The Royal Ranger: The Missing Prince

by John F. Flanagan

  They moved the cart into the cobbled yard behind the tavern and settled Tug and Bumper into the small stable there, leaving them with full bins of hay and troughs of fresh, cool water.

  Maddie sat on the edge of Will’s bed that evening as they prepared for their performance.

  “I thought we were in a hurry to get to La Lumiere,” she said.

  Will nodded. One of his mandola strings had broken and he was fitting a new one as he talked. The tip of his tongue protruded slightly between his lips as he wound the string on and tensioned it.

  “I am,” he said. “But if anyone is watching us, they might wonder why we would turn down the opportunity to make good money.”

  “Is anyone watching us?” Maddie asked.

  Will shrugged. “I don’t know. But it’s always best to assume that someone is,” he told her. “We’ll make up the time in the early part of next week. The taverns and inns won’t be as busy on the first few days. It’ll be less suspicious if we keep moving on.”

  His voice was strained as he said the last few words. He was bringing the new string up to full tension and that always was a nervous moment, waiting to see if it would take the strain or, as occasionally happened, snap.

  He sounded the string several times. It reached the correct note, then it slipped a little, as new strings always did. He wound it tighter, holding the instrument well away from his face, just in case. Finally, the new string settled and held its note. He sighed, unaware that he had been holding his breath during the restringing operation.

  Maddie, watching him, grinned. “Dangerous things, those mandolas,” she said.

  He nodded gravely. “Could take your eye out if you aren’t careful,” he said. He strummed a few chords gently, making sure that the string was now set and holding its tune. Then he stood and headed for the door.

  “Come on. Time to perform.”

  * * *

  • • •

  As Maurice had predicted, the inn was packed and the outdoor tables were filled. He had hired an extra waitress for the night and two girls hurried between the tables, refilling wine and ale tankards, joking with the customers and bringing steaming platters of local sausage and potatoes and onions to set down beside the hungry farmworkers.

  Hortense’s ragout was also a popular choice, with a constant supply of bowls being delivered to the tables, along with fresh, crusty loaves of long bread.

  The inn was buzzing with a dozen different conversations. Laughter rang out from the crowded tables and patrons called greetings to one another. Will and Maddie had already set up the target wheel outside the inn, where it was illuminated by four flaring torches. The inn itself was too cramped for the knife-throwing act, with a low ceiling and crowded tables.

  “We don’t want you killing any patrons,” Will had said. “Bad for business, you know.”

  He waited until the majority of the crowd had finished their meals. “Never perform while they’re eating,” he told Maddie. “It splits their focus.” Then he strode into the main room of the tavern, his mandola slung around his neck, and struck a loud chord. The patrons looked up and a low cheer went around the room as he launched into the comic tale of Wollygelly the cross-eyed sorcerer. He smiled to himself as he sang. The last time he had performed this song in public had been in the northern fief of Macindaw, when he was trying to smoke out a sorcerer known as Malkallam.

  The audience quickly picked up on the chorus and joined in, laughing at the ridiculous antics of the witch and sorcerer. There was a round of eager applause at the end of the song, and coins showered around him. Maddie moved quickly around the room, retrieving them and keeping them safe.

  Will sang for another thirty minutes or so, alternating loud, boisterous sing-along ditties with more melancholy ballads and sad tales of unrequited love. Love never seemed to be requited in those songs, he mused. When he concluded, there was a storm of applause. Maddie brushed by him, intent on collecting the coins.

  “They must be starved for entertainment,” she said slyly. He grinned at her and held up his hands for the crowd to settle down. Then he invited them outside to watch Madelyn and the Blades of Deadly Peril. Maddie rolled her eyes, but there was a concerted movement toward the door.

  Once again, she performed to enthusiastic applause. After a brief display of juggling, she produced her knives. The audience leaned forward with extra interest. There was something strangely fascinating about the sight of a fresh-faced, attractive young woman handling those razor-sharp blades with such skill and dexterity.

  The serving maids moved back and forth among the patrons, passing out jugs of ale and wine as fast as they could fetch them. In the tavern itself, busily refilling the jugs and handing them to the girls, Maurice smiled happily to himself. It was a very profitable night, even considering the fact that the entertainers had been provided with meals and comfortable beds. The fact was, he hadn’t had to turn away any paying customers for the rooms Maddie and Will used, and the two bowls of ragout cost him very little.

  “All in all,” he said, “it’s a good result.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Will and Maddie set out early the following morning, on the seventh day of the week. Maurice saw them off, having provided a good breakfast of fresh sweet rolls and butter, with a pot of fragrant coffee to wash them down. He yawned as the little cart trundled off down the main street of the village, heading for the high road.

  “I never knew performing could be such fun,” Maddie said as Tug ambled along, pulling the cart at a gentle pace, Bumper keeping step beside him.

  Will grinned at her. “You’re starting to like the sound of applause,” he said.

  She nodded. “Yes. It’s kind of . . . invigorating, isn’t it? You enjoy it, don’t you?”

  “I do,” he said seriously. “It’s such a reversal of our usual behavior, staying concealed and out of sight. But yes, it can be quite addictive to hear people clapping your efforts to entertain them.”

  “And paying for them,” she said. She was silent for a few seconds. “Still didn’t convince anyone to ride on the wheel. That’d really add some excitement to the act.”

  She had cajoled the audience the night before, trying to persuade someone to volunteer to be strapped to the rotating target wheel—but with no success.

  “Maybe you shouldn’t miss with that first throw,” he suggested.

  She thought about it, then shook her head. “Sanne says it’s good showmanship to make a mistake early. It adds an edge of danger to the performance.”

  “Perhaps she’s right. But showing you can make a mistake isn’t conducive to having volunteers act as a target.”

  “I make the mistake on purpose,” she pointed out.

  He pursed his lips. “You know that and I know that. The whole point of it is the audience doesn’t know it. They just see that you can make a mistake. So they’re not too enthused about the idea of becoming a target.”

  “Maybe you could do it,” she suggested hopefully.

  Will kept his eyes on the road ahead. “Maybe you could have your head examined,” he said.

  They trundled on, changing horses every three hours and eating up the kilometers at a steady rate. They camped by the road that night and the following two nights. Early in the week, there was little sense in seeking an inn or a tavern to perform in—the audiences would be smaller as people settled into their working week. The key time would come later, when farmworkers and villagers would be looking to the end of the week and a chance to relax.

  On the fifth and sixth days, they sought out villages and performed once more. It seemed that this part of the country saw few jongleurs, as the audiences were appreciative and generous and the pile of coins in their lockbox grew more substantial. But still Maddie couldn’t convince a volunteer to ride the wheel. And still Will abjectly refused to do it.

 
; “Don’t you trust me?” she said in a wheedling voice.

  “No,” he said flatly.

  “But you taught me. You’ve seen me throwing knives for years.”

  “That’s why I don’t trust you,” he said.

  On they went, moving farther and farther inland, coming closer and closer to La Lumiere. Word of their presence spread ahead of them, by some mysterious method. They began to find that they were expected in the villages they visited, and greeted enthusiastically.

  “That bodes well,” Will told her as they turned in after another successful night. “If our reputation precedes us, it’s going to be easier to get permission to perform at Philippe’s castle.”

  “And that’s what we want,” Maddie said.

  “And that’s what we want.”

  17

  Will eased back gently on the reins and brought the little cart to a halt.

  “That’s quite a castle,” he said quietly.

  “More a palace, I’d say,” Maddie replied.

  Chateau La Lumiere was an incredible sight. They were both used to the splendor and majesty of Castle Araluen, but the Gallic King’s home was something else again. Araluen was spectacular, with its soaring towers and flags fluttering from different vantage points. But while it was beautiful, it was also obviously a functional stronghold. La Lumiere was not quite as large as Castle Araluen, but it possessed an elegance in all its lines. It was faced in white marble, so that the midafternoon sun glittered off its walls and spires. And a dozen flying buttresses formed elegant archways around the central structure that concealed their underlying strength and power in a show of seemingly delicate beauty.

  Where Araluen’s crenellations were square and unadorned, those on the wall of this castle were ornate and decorative, providing a graceful, lacy trim to the castle itself.

  The castle stood on top of a steep hill, with the access road snaking back and forth in a series of switchbacks to meet it. Small buildings were clustered together on the hill, seeming to cling to the steep slope. They housed the villagers who served and supplied the needs of the castle. All of them were whitewashed to match the gleaming marble facing of the castle walls. Presumably that was done by order, Will thought. No gray or dowdy houses would be tolerated in sight of the stunning white castle that crowned the hill.

  Will surveyed the steep road leading up to La Lumiere. He passed the reins to Maddie and began to clamber down from the cart.

  “You drive. I’ll walk. That’ll take some of the load off Tug.”

  She nodded and flicked the reins lightly, clicking her tongue at the same time. Tug leaned forward into the yoke, and as he did, she released the brake and let the cart roll forward. Bumper, keeping pace with Tug, snorted encouragement.

  Up they went, winding back and forth with each switchback. The higher they went, the more densely packed were the buildings of the village. And they began to see individual houses and businesses: a tannery, set as always on the outskirts of the village. Nobody wanted a tannery and its incumbent smells too close to the center. Likewise a smithy, although in this case, it was for safety reasons that the smithy and its forges and fires were kept to the outskirts of the settlement. Then houses and shops fringed the road, becoming more numerous as they moved on.

  As always happened, as they moved through the village, people emerged from their houses and places of business to eye the unmistakable jongleur’s cart.

  Eventually, a hundred meters from the summit, they broke clear of the lines of buildings on either side of the road and emerged onto a paved section that led to the castle’s main gates. The slope was easier here as they came closer to the summit of the hill, and Will swung himself up onto the cart again. Maddie made to hand him the reins but he shook his head.

  “You keep driving,” he said. “I want to look around.”

  His eyes darted around the castle walls, taking in the well-sited bastions and redoubts. He studied the gatehouse. It was highly decorative and quite elegant. But beneath that elegance he could see that it was well built. It commanded the last stretch of the access road, with two fighting towers, one either side of the gate, and a heavy drawbridge. At the inner end of the bridge, he could see the lower section of a portcullis. Doubtless, the grille work would be highly decorative and stylish, but no less of an impediment than a straightforward iron grille would be.

  “Wouldn’t care to attack this,” he said out of the side of his mouth.

  Maddie, who had been more impressed by the beauty and grace of the building, glanced sidelong at him. “Why so?” she asked.

  He pursed his lips before answering. “Oh, it’s very beautiful and very graceful,” he said. “Quite Gallic, in fact. But it’s also highly functional. All that decoration doesn’t make the walls any lower or the gate any weaker. It’s a narrow road access to the gates, and set on a steep hill as it is, it’d be difficult to site siege machines anywhere close.”

  “I suppose so,” Maddie said thoughtfully, looking at the castle with new eyes.

  The massive gates stood open, allowing access to a vaulted entryway some five meters deep, with the portcullis situated at the rear. There were four pike men standing guard outside the gates, dressed in mail and wearing the peculiar hat-shaped helmets that Gallic foot soldiers favored. Their white surcoats bore the golden lily device that was King Philippe’s coat of arms.

  “Gates are open,” Maddie said.

  “If we’d looked at all threatening, they would have had plenty of time to close them,” Will told her.

  Two of the pike men stood forward, moving to the center of the roadway to block their progress. One of them raised his two-meter-long pike so that it was diagonally across his chest. The other held up his right hand in a signal for them to stop. Their two comrades remained on either side of the gateway, their pikes grounded and held vertically.

  Will twitched the reins and Tug came to a halt a few meters from the guard with his hand raised. As the cart stopped rolling, the foot soldier lowered his hand.

  “Identify yourself,” he demanded, although their identity was plain to see.

  “I’m Will Accord and this is my daughter, Maddie,” Will told him. “We’re traveling entertainers,” he added unnecessarily—their gaudy cart and brightly colored clothing identified them as such.

  The guard grunted, unimpressed. “Where from?” he asked curtly.

  Will half turned in his seat and swept his arm in a wide arc, indicating the direction from which they had arrived.

  “From Araluen originally, good sir,” he said. “But we’ve been traveling in your beautiful country this past week or so.”

  “Not my country. The King’s,” the guard said.

  He seemed a surly brute, Will thought. But he smiled regardless. “No less beautiful for that, sir,” he said.

  The guard tested that statement for a few seconds, studying it to see if there were any insult inherent in it. Eventually, he decided that there wasn’t. He half turned his head and called to one of the guards behind him.

  “Fetch the gate marshal,” he said. “He’ll need to see these two before we admit them.”

  “Friendly place,” Maddie muttered.

  Will, keeping the smile fixed on his face, replied in the same low-level tone. “Shut up.”

  The guard was returning now, followed by a gray-haired, gray-bearded man in a black-and-silver uniform. The sleeves of his black jerkin were slashed in places to reveal the silver cloth beneath. In spite of the gray hair, he moved easily and swiftly. A sword hung at his belt, denoting his rank as an officer. The hilt was bound in black leather and a heavy silver pommel was mounted at its end. The scabbard repeated the colors of black and silver—black polished wood and leather with silver trim. A long dagger, its hilt and scabbard similarly trimmed, hung from the right side of his belt.

  “I take it this is the gate marshal,” W
ill said. He eyed the man keenly. He would be the officer given the responsibility of deciding who might or might not be admitted to the castle. Judging by the quality of his clothes and weapons, it was a senior appointment. Will eased down from the seat of the cart as the man approached and swept off his hat, stooping in the deep and graceful bow he had perfected over the previous week.

  The gate marshal looked at him. His eyes were dark and alert, taking in every detail of the cart, and its two occupants.

  “Jongleurs, eh?” he asked. His tone was brisk and no-nonsense.

  Will nodded. “Yes, my lord. Traveling through this fair country and looking for admittance.”

  “I’m no lord,” the man replied gruffly. “Address me as Sir Guillaume. Or, if you can’t get your tongue around that, just as sir.”

  “Yes, sir,” Will said agreeably. “My name is Will Accord of Redmont and this is my daughter, Maddie.”

  Sir Guillaume was pacing briskly around the cart. He patted Bumper briefly on the muzzle, then peered inside the cart at the equipment contained there.

  “From Araluen,” he said. It was a statement, not a question.

  “Indeed, sir. We arrived in your country a week ago.”

  “So we heard,” Guillaume said, and Will and Maddie exchanged a quick glance at those words. Quick as it was, it did not escape the marshal’s notice. “Oh yes. We have excellent information services. And we keep track of newcomers to our country.” He stopped his pacing and stood before Will, feet apart and hands on hips. “We’ve heard good things about you,” he said.

  Will inclined his head in appreciation of the compliment.

  The marshal continued. “You have permission to enter the castle. Take your cart and horses to the stables. You’ll be assigned a room.”

  “Thank you, Sir Guillaume,” Will said.

  The marshal nodded briskly. “Tonight you can perform in the general dining hall for members of the staff and garrison,” he said. “We’ll take a look at you then and see if you’re good enough to perform for His Majesty and his court.”