The Royal Ranger: The Missing Prince

by John F. Flanagan

  But now she had been called on to demonstrate her accuracy and speed, and Will’s life wasn’t in immediate danger. She shot three times, in quick succession.

  The first shot smashed through another wine bottle, balanced on a tree stump beside one of the gang. As wine and glass splinters exploded in all directions, the man flinched violently away.

  Before the startled bandits had time to react, Maddie’s second shot smacked into the sleeve of a gang member, pinning his right arm to the log he was leaning against. The third arrow buried itself into the soft earth between the knees of a bandit who was sitting with his legs sprawled out. With a shrill cry of fright, he scrabbled his way backward away from the deadly shaft, even though he was reacting way too late.

  Will laughed grimly. “Bear it in mind. Anyone who doesn’t do exactly as I tell them will be part of a further demonstration. But next time, Matthew won’t aim to just miss you.”

  The bandits cast wary, nervous glances toward the indistinct figure who had just shot three arrows in quick succession. There was a clear message here. They were at a complete disadvantage, covered by an archer of fearsome skill, their own weapons well out of reach.

  These were not fighting men. They were bullies and thieves, used to preying on simple, unarmed farm folk and villagers, striking without warning, using their numbers and their lack of compassion to instill fear into their victims.

  Now they were confronted by two skilled warriors—warriors who wouldn’t hesitate to shoot if they had to. It was not a situation they were familiar with. And it definitely wasn’t one they liked. Will paused to let the message sink in—to let them ponder the possible results of any sign of defiance. His next words jerked them back to reality.

  “We’ll start with you in the green shirt,” he said. “On your feet. Now!”

  He spat the last word violently as the man hesitated. Slowly the bandit rose to his feet, looking warily around him, not sure what was coming next. He didn’t have long to wait before he found out.

  “All right, strip. Off with your clothes, down to your underwear.”

  Startled by the order, the bandit hesitated further. Will took half a pace forward and drew back on the arrow nocked to his bow.

  “You have three seconds,” he said.

  The bandit responded quickly, stripping off his shirt and trousers so that he was standing, shivering, in just his undershirt and breeches. He watched Will uncertainly, wondering what was coming next.

  “And your undershirt and boots,” the Ranger ordered, and the man complied, stripping off his vest, then hopping on one foot as he pulled one boot, then the other, off his feet. The socks that he wore underneath were grubby and tattered. One big toe stuck out through a large hole.

  “Now lie down. Facedown on the ground, hands behind your back.”

  The bandit did as he was told. When he was lying in that helpless, vulnerable position, Will leaned his bow against a tree and drew his saxe. Stepping forward and kneeling quickly beside the bandit, he drove the saxe point-first into the soft ground, then quickly whipped a pair of leather thumb cuffs around the man’s thumbs, pulling the thong tight to secure them. Too late, the bandit tried to struggle against the restraints. But they were firm and his hands were secured behind his back.

  Will retrieved his saxe and stood quickly, moving away from the now-helpless bandit. He gestured with the big knife to another member of the gang.

  “You! You with the red cap. On your feet and off with your clothes.”

  The second bandit did as he was told, submitting meekly, then lying facedown and allowing Will to tie his hands.

  Within the space of ten minutes, Will had five of the group stripped, trussed and helpless, lying facedown and shivering in the cold. He ordered the sixth man to strip, then waved him over to where Vincent was still lying on the ground, groaning and crying softly, his wits still scattered by the savage impact of the shot. Blood seeped from the wound, soaking the hair around it. Head wounds usually bled profusely, and this one was no exception.

  “Bandage him,” Will ordered. “Tear up your shirt to do it.”

  The bandit wound strips of his torn shirt around Vincent’s head, staunching the flow of blood. Then he helped his leader into a sitting position. Vincent was beginning to regain consciousness, but he was still in a bad way. He stared around the clearing, confused and bewildered, his vision fuzzy and his head throbbing.

  “Wha’s happened?” he asked, his voice thick and indistinct. He frowned as he looked at his companion. “Is tha’ you, Pierre?” he asked groggily.

  Moving swiftly, Will thumbcuffed Pierre, then Vincent.

  Will pulled Vincent into a sitting position and, putting his hand under his chin, studied him carefully for several seconds, making sure he wasn’t foxing. But he could see Vincent’s eyes were wide and unfocused, and he knew that any form of defiance was well beyond him. Then he dragged him and the other bandits to their feet and quickly tied them together with a long cord, passing it around each man’s throat. He ran the rope around four substantial trees and tied it securely. The Black Vultures were now fastened in a loose circle around the trees, their hands secured behind them. He gave a satisfied nod as he looked at them. They’d stay this way for hours before they could work their way free.

  “Gather up their clothes, boots and weapons,” he told Maddie, and assisted her in the task. Then he heaved the pile of clothing, boots and their assorted knives, swords, crossbows and other weapons onto the fire in the middle of the clearing.

  For a few minutes, the flames died down and the fire emitted an acrid cloud of smoke. Then, as he piled more brushwood and logs on, the flames flared again. He added their blankets and sleeping bags to the blaze, then more firewood. He watched as the crossbow, spear shafts and ax handles began to burn, and the wood and leather handles of their swords burned away. The blades turned bright red and began to distort, their temper ruined by the intense heat.

  Will searched the campsite and found a large, heavy sack full of coins. He hefted it over one shoulder.

  “Looks like the money they stole last night.” he told Maddie. “And a bit extra. I’m sure Michel and his friends will be glad to have it back. Let’s be on our way.”

  As he and Maddie turned away from the pathetic group of former brigands, one of them called out.

  “Wait! You’re not leaving us like this?”

  Will nodded. “Apparently, that’s just what we’re doing,” he said. The bandit tried to plead with him, the effort hindered by the fact that his hands were secured behind his back.

  “But we’ll freeze!”

  Will glanced at the sky, where clouds were once again gathering. “That is a possibility,” he said cheerfully. “It does look like there’s more rain on the way.”

  “We’ll starve,” the bandit cried, trying another tack.

  Will nodded. “That, too, is a distinct possibility. You should have thought of that before you took up a career preying on defenseless villages.” He gestured to Maddie and led the way into the forest, heading back to where they had left the horses. The bandit’s pleading cries faded as they moved farther away.

  “He’s right, of course,” Maddie said. “They could starve.”

  “A prospect that doesn’t break my heart,” Will replied. “But I doubt it. They’ll work their way free in a few hours. They’ll be unarmed and helpless. They won’t be bothering the villagers again for some time.”

  Maddie was silent for a few minutes. Then she spoke again. “You didn’t want to hand them over to the authorities?”

  Will shrugged. “I don’t know who the authorities are. Chances are, it’s Lassigny and his men. If I take in half a dozen criminals to him it will ruin our cover as jongleurs, won’t it?”

  “I suppose so,” she said. Then she asked a final question that had been bothering her. “This business of taking away the
ir clothes and boots—I know we’ve done it before and I know it makes them more vulnerable and less threatening. But who thought of it in the first place?”

  Will smiled. “See if you can guess.”

  She paused for a few seconds, then said: “Halt?”

  He nodded once. “Right first time.”

  30

  Michel du Mont, innkeeper in the mountain village of Entente, was disconsolately raking the fine gravel in the plaza in front of his inn. Vincent and his Black Vultures had cost him dearly. They had stolen a week’s takings from the inn, including the larger-than-usual amount that had gone into his cashbox on the night the two jongleurs had performed.

  Fortunately, they hadn’t managed to get their hands on his main savings, which were buried in an iron strongbox in the stable yard behind the inn. But still, the loss was a serious one.

  In addition, the bandits had taken all the ready cash held by the customers at the inn, and that meant that the village would be on short commons for some days. And that, in turn, meant that people would have no money to spend at the inn until they managed to restore their funds at the next market day, which was two weeks away.

  All in all, things looked grim for the next ten days or so, and Michel quietly cursed under his breath. Vincent and his gang had robbed the village, and the inn, before this. But this had been a more serious matter than most. The inn had been full and most of the villagers had lost money in the raid.

  So too had the jongleurs, he thought gloomily. But he couldn’t be too concerned about that. They weren’t locals. They weren’t his neighbors or friends. And their way of life, traveling alone through the countryside and carrying substantial amounts of money with them, more or less ensured that they would be targeted by robbers from time to time.

  Still, they had been a pleasant pair, and good entertainers, and he felt a degree of sympathy for them. It was particularly bad luck that Vincent had observed the girl storing their takings in the cashbox at the back of the cart. They hadn’t just lost a night’s pay, they had lost everything they had earned in the past week.

  “Innkeeper!”

  He started at the voice, which came from behind him. He looked quickly over his shoulder and saw a mounted figure just ten meters away. Michel, cautious now of strangers, measured the distance to the door of the inn, and the long cudgel he kept behind the door. He decided it was too far. The mounted man could ride him down in a few meters, if that were his intention.

  Still, Michel had something nearly as good at hand. The gravel rake was long and heavy and its head was studded with a line of large nails. It would make an effective, if clumsy, improvised weapon if he should need one. He turned and faced the stranger, holding the rake ready in both hands, at an angle across his upper body.

  The rider clearly recognized his intent.

  “You won’t be needing that,” he said, gesturing at the rake. “I don’t wish you any harm.”

  Michel frowned. There was something familiar about the figure but it was hard to ascertain what. He was wearing a strange cloak that broke up the outlines of his body, so that Michel had to peer closely at him to focus on him. And his face was hidden in the shadow of his cowl. A massive longbow, strung and ready for use, rested across his thighs.

  His voice was vaguely familiar, but he spoke with a trace of an accent—Hibernian, Michel realized.

  “I think this belongs to you and the rest of your village,” the rider said. As he spoke, he unhitched a heavy sack from the pommel of his saddle and tossed it onto the raked gravel yard. The sack gave off a weighty chink of coin as it hit the ground. Michel started forward, a smile widening on his face as he realized that the village’s fortunes, and his own, had just been restored. Then, driven by his innate sense of fairness, he hesitated.

  “Some of that belongs to a pair of jongleurs who performed here two nights ago,” he said.

  The cowled figure nodded. “We’ve already given them their share. We saw them on the road.”

  Michel nodded, beginning to understand. The jongleurs must have encountered this mysterious warrior and his band—after all, he had said we saw them—and recounted the story of the robbery at the Entente inn. Then, for reasons best known to himself, the cloaked rider had decided to wreak vengeance on the Black Vulture gang. Michel didn’t know why, and he wasn’t about to question the man’s motives. He reasoned that the warrior must have a sizable band working for him. After all, he had obviously overpowered the Black Vultures.

  Had Michel been a more observant man, he might have recognized the shaggy gray horse that the stranger was riding as one of the two horses who had pulled the jongleurs’ cart. But he wasn’t a man who took much notice of horses. Cart horses were cart horses. They weren’t well groomed or particularly remarkable.

  “I’ll bid you farewell,” said the rider, and turned his horse back the way he had come.

  “Yes . . .” said Michel uncertainly. He looked down at the bag of coins at his feet. “And . . . thank you, whoever you are.”

  But the rider didn’t reply. He tapped his horse with his heels and cantered off down the road leading to Chateau des Falaises.

  * * *

  • • •

  “He didn’t recognize you?” Maddie said when Will rejoined her in the trees on the outskirts of the village.

  He shook his head. “No reason why he should. I’m dressed differently and I changed my voice. I added a bit of Hibernian accent to it. And he was more interested in the bag of coins that I gave him.” He scratched his chin thoughtfully. “You know, he’s an honest man—not something you usually find in innkeepers. He told me that some of the money should go to the two jongleurs who performed at the inn last night. I said we’d already taken care of them.”

  “So what do we do now?” Maddie asked.

  “We’ll press on for Chateau des Falaises. It’s about a day’s ride from here. But I want to leave the cart hidden in the forest along the way.”

  Maddie glanced at him in surprise. “Really? Why’s that?”

  “I’ve been thinking about it and it’s time we assumed a lower profile. I want to attract less attention. We’ll go to the castle as a simple jongleur and his daughter. We won’t put on a formal show for Lassigny and his court. We’ll play informally for the staff and the garrison in the common rooms. That’ll mean we can stay around for a longer period. If we perform for Lassigny in the great hall, we’ll be hired for one night and then we’d have to be on our way. This way, nobody will take much notice if we stay for four or five days. And you’ll have a chance to look around while I’m performing.”

  “Look around for what?” Maddie asked, although she was confident she knew the answer.

  “Not what. Who. You can scout around and see where they’re holding Philippe’s son.”

  31

  They continued on the road leading to Chateau des Falaises. Around the middle of the day, they found a secluded glade some twenty meters off the road. Will carefully guided the cart through the trees until it was in the middle of the glade, and well hidden from the road. Maddie unpacked the large net they carried with them to conceal the cart. It was festooned with green and brown strips of cloth, and when it was loosely draped over the cart, it helped it blend into the forest background.

  She retrieved their bows from the hidden compartment under the cart tray. The bows and the knives they wore in their double scabbards went into a long leather tube—of the kind fishermen used to protect their rods. Two slender quivers, each holding fifteen arrows, were also added.

  Maddie indicated the knives. “We already have knives,” she said. Each of them was wearing a saxe in a simple scabbard, and had a throwing knife in a concealed spot as well.

  Will glanced up. “Doesn’t hurt to have spares,” he said. “Our knives might be confiscated when we go into the castle.”

  While Maddie was rigging the camouflage net
over the cart, Will set about transforming his jongleur’s outfit. He selected the second-best outfit, and smeared it with dirt and dust from the road. Then he sewed several unmatching patches onto the jerkin, so that it looked old and worn. Maddie glanced across as he was doing this.

  “What’s that for?” she asked.

  He paused to bite off a length of thread from his latest patch. “As I said, I want to keep a low profile. With the cart and its decorations, and your equipment, we look like top-of-the-line performers—the sort who would seek to appear in the castle lord’s hall. This way, we look a little down at heel and Raggedy Andy—as if we’ll be glad to sing for our supper in the common rooms of the castle, without bothering the quality folk.”

  He said “quality” with a slight sneer. He believed Lassigny to be anything but.

  When he had finished, his smart, brightly colored jongleur’s outfit was transformed into a rather dull, stained and patched version of its former self.

  Maddie had donned a plain outfit as well—a green jerkin over brown leggings. She left her Ranger cloak tied behind her saddle and wore a waist-length cape made of gray wool.

  Will eyed her approvingly. “Just the thing,” he said. Then he spread his arms to display his stained, patched tunic, the once-bright colors now dulled by dirt and some grease from the cart’s axle. “How do I look?”

  Maddie eyed him with disapproval. “Like I shouldn’t be seen traveling with you,” she said at length.

  Will took the cashbox from the back of the cart and buried it beneath a tree with a distinctive fork two meters from the ground. Then he marked the trunk with two parallel slashes from his saxe—easy enough to find again but not so conspicuous as to catch the eye of a casual observer.

  “Be a pity if someone stumbled on the cart and decided to steal it,” he said. “Along with all our earnings to date.”