued traveling northeast, heading for Philippe’s castle at La Lumiere. En route, they stopped each evening in larger villages, where they could expect to find an audience.
“Time you got used to performing,” Will told Maddie at their first stop, and she agreed, wetting her lips nervously. At the thought of performing, she found, they had suddenly gone dry.
They pulled into the main square of the village, where a combined inn and tavern called Les Trois Canards, or “the three ducks,” took up most of one side of the square. There was an open area outside the tavern, where tables and chairs were set up so that patrons could enjoy the fresh air while they ate and drank. A large canvas awning was folded back. In times of less pleasant weather, Maddie assumed, it could be rolled out to provide shelter for the customers.
In the center of the square, a low stone wall marked off a level area of raked sand and fine gravel, where a dozen men were playing a game similar to bowls—except the balls they were using were made of highly polished metal and they tossed them underarm at a target jack, rather than rolling them along the ground, as the Araluen version of the game was played. They paused in their game to watch the arrival of the jongleurs’ cart.
Several of the tables outside the tavern were occupied and the customers looked up curiously as the wagon pulled to a halt and Will and Maddie clambered down. A serving maid who was pouring wine for one group finished her task and hurried inside. A few minutes later, a stoutly built man with a long apron tied round his waist emerged from the interior and eyed them with professional interest.
“That’ll be the innkeeper,” Will said in a low aside to Maddie, and she nodded. Even though the square was technically public property, the fact that the tavern had tables and chairs set up there gave the innkeeper a proprietorial interest. Good performers could mean a boost to his daily takings, as they would attract customers to the tavern and encourage them to eat and drink while they were entertained.
On the other hand, poor performers could have the opposite effect. An out-of-tune singer or a clumsy tumbler could drive customers away, to eat and drink in the privacy of their own homes. For that reason, the publican took a keen interest in itinerant performers who arrived. He strode across to the cart now, casting a practiced eye over its two brightly clad occupants.
“Bonjour,” he said. His tone was neither welcoming or unfriendly. He spoke Gallican but Will replied in the common tongue. Even in a remote village like this, it would be widely spoken, he knew.
“Good morning, good sir,” he said cheerfully. “My name is Accord and this is my daughter, Madelyn.”
Like Halt before him, Will sometimes assumed a Gallican nom de guerre based on his real name: thus, Treaty became Accord. He bowed now to the tavern keeper, a deep, exaggerated movement, wherein his right arm snatched the feathered hat from his head and described a wide curve, the hand turning over two or three times during the action. His right leg stretched out in front of him and his head was lowered almost to the level of his knee. He straightened gracefully, replacing the green cap with its yellow feather on his head.
The tavern keeper, whose name was Maurice, studied him closely, then flicked his gaze to the young girl standing nearby.
“Entertainers, are you?” he said, now speaking the common tongue.
“Indeed we are, sir,” W
ill said effusively. “I am a humble singer of songs: love songs, work songs, songs of brave deeds and chivalry.” He stepped closer and turned his head slightly to view the man with his right eye while he continued in a lowered voice, which somehow managed to carry to those seated nearby. “Or if it’s your pleasure, good sir, I can sing you songs of witches and wizards and wickedness. Of evil deeds in the night that will bring terror to your heart.”
Ghost stories set to music were a popular genre in Araluen and Gallica, and Will had a large stock of them. They were best sung on cold and rainy winter nights, while the audience huddled around the fire in the darkness and the wind whistled around the walls outside.
Maurice, however, was unimpressed. He’d seen plenty of jongleurs in his time. He glanced at Maddie. “What about the girl?” he asked.
Maddie and Will exchanged a quick glance and he gave her an imperceptible nod. She took a deep breath, then launched into a spiel that Sanne had taught her. “It’s not enough to turn up and say, ‘Hi. I’m Maddie. I juggle a bit and throw knives.’ You’ve got to sell the act,” Sanne had said. Now Maddie set out to do that, as she had been taught.
“Why, good sir, I juggle!” she said brightly. The three juggling balls appeared, seemingly from nowhere, in her hands and she began to loop them in a rapid cascade. Maurice was relatively unimpressed. Then she continued.
“But anyone can juggle, of course. I’ll wager you can yourself!” And with those words, she tossed the three balls in quick succession to the surprised man.
He tried to catch them but was caught off guard, and the balls spilled across the fine gravel of the sitting area. Moving quickly, Maddie retrieved them and stowed them out of sight under her jerkin in a swift, practiced movement.
“Or perhaps not?” Maddie continued, and several of the drinkers at the tables laughed at Maurice’s sudden discomfiture. He went to say something but Maddie’s bright smile robbed the comment of any offense.
Maddie laughed and skipped away from him, her eyes alight and her smile wide.
“But my real talent lies elsewhere,” she declared, and, before he could ask what it might be, she produced one of the gleaming knives and tossed it, spinning, in the air, catching it and tossing it again. She might not be able to juggle three knives, but she could easily toss and catch one. The sudden appearance of the gleaming, razor-sharp blade caused a few intakes of breath around the tables. Maurice’s eyes narrowed as he saw it.
“Yes, my lord, I am skilled with the blades of danger, the knives of dire peril. Razor-sharp . . .”
As she said these words, she caught the knife by the hilt and slashed at an apple that Will had tossed in front of her. The fruit fell to the ground in two pieces, ample proof that the knife wasn’t blunted for safety. She tossed it, spinning, once more.
“. . . ready to cut, slice or slash!”
She balanced the knife, hilt down, on her forehead and moved in a circle, keeping it upright. Then she nodded it off and caught it again, sending it spinning once more, so that it was never still.
“Or to flash through the air at my target!” she said.
As she had been moving and talking, Will had quickly unloaded the target board from the back of the cart and set it up. Now she turned and, without seeming to pause to aim, sent the knife spinning through the air to thud into the very center of the target.
A few murmurs of appreciation came from the patrons at the tables. Several of them raised their tankards of wine in salute. She grinned at them as she skipped across to the target and reclaimed her knife.
She brandished it under Maurice’s nose and he took an involuntary half pace backward. There was more laughter from the tables.
“But now, my lord, step this way, if you please . . .”
She took hold of his elbow and moved him to stand in front of the target board. As he took his position, a little reluctantly, Will handed him two inflated balloons, made from pig’s bladders, and attached to the ends of two light canes.
“. . . and hold my balloons for me.”
Sensing what was coming, Maurice started to protest as she walked quickly away from him. He had the good sense, however, to remain still, not exactly sure what was coming, but knowing that any movement on his part might be a mistake.
He was right. Maddie suddenly spun on her heel and released the knife, followed by a second, previously unnoticed, in her left hand. The two whirling blades spun across the intervening space and popped the two balloons in rapid succession, then thudded into the board.
The balloons were filled with brightly colored, tiny pieces of paper, which now filled the air as they were released. Maurice didn’t have time to flinch as a sustained burst of applause came from the tables. And Maurice noticed that the dozen men playing boules had left their game and sauntered across to sit at the tables. They gestured to his waitress and ordered jugs of wine. Seeing his customers suddenly double in number, he was prepared to forgive the girl for using him as a foil.
“Very well,” he said. “Continue.” He brushed several small pieces of the colored paper from where they had settled and hastily moved away from the girl before she could use him as a target again. She smiled and nodded her thanks to him, then addressed the audience around her, who were eager to see what she might do next.
She moved some fifteen paces from the target board. She now had all five knives held by their tips in her left hand, splayed out in a fan shape. In her right, she produced a large silver coin.
“Gentles all,” she called to the expectant crowd, “here is a silver crown. And it’s yours if you can bamboozle or confoozle me. See the target? There are numbers painted on it. Call a number at random and I’ll hit that segment with my knives. If I miss, the silver crown goes to the man who has called the number.”
“And if you hit it?” called one of the drinkers good-naturedly. Maddie skipped lightly across the open space to stand in front of him, her eyes twinkling with mischief.
“Then, sir, I know you will be generous when the time comes to reward my performance,” she replied. The men around the speaker grinned agreement as she let her gaze wander across them.
“Quatre!” cried a customer at another table, hoping to catch her on the hop. But she held up a hand.
“Please, sir, in the common tongue if you will. If I have to pause to translate, I’ll probably miss.”
“Then hit four!” the man cried. Maddie spun on her heel, plucked a knife from her left hand and sent it flashing underhand at the target. It thunked into the three segment, missing the nominated target by ten centimeters. Some in the crowd groaned their disappointment. Maddie contrived to look a little disappointed, and spun the silver coin toward the man who had called out. He caught it happily.
Always make a mistake early on, she heard Sanne’s voice say in her mind. You don’t want to appear too good too soon.
Seeing the caller rewarded, others eagerly took up the challenge.
“Six!” called another and this time Maddie threw overarm. The knife hit the number six segment, but only just. It was close enough to the dividing line to encourage more calls.
“One!”
Thunk! The knife quivered in the exact center of the nominated segment.
“Nine!”
Thunk! Again, dead center.
“Twelve!”
Thunk!
More voices called out numbers, but Maddie held up her empty left hand, indicating that she needed to retrieve her knives. She did so, then skipped lightly back to her throwing position and signaled for more calls.
This time she threw faster than before, and varied her throws: right handed, left handed, over arm, side arm. For her final throw, she turned her back on the target, her right arm poised with the knife in hand. She held up her hand for silence. When she had it, she called the last target herself.
“Center!”
A
nd in one movement, she spun on her heel and released the knife, sending it thudding into the small circle at the center of the board, where the twelve segments joined. The audience roared their appreciation and she swept down into an exaggerated bow, right leg forward, and both hands and arms spread out to the side.
Realizing the show was over, the audience cheered her and sent a shower of coins her way. As she scampered about collecting them, Will stepped forward, his mandola slung, and launched into a popular country song.
The tavern customers, already in good spirits after Maddie’s display, joined in immediately. Maddie slipped past Will to deposit the considerable pile of coins—many of them silver—in a lockbox at the rear of the cart. He winked at her as she passed him.
“Well done,” he said.
16
They performed another night in the village, at Maurice’s urging.
“Tomorrow is six-day,” he told them, “and seven-day is a day of rest for the farms around here. That means the farmworkers will be coming to town to relax, to eat and to drink. And once word gets out that there are entertainers here, they’ll come in big numbers. You could expect a much larger audience if you stay another night.”
“And you’ll have many more customers,” Will said.
Maurice shrugged, a typical Gallic movement. “I make no secret of that fact,” he said. “But the more customers at Les Trois Canards, the more coin there will be for me and you. We both win.”
Eventually, Will agreed to stay another night. The tipping point came when Maurice offered them bed and board in the tavern.
“My beds are renowned for their soft mattresses,” he said. “Far better than sleeping on the ground, or in your cart. And Hortense, my chef, is renowned in the district for her ragout. There will be no charge, of course.”
“That’s very gracious of you,” Will said. He knew the tubby landlord would stand to make a killing with the extra trade he would enjoy once word of the jongleurs went round the district.
The Royal Ranger: The Missing Prince Page 9
