He came up into a crouch and half ran, angling out to the side so that he could circle behind the other man. When he was level with the rocks, he dropped into concealment once more.
Just in time, he thought, as the head and shoulders rose into view again. He was closer now and he could make out more detail. The man—for it was a man—had long, unkempt gray hair and a shaggy beard that came down to his chest. His clothes were old and ragged, patched many times. His appearance confirmed Halt’s suspicion that this wasn’t one of Morgarath’s followers.
The man looked around, for a moment looking straight at Halt where the Ranger crouched, only twenty meters away. Halt froze, resisting the almost overwhelming urge to drop back into cover. To do that would be to reveal his position immediately. He weathered the gaze of the other man, not moving a muscle. Then the face turned away from him to search the other side of the rock field.
Halt took the opportunity to glide another ten meters past the man’s hiding spot, so that he could come up behind him unseen. So long as the stalker didn’t move his position, Halt could be upon him within another couple of minutes.
Then, finally, the man left his hiding place and began to move to his left, heading straight for the rocks where Halt was hidden. His eyes were still fixed on the last place he’d seen the Ranger, and he moved sideways like a crab, crouching to remain in cover, flitting from one boulder to the next.
Halt’s hand went to his saxe. He could hear the soft scrabble of the man’s feet on the rocks, then the harsh sound of his ragged breathing. That, more than anything else, told Halt that the man was fearful, confused by the inexplicable disappearance of his quarry.
He moved closer, and Halt could sense he was crouched on the far side of the boulder behind which he was sheltering. Which way would he go around it? Behind it or in front of it? Would he emerge on Halt’s right or his left?
He strained his ears and heard a slight movement. Good. The man was moving in front of the rock, which would bring him out on Halt’s right, facing away from him. Silently, Halt slid the saxe from its sheath and tensed, ready for instant action.
A gray-haired shape emerged in front of him, crouched and peering forward. Obviously, the man was still puzzled by Halt’s sudden disappearance. Halt could hear the heavy, nerve-racked breathing more clearly. He studied the man’s clothes. Ragged, patched woolen trousers, feet bound in what appeared to be animal skins, laced in place with leather thongs. A short cloak, also of animal fur, hung over his shoulders. And a shapeless felt hat covered his head. The unkempt hair hung down over his shoulders.
Halt rose like a gray shadow behind him. At the last moment, the man must have heard some faint sound and he started to turn, sensing there was danger behind him.
Halt brought the heavy brass hilt of his saxe down on the back of the man’s head before he could complete the turn. There was a dull, ugly thud, and the man collapsed with a small cry, his knees giving way to send him sprawling onto the coarse sand and pebbles.
He was facedown, and Halt grabbed one shoulder to turn him over. There was no resistance. The body was limp. Halt let him lie on his back and reached down to roll one eyelid back with his thumb.
He could see only white behind the rolled-back lid. The man was unconscious.
Or dead, he wondered suddenly. He’d hit the stranger a little harder than he’d intended. He rested a hand on his chest now and was relieved to feel the regular rise and fall as he breathed in and out.
Now that he had the opportunity, he studied the man’s face. He was older than Halt, perhaps fifty or sixty years old. It was hard to tell beneath the tangled gray hair and beard. The face was weather-beaten and lined, turned brown by the ravages of the sun and searing winds of the plateau. The nose was long and crooked. It had been broken at some time. The eyebrows were bushy and untrimmed. It was a thin face, the cheeks sunken below prominent cheekbones.
He was unkempt and dirty, his clothes stained and patched in a dozen places, as Halt had already observed. He was thin, his arms and legs sticklike and patterned with sinews and veins. He didn’t have the look of someone who would be working for Morgarath. He looked like a beggar, a recluse, someone who slept rough and lived on his wits.
His forehead was grazed where he’d fallen facedown into the rocks. Halt seized his shoulders and dragged him till he was half sitting, supported by a boulder. Then he unstoppered his canteen and poured a little cold water over the man’s forehead, allowing it to trickle down across his face.
The man twitched at the cool touch of the water. Halt placed his thumb on his bottom lip and pried his mouth open, allowing more of the water to trickle down into his mouth. Eyes still closed, the man swallowed by reflex at the touch of the water, then gulped and coughed, sitting up suddenly, eyes wide-open and filled with panic.
He tried to rise but Halt was ready for him and placed a hand on his chest, holding him down. The man’s gaze steadied and focused and he studied the bearded face leaning over him.
“You’re not . . . ,” he began, then stopped.
“I’m not who?” Halt asked.
The man shook his head, as if trying to clear his vision further. It occurred to Halt that he might well be seeing double after the blow to the back of his head.
“You’re not . . . one of them . . . ,” the man said. His voice was thin and reedy, and the words came awkwardly, as if he were not accustomed to talking very much.
“A Wargal?” Halt said, and saw a quick flash of fear in the man’s watery blue eyes. “No. I’m not a Wargal. But I see you know what they are.”
The man nodded, swallowed twice, then gestured to the canteen in Halt’s left hand. The Ranger offered it to him and he took it, tilting it over his mouth and letting water fall into it. This time, prepared for it, he didn’t choke. He swallowed greedily.
“That’s good,” he said, a little absently. Then the eyes came back to Halt’s again. “And you’re not with the Black Lord?” he said uncertainly. It was obvious who the title referred to.
“His name is Morgarath,” Halt said.
“I call him the Black Lord,” the man replied.
Halt let a grim smile touch his lips. “It’s a good name for him,” he said, “in more ways than one. But, no. I’m not with him. You could say I am well and truly against him.”
A glimmer of relief shone in the man’s eyes. This bearded stranger didn’t seem like one of the Black Lord’s people, the gray-haired man thought. After all, the man had revived him and given him water, which was not what he would expect from one of the interlopers on the plateau. Of course, he had also belted him over the back of the head and sent him sprawling, which was exactly what he’d expect.
“Who are you?” he asked eventually, having processed these conflicting thoughts.
“My name is Halt. I’m a King’s Ranger.”
The man frowned. The word Ranger rang a bell, touched a chord of memory within him. In another life, he’d known that Rangers were men to be trusted—treated with a certain amount of reserve, mind you, but trusted nevertheless.
“A Ranger,” he repeated vaguely.
Halt nodded. He thought that perhaps he might offer a comforting smile, but such an expression wasn’t in his repertoire and he had the good sense to know that if he attempted one, he would end up looking something like a gargoyle. Hardly a reassuring sight.
“That’s right,” he said agreeably. “And who are you?”
The man swallowed several times, wondering if he would put himself at a disadvantage by revealing his identity. Then he apparently decided that he wouldn’t.
“My name is Norman,” he said. “I’m the hermit of these mountains.”
10
“THE CARRIAGE IS READY, LORD CROWLEY.”
Sir Athol was an earnest young man, who took his responsibility as head of the men-at-arms in the Queen’s escort very seriously ind
eed. He regarded Crowley with a deep respect that bordered on awe. After the rescue of King Duncan and the events at Castle Gorlan the year before, Crowley and his partner, Halt, had gained legendary status in the Kingdom.
Crowley was finishing a light breakfast in the main dining hall. He looked up at the young face and smiled. “I’m no lord. Just Crowley will do fine if you want to get my attention.”
Sir Athol shifted his feet awkwardly. “That doesn’t seem sufficiently respectful, sir.” A thought occurred as he said the last word. “Perhaps I could call you Sir Crowley?”
The Ranger shook his head. “I’m no knight, and that’s a knight’s title,” he replied. “If you want to call me something, how about Ranger Crowley? That’s what I am, after all.”
Sir Athol considered the suggestion and nodded. It seemed sufficiently respectful. He was loath to simply call the Ranger by his first name.
“Very well, Ranger Crowley,” he said, trying the mode of address and finding it satisfactory. “The carriage is ready in the courtyard.”
“Let’s take a look at it then.” Crowley finished the last of his coffee, set down his mug and rose, taking his longbow from the tabletop beside him. He led the way out of the main hall to the entrance and descended the three steps to the courtyard.
The carriage was drawn up outside the entrance. Two gray Percherons were harnessed to its traces. He knew they had been specially selected by the Castle Araluen horse master for their smooth, matched gait. They would provide the Queen with the most comfortable ride possible.
The carriage was something new. It had been built on the framework of a normal cart. But instead of being rigidly fastened to the axles and frames, it was suspended from them by thick straps of leather, drawn tight to absorb the bumps and lurches of the rough country roads they would be traveling. Crowley unlatched a side door and looked inside. The seats were thickly padded and there were canvas blinds on the windows to keep out dust, cold weather, rain and prying eyes. On the right-hand side, a set of brackets had been installed to hold the litter that the Queen would use.
He shoved against the side of the carriage, setting it rocking back and forth against the suspension straps. It moved easily and he pursed his lips.
“Wouldn’t like to travel in this at any speed,” he muttered. But then, he thought, they would be traveling slowly of necessity. The Queen’s condition meant that speed would be subjugated to comfort and smoothness on this journey, and the leather straps should do a good job absorbing the bumps and jerks as the carriage rolled along. He shut the door and latched it, then turned to Sir Athol.
“Let the Queen’s party know we’re ready to move,” he said. “And summon the rest of the escort.”
He looked up at the dark sky, pulling his cloak closer around him. It was chilly in the predawn, and he estimated that daybreak was two hours away. That was fine. He wanted to draw as little attention as possible to their departure from Castle Araluen. The queen’s leaving had been kept a strict secret. Aside from Sir Athol, even the members of the bodyguard hadn’t been told who they were escorting, although he expected that the more intelligent ones among them might have guessed.
But the carriage, with its unusual design and fittings, was obviously a conveyance for someone of high rank or riches, and since the roads were unsafe and bands of brigands roamed the countryside—a legacy of the chaos Morgarath’s rebellion had caused in the Kingdom—the fewer people who knew that it had originated from the castle, the better. He wanted to be well on the way and into the cover of the trees before the sun rose.
The five archers and ten men-at-arms formed up in the courtyard with a clatter of hooves. Horses stamped the flagstones and sent plumes of steam from their nostrils as they snorted, eager to be on their way. Without appearing to, Crowley inspected the men and their equipment and nodded to himself. Each archer wore a full quiver of arrows over his shoulder and held his longbow across the saddle bow, already strung. The hilts of their short swords and daggers were visible at their waists, and a small round shield—leather over a wooden frame—was lashed to the back of each saddle.
The men-at-arms all wore chain-mail shirts under their tunics, and their legs were protected by metal greaves from the knees down. Their swords were longer and heavier than those carried by the archers, and their shields were kite shaped and metal clad. Each man wore a helmet with a mail aventail protecting his shoulders and neck. And each one carried a long spear that, in a pinch, would serve as a lance.
There was a bustle of movement at the door of the keep tower, and the Queen’s party emerged, accompanied by the King. Queen Rosalind was being carried by four servants on a thickly cushioned litter, with blankets and furs pulled up around her chin to ward off the predawn chill. She was very pale—her complexion was waxen and there were dark shadows under her eyes. Duncan strode beside her, his eyes fixed on her face, holding her hand in both of his. His look of concern was all too obvious, and he spoke softly to her as they moved toward the carriage.
She saw Crowley, and her drawn, tired features were transformed by a luminous smile. She rose against her pillows and beckoned him closer as the litter bearers paused beside the carriage.
“Crowley,” she said, holding out her hand to him. “My very favorite Ranger.”
She was all too aware of the role Crowley had played in foiling Morgarath’s plan to discredit her husband and usurp the throne.
Crowley took the hand and bowed over it, bringing it to his lips.
“Your majesty,” he said. “If you’re ready, we’ll get you settled and be on the road.”
“Whatever you say, Crowley.” She smiled. Then he relinquished her hand and nodded to the litter bearers to set the stretcher in place inside the carriage. The King put a hand on Crowley’s shoulder and drew him aside.
“Take care of her, Crowley,” he said. “You’re one of only two men I’d trust her life to.”
Crowley nodded reassuringly. “I’ll guard her with my life, your majesty.”
Duncan looked long and hard into his eyes. He had to look down as Crowley was considerably shorter than he was. After a long pause, he nodded.
“I couldn’t ask for more,” he said quietly. Then he turned away and stepped to the side of the carriage, leaning in the open window to say his final farewells to his wife. Crowley withdrew a few paces to give them privacy.
After several minutes, the King stepped back from the carriage and caught Crowley’s eye. The Ranger nodded at the unspoken command.
“Sir Athol!” he called. “We’ll move out.” He placed his foot in Cropper’s stirrup and swung up into the saddle as Athol called commands to the small force.
The order of march had been determined in the previous days as they planned this journey. Two of the archers went first, their horses’ hooves clattering on the cobbles as they trotted out under the portcullis, then thudding on the wood of the drawbridge. The archers would ride ahead, staying three or four hundred meters in advance to scout the way. Five of the men-at-arms followed them, then the carriage, followed by the other five mounted soldiers. The remaining three archers would follow as a rearguard, staying several hundred meters behind the rest of the party. Crowley and Sir Athol positioned themselves on either side of the carriage.
They clattered across the drawbridge and onto the road that led down through the parklands to the forest. As the carriage crossed the drawbridge, Crowley noted that it made far less noise than a normal cart. Unlike the solid wheels of most carts, the carriage had been fitted with spoked wheels, bound with iron tires. They were more flexible than the solid, heavy circles of oak that were normally used and provided a smoother, quieter ride.
They were halfway down the sloping path that led to the dark mass of trees at the foot of the hill. Castle Araluen, like most castles, was built at the top of a rise to make life more difficult for attacking forces. Crowley turned in his saddle and looked
back at the beautiful building, with its graceful spires and soaring buttresses silhouetted against the starlit sky. The world around them was silent. In an hour or so, the birds would begin their dawn chorus that would herald another day. But for now they were sleeping.
There were a few lights in the upper windows of the castle, but for the most part it was dark. He could see a small cluster of figures still at the massive gateway to the castle. One stood a little apart from the others. It was Duncan, staring after his Queen.
Crowley knew he would be there until long after the cavalcade vanished into the shadow of the trees.
• • •
The sun had risen, although here in the forest it wasn’t quite so evident as it would have been in the open fields. As it rose higher and began to flood down onto the narrow forest road, the temperature rose and cloaks were taken off, rolled and tied behind the saddles.
Crowley retained his. The mottled gray-green garment was integral to a Ranger, as far as he was concerned.
In the confined space on this narrow forest road, he and Athol were riding slightly behind the carriage. He nudged Cropper to ride up next to it. He glanced in the window. The curtain had been rolled up. Two of Rosalind’s ladies-in-waiting—close friends and trusted confidantes—were traveling in the carriage with the Queen, and one of them smiled at him through the open window.
“How is the Queen managing?” he asked. They had been on the road for three hours and soon they would have to find somewhere to stop and eat.
The woman glanced across at the Queen on the litter beside her, then reassured Crowley.
“She’s sleeping,” she said. “She’s quite comfortable.”
Crowley nodded. That was good to hear. Obviously, the carriage’s newfangled suspension was working efficiently, smoothing out the roughness of the road.
The Battle of Hackham Heath Page 7
