The Royal Ranger: The Missing Prince

by John F. Flanagan

  Maddie, calling the numbers that she was aiming at, sent the five blades whirling and thudding into the board in rapid succession—every one hitting her nominated target. Then Will set the wheel spinning and she repeated the sequence. The audience were enthralled. Even the King lost his look of indifference and leaned forward slightly to watch.

  As the act progressed, Maddie moved on to more difficult feats, having the wheel turn faster and faster while two servants worked the crank handle as she called the tempo for them, standing with her back to the spinning wheel and whirling as a number was nominated, hurling the knives without seeming to pause and hitting the target every time. The crowd became more and more fascinated and appreciative. The applause became louder and longer.

  Finally, Maddie neared the end of her act. She faced the audience, her knives held in a loose fan in her left hand, and flung out her right arm toward the target wheel.

  “My lords and ladies!” she cried. “May I have a volunteer?”

  There was a stir of interest among the crowd as they wondered what was coming next.

  “Is there a brave soul among you who will ride the spinning wheel of peril while I continue to throw my knives?”

  A murmur ran through the audience, but nobody volunteered. Maddie gave a quick frown of frustration. Having a live volunteer strapped to the spinning wheel would form a climactic end to her act. But so far, she had been unable to cajole anyone to participate. She took a breath to try to convince someone to volunteer. But a voice from the high table forestalled her.

  “What’s this? Are none of my brave knights valiant enough to volunteer? Is Gallica to be shamed before our Araluen friends?”

  It was Philippe. He had risen from his chair and was surveying his knights and nobles with a superior sneer on his face. His voice was high pitched and nasal. The tone of it was hectoring and dismissive.

  Maddie turned to him, smiling. “It’s no matter, Your Majesty—” she began, but he waved her to silence with an imperious gesture.

  “Of course it matters, young lady. It’s an insult to your skill that none of my brave knights will volunteer to assist you. But I know there is one here with the courage to do so . . .”

  He paused dramatically as the room watched warily. Then he pointed to his brother, Louis, sitting beside him.

  “Prince Louis, my brother, will volunteer to be your assistant,” he declared, with a note of triumph in his voice. A murmur of surprise and relief went around the room. But Prince Louis recoiled in his chair, his face going pale.

  The King turned to him, smiling disdainfully. “Isn’t that so, brother?”

  Louis, speechless, could only shake his head.

  “Come now, Louis, on your feet. Show these cowards what real courage is.”

  “Your Majesty . . . Brother . . .” Louis finally found his voice, then was lost for words once more. He cringed away from the King in his seat, as if distancing himself would make the command go away.

  Will, watching from the side of the hall, shook his head. Maddie caught his eye, a confused and frightened look on her face as she wondered how to handle this.

  What a family, Will thought. It was obvious that Philippe was enjoying belittling his younger brother, embarrassing him in front of the entire company. There must be undercurrents between them for the King to feel the need to assert his dominance over the prince in this way. But such a course held potential danger for Will and Maddie. If he allowed this to proceed, they could well make an enemy of Prince Louis.

  He strode now to the center of the room and bowed to the King.

  “My lord!” he cried. “Generous though Prince Louis’s offer might be, I’m afraid I cannot allow it. The thought of having royalty strapped to her target wheel might well be too much for my young daughter.” He phrased his objection so that he seemed to accept that the prince would allow himself to be strapped to the wheel.

  Philippe frowned at the interruption. “You cannot allow it?” he said. “Who are you to gainsay a king?”

  Will mentally cursed himself for his unfortunate choice of words. He bowed deeply. “Your pardon, Majesty. My respect for you and your royal family is too deep to allow any of you to take such a risk. It would be a tragedy of the deepest kind if your brother were to be injured. After all, his blood and yours are the same. Any injury to him would be an injury to you.”

  Philippe smiled thinly. “I admit it would be tragic if Louis were to be wounded,” he said. “But your daughter needs someone to assist her.”

  “Then let me do it,” Will said quickly. “Let me take the prince’s place on the wheel.” He turned his gaze to the pale-faced Louis. “Would Your Highness permit me to take your place?” he asked, continuing the pretense that Louis had actually volunteered.

  The King, still smiling, turned to his brother and Will knew he had handled this situation correctly. Philippe wanted two things, he sensed. He wanted to embarrass and belittle his brother. And he wanted to see someone risk their life on the wheel.

  Louis nodded quickly. When he spoke, his voice was pitched a trifle higher than normal. “Yes! Yes! By all means. Go ahead,” he said. He was still cowering back in his large, high-backed chair, as if trying to stay as far away from the King as was possible.

  The King made a gesture of acquiescence toward Will. “Then, seeing that Louis is willing, we give our permission.”

  Louis sank a little further into his chair as he heard the words. Will bowed, then moved toward the wheel. Maddie hurried to his side to help strap him into position.

  “Don’t miss,” he told her grimly as she tightened the straps around his wrists.

  “Don’t worry,” she replied. She signaled to the two servants to crank the wheel, counting time for them. When they had the wheel rotating at the speed she wanted, she strode back to her mark. Silence hung over the room as her arm went back, then forward.

  Thunk!

  The audience cheered as the knife thudded home, missing Will’s outstretched hand by a few centimeters. The next four knives followed in quick succession, missing by the same small margin. Signaling for the servants to stop cranking, Maddie strode forward to retrieve the knives for a further demonstration. She signaled for the servants to begin cranking again but, this time, Philippe’s voice interrupted her.

  “Faster this time!” he demanded, and pounded the table with the rhythm he wanted. The others at the high table joined in and the wheel began to turn faster. Maddie assessed the speed for a few seconds, then delivered another volley of knives, each one just missing Will’s hands, feet and head.

  Then, before the King could demand more, she faced the audience and bowed deeply. The assembled knights and nobles cheered and began to throw coins to her. As she hurried to the wheel and released Will, the cheers redoubled, praising his courage. Will and Maddie held hands and bowed to the audience, to the left, the right and the center. Then they turned and bowed to the King at the high table as well, holding the bow for some seconds.

  “Well done,” Philippe said, with a marked lack of enthusiasm. He tossed a chamois purse to Will. It clinked as he caught it. “Your reward,” he said briefly. It seemed he was disappointed that Will had escaped unharmed.

  Will bowed again, then approached closer to the dais.

  “Your Majesty, if I may be so bold, I have a gift for you from Araluen. May I present it?”

  Another languid wave of the hand greeted the request. Will mounted the stairs quickly and took a silver medallion from around his neck, laying it on the table before the King. Philippe glanced at it, incuriously at first. Then his eyes narrowed.

  The medallion was embossed with a crown. Beneath it were three words.

  Pax inter reges.

  Later that night, when the castle was sleeping, Will and Maddie were summoned to the King’s quarters.

  21

  Until Will had handed him the
medallion, Philippe had no idea that the two jongleurs were the agents sent by Duncan to help rescue his son.

  He had been expecting one person—a man. And he had been expecting that person to be a Ranger, not a brightly clad troubadour. The fact that the two jongleurs had come from Araluen had struck him as a coincidence, nothing more. After all, travelers from Araluen passed through Gallica every day.

  The reason for the secrecy had been explained to Will by Duncan before the two Rangers had set out on their journey.

  “Castles are full of informants, gossips and out-and-out spies,” he had said. “And I imagine that Chateau La Lumiere is worse than most, given the intrigue and the state of politics in that country at the moment. We don’t want this fellow Lassigny to get any hint that you’re working for Philippe. So you need to wait for the right moment to reveal your identities to the King.”

  The medallion had been the way they would do this. The inscription, Pax inter reges, was the same phrase Philippe had used to identify himself when he first visited Araluen to seek Duncan’s help.

  Now Maddie and Will were escorted through the dark corridors and stairways of the castle to the King’s private chambers. It was well after midnight and the castle was dark and sleeping, so there was nobody awake to see them. Only a few lighted torches set in sconces illuminated the passageways as they followed the King’s servant to the sixth floor of the keep, where Philippe’s quarters were situated.

  The servant paused outside the door and knocked twice. It was obviously a prearranged signal as he didn’t wait for permission to proceed, but pushed the door open and stood aside to let Maddie and Will enter. After the dimness of the palace corridors, they were both dazzled by the bright light of a score of candles in the room. Philippe sat behind an ornate desk, in a gilt-encrusted chair with spindly curved legs, upholstered with satin cushions. Will smiled wryly. It was the total antithesis to Duncan’s functional work-scarred pine table and plain high-backed chair.

  Prince Louis sat to one side, on a banquette similar in style to his brother’s chair. There were two more such chairs set opposite Philippe and he waved the Rangers to them, with a somewhat distracted expression on his face. Will bowed, a brief nod of his head. Maddie, watching him carefully, followed suit. Then they both sat.

  “You,” Philippe said after several seconds. “You are Duncan’s people?” There was a note of puzzlement in his voice.

  Will nodded. “That’s correct, my lord.”

  The frown on the King’s face deepened. “I was expecting a Ranger. A warrior. Not a pair of jongleurs,” he said, looking from one to the other, then shaking his head.

  Will smiled. “King Duncan felt that a pair of jongleurs would be less likely to arouse suspicion, sir,” he said. After the events in the dining hall, he had decided that he didn’t like the Gallican King. Nor did he trust him. As a result, he now eschewed the use of the royal title Your Majesty with a more egalitarian sir.

  Philippe didn’t seem to notice. He pointed at Maddie. “But she’s a girl,” he said, his tone leaving no doubt that he considered girls and women to be some sort of inferior group. “This is a dangerous mission you’ve embarked on. Surely Duncan realizes that?”

  “I’m sure he does, sir,” said Will. He glanced sideways at Maddie and saw that her cheeks were flushed with color. He knew that was a sign she was suppressing her anger. “But she’s highly capable,” Will added.

  “But . . . a girl!” Philippe repeated. He spread his hands in further bewilderment.

  Will glanced at Louis. The prince was nodding in agreement with his brother.

  “I can assure you, sir, Maddie is highly skilled and well able to look after herself—and me if it comes to that. And the fact that she is a girl makes it less likely for people to suspect our true purpose—as you have just demonstrated, sir.”

  The King’s cheeks flushed. He wasn’t accustomed to having people disagree with him—particularly people whom he considered to be his inferiors—which accounted for most people in the world. He could think of no fitting reply to the infuriatingly calm man before him, so he fell back on his dignity and royal protocol.

  “You will address me as ‘Your Majesty,’” he said angrily.

  But Will shook his head. “No, sir. That’s a form of address I reserve for my own king.”

  Philippe sat bolt upright, his eyes wide with surprise. Nobody spoke to him in that manner! Nobody!

  “You’re insolent, jongleur—” he began but Will interrupted him.

  “I’m answerable to King Duncan, sir. I’m here because he ordered it, nobody else.”

  “I could have you arrested!” Philippe said, his voice rising angrily.

  But again, Will shook his head. “It wouldn’t be a wise thing to attempt,” he said, and before Philippe could proceed further, he elaborated. “If you do, who’s going to rescue your son from Baron Lassigny?”

  Philippe realized Will was right, and made an immense effort to stifle his anger. He glowered at the jongleur. I’ll deal with your insolence when I no longer need your help, he thought.

  Will gave him a few more moments to control himself, then said in a reasonable voice, “Now, perhaps you could tell us the latest situation with your son so we can get on with the business of bringing him back to you?” Sensing that Philippe was finding it difficult to speak calmly, he gave him a lead.

  “Has the situation changed in the last three weeks?” he asked. “I take it he is still held hostage at Chateau des Falaises?”

  Philippe nodded, then said in a thick voice, “Yes. He’s still a hostage. Nothing has changed.”

  “Do you have maps of the area around Falaise?” Will asked. “It would be useful for us to see them.”

  Regaining his equanimity more and more with each moment, Philippe nodded and jerked open a drawer in his desk, pulling out several sheets of parchment.

  “I had these copied for you,” he said.

  Will could see that they were charts and maps. As the King passed them across, he turned them so he could see them right side up and fanned them out. Maddie rose from her chair to lean over his shoulder and study them as well. Will traced a series of roads with his forefinger, leading from La Lumiere to Falaise.

  “This looks like the quickest route,” he said, half to himself. He consulted the scale marked on the base of the map. “We could be there in . . . three days. Maybe four.”

  “Riding hard, you could do it in two,” Philippe suggested, but Will shook his head, smiling to rob the action of any insult.

  “We have to maintain our cover as jongleurs,” he explained. “That means traveling slowly and stopping to perform along the way. Then, when we arrive, we’ll be more likely to gain access—just as we did here.”

  Philippe nodded, seeing the logic of the statement. He was still furious with Will but he was suppressing his feelings. This insolent, confident man was his best chance to have his son back safe and sound. He couldn’t afford to antagonize him. If he did, the jongleur was likely to abandon the mission altogether and return to Araluen.

  “I suppose so,” he said. There was another silence as he realized he had nothing to add to the conversation. He looked at his brother. “Louis, is there anything you want to say?”

  The prince sat up straighter and pulled at his chin, thinking. Then he asked: “Why didn’t you sing ‘La lune, elle est mon amour’?”

  Will looked at him with disbelief. “What?” he asked sharply.

  Louis made a gesture with both hands spread out, as if explaining to a simpleton. “‘La lune, elle est mon amour,’” he said. “It’s a love song. A beautiful one.”

  Then, inexplicably, incredibly, he began to sing.

  “La lune, elle est mon amour

  Elle voyage dans le ciel de mon coeur . . .”

  He hummed a few more bars of the melody.

  Good gri
ef, thought Will, we’re talking about rescuing his nephew and he wants to talk about his favorite love song!

  “I’m afraid, sir, I don’t know that one,” he said.

  Louis smiled at him. “You should learn it. It’s very beautiful.”

  Will shook his head slowly and turned to Philippe. “Was there anything else, sir?” he asked.

  Philippe thought for a few seconds, then shook his head. He didn’t seem to see the incongruity of his brother’s actions. Will rose, gathered the charts together and took a deep breath. Maddie followed suit.

  “Then, sir, we’ll get some sleep. We’ll leave after first light tomorrow.”

  Philippe nodded several times, as if resuming control of the situation and the conversation.

  “That would be best,” he said, and gestured to the door. “I won’t detain you further.”

  Outside, the same servant was waiting to escort them back to their rooms. Maddie looked at Will and said, in a low voice, “‘La lune, elle est mon amour’?”

  She spread her hands in a gesture of disbelief. “Holy cow, what a family!”

  “I was thinking much the same thing,” said Will.

  Maddie was silent for a few moments. Then she spoke again. “I’m wondering why you didn’t confirm that we’re Rangers. You intimated that we were simply jongleurs,” she said. Will glanced quickly at the servant leading them, making sure he was out of earshot.

  “I don’t altogether trust Philippe,” he said. “Or his brother. The less they know about us, the better. If they think we’re just spies and not Rangers, that might be better for us.”

  22

  They left La Lumiere shortly after dawn the following day. Not surprisingly, neither Philippe nor Louis rose early to see them on their way. As they clip-clopped gently along the high road toward Falaise, Will felt as if a giant weight had been lifted from his shoulders. The atmosphere at the royal palace had been oppressive and dismal, he thought. Philippe’s infuriating air of superiority, and his penchant for bullying and belittling those under him, had left an unpleasant taste in Will’s mouth.