Ranger's Apprentice, Book 8: The Kings of Clonmel: Book 8

by John Flanagan

  “Now, a king, any king, deserves the loyalty of his subjects. We all know that,” he began. An angry undercurrent of muttering went through the crowd again as they disagreed with him, thinking he was about to make excuses for King Ferris. Again, Tennyson held up his hands for silence and, reluctantly this time, the crowd went quiet.

  “But,” he said, then repeated it with greater emphasis, “but! That loyalty must pass both ways. If subjects must be loyal to their king, then kings must apply that same loyalty to their subjects. Otherwise . . .” He paused and the crowd seemed to lean forward, seeing where he was going before he actually went there. “The king abandons any claim to loyalty from his people.”

  There was a roar of agreement from the villagers. Halt leaned close to Horace and said in his ear, “Dangerous stuff. This is sedition. He must be pretty sure of himself.”

  Horace nodded and turned his own head to reply in a similar soft tone. “From what you’ve told us, he’s had plenty of practice.”

  As the crowd settled down once more, Tennyson continued.“King Ferris has done nothing to save the people of Clonmel from the depredations of the outlaws and bandits and killers who roam the land, doing the evil work of Balsennis. What did he do for the people of Duffy’s Ford?” He paused and looked expectantly at the faces before him.

  A ragged chorus rose from a dozen or so throats. “Nothing.”

  Tennyson cupped a hand behind one ear and turned his head a little, a puzzled look on his face.

  “What was that?” he asked, and this time the answer was a fullthroated roar from the entire assembly.

  “NOTHING!”

  “Did he help that innocent twelve-year-old girl who was murdered at the ford? What did he do for her?”

  Again: “NOTHING!”

  “It’s not that Ferris can’t help. The fact is, he refuses to!” Tennyson thundered. “He has the power, if only he would choose to use it on your behalf. But he’s content to hide behind the walls of his castle at Dun Kilty, on soft cushions, with plenty to eat and drink, and do nothing. He will not raise a finger to help his people. He has no loyalty!”

  His voice rose to a crescendo on the last few words. He paused, looking out over the crowd. In twos and threes, they called their agreement. Hesitantly at first, then with growing conviction. Tennyson said nothing. And this time, he made no sign for silence. He let the resentment seethe, let the people build to a pitch of anger. Then, as they realized he was waiting for them to fall silent, they did so. This time, when he spoke, he forsook the dramatic thundering and said in a quiet, carrying voice,“And if he shows no loyalty to you, then you owe him none at all.”

  Again, the voice of the mob rose and, this time, Tennyson soared above them.

  “Ferris will do nothing to help you. You must look to one who will protect you!”

  Now people began calling the same plea from different points around the crowd. Funny, Halt thought, how they all used the same words and phrases.

  “Tennyson!” they shouted, and the cry spread to all parts of the crowd. “ Tennyson! Protect us!”

  But now Tennyson was holding up his hands to calm them and shaking his head at their cries. When they fell silent, he spoke to them again, in that clear, ringing voice.

  “No! No! No! Believe me, I’m not the one, my friends. I can’t protect you. I am but a man. Your safety lies with the power of Alseiass.”

  There was a groan of disappointment from the left-hand side of the crowd.

  Then a voice called, “We don’t need fairy tales and superstition! They won’t stop the bandits!”

  Other voices were raised in agreement. But Halt noticed that they didn’t seem to be a majority. The greater part of the crowd sat uncertainly, looking around at each interjection, studying the speakers and assessing the worth of what they said. They weren’t willing to commit either way, he saw.

  “We want swords and soldiers! Not pie in the sky, Tennyson!”

  “You lead us!” a third voice called. “You lead and we’ll follow! We’ll teach these brigands a lesson without some strange god’s help.”

  That, Horace and Halt saw, was a popular position. The majority of the crowd, uncertain which way to go, followed this lead eagerly. They began shouting for Tennyson to lead the way. To lead them against the outlaws who were preying on the countryside. They sensed the man’s strength and authority. The chant grew, becoming louder and more insistent as more people joined in.

  “No god! No king! Tennyson! No god! No king! Tennyson!”

  Tennyson smiled around the mass of faces, many of them red now with excitement and the passion of the moment.

  “People, you do me honor. But I tell you, I’m not the one!”

  “Yes, you are!” a lone voice shouted, and several others raised a ragged chorus of agreement. But the majority sat quiet now, watching him.

  “No. Please believe me. I’m no war leader. Any strength I have comes from Alseiass, the Golden God. The All-Seeing One. Believe me.”

  Halt leaned over to Horace again and whispered, “My god, but he’s good. He could have taken the reins then and there and offered to lead them.”

  “Then why didn’t he?” Horace asked.

  Halt chewed his lip thoughtfully. “He needs a bigger reputation than he’ll get from exciting a few hundred country villagers. He’s taking on a king. He needs something big. Something supernatural. He needs them to believe in this god of his.”

  But now Tennyson had stepped down from the podium and approached the front row of the crowd. He spoke to them with warmth and friendliness as he walked among them.

  “I promised you when I first arrived here that I wouldn’t try to force my god upon you,” he said in a reasonable tone. “Have I tried to do that?”

  He spread his hands in question and looked from side to side. Halt and Horace could see heads shaking as people agreed with him.

  “No. I haven’t. Because that isn’t Alseiass’s way. He doesn’t care to force himself upon you. If you have other gods you prefer, or no god at all, he doesn’t condemn you. He respects your right to decide, without being harried or bullied or shouted at.”

  “Interesting method,” Halt said softly. “Most evangelists threaten fire and brimstone if you don’t accept their teachings.”

  “But I know Alseiass’s power,” Tennyson continued. “And I tell you this: Whether you are his followers or not, he can protect you. And he will protect you. I’m simply the channel to him. Remember, Alseiass loves you. And because he does, he respects your right to disagree with me. But if you need him and I call upon him, he will arrive with power such as you’ve never seen.”

  The meadow was silent now as he walked among the crowd. Those at the front turned to watch him as he moved past them.

  “And then, if you see his power and compassion and want to turn to him and join our band, then Alseiass will make you doubly welcome.”

  “Well said, Tennyson!” a woman shouted, and he smiled at her.

  “But let’s hope that it doesn’t come to that,” he said.“Let’s all hope that this lovely village of yours remains a haven of peace and Alseiass won’t need to be asked to protect it.”

  There was a murmur from the crowd. Horace sensed a feeling of contentment in those around him. It was an interesting proposition Tennyson had put: You don’t have to believe in my god. But if danger arrives, he’ll protect you nonetheless. It was what he’d heard described as a win-win situation. Gradually, the crowd began to break up as Tennyson stopped once more to chat with individuals and smaller groups.

  Horace caught Halt’s eye. “D’you think Alseiass will be called on to maintain the peace of this beautiful village?”

  Halt let one corner of his mouth turn up in a cynical smile.

  “I’d bet my life on it.”

  24

  TUG WELCOMED WILL BACK TO THE LITTLE CLEARING WITH A brief toss of his head. Will moved to the horse and stroked his soft nose.

  “Good boy,” he said quietly. T
ug snorted softly in reply, aware that if Will was speaking, there was no need to maintain his own silence. Will considered his situation for a moment, then decided that there was time for a few hours’ rest. The man called Driscoll was leading his raiding party out at dawn. But they were going by the lowland route to Mountshannon, crossing the river that ran past the camp and following a trail that led through the flatlands below the hills. He wouldn’t be bothered by them.

  The second group, as Padraig had ordered, would be moving out around midday and following the ridge trail that Will was on. But he planned to be on his way before first light, so there was no chance that they’d catch up to him. That decided, he prepared to get a few hours’ rest. He’d been on the move all day and well into the night, after all.

  He unsaddled Tug. There was no need for the little horse to endure the discomfort of the saddle now. Tug shook himself gratefully and moved away to crop the grass. Will looked up through the tree canopy to the sky. He could see the stars quite clearly. Occasionally, a wisp of cloud would slide across the sky, blotting them out. But he could tell there was little chance of rain, so he didn’t bother to set up the small one-man tent that was rolled behind his saddle. He’d sleep in the open tonight, he thought.

  He ate a cold meal. He wanted to leave no trace of his presence here, so he couldn’t light a fire. He reflected, as he chewed doggedly on the tough dried beef, that he’d be glad when this was over and he could find a good hot meal.

  Potatoes would be nice, he thought. Boiled in their jackets, perhaps, and then smothered in butter, salt and pepper. His stomach growled at the thought, and he glanced with disfavor at the unappetizing twist of dried beef in his hand. Earlier in the day, he had reflected that he quite enjoyed the taste. In the ensuing hours, it seemed to have lost some of its appeal.

  There was something still niggling in the back of his mind about the conversation he’d overheard in Padraig’s tent. Something was illogical, but he couldn’t put his finger on it.

  Then it fell into place.

  From all he’d heard, Mountshannon was considerably larger than Craikennis. Yet Driscoll was attacking the larger village with thirty men only. Then he was rendezvousing with another force of fifty men, led by Padraig himself, to attack Craikennis. It didn’t make any sense. Surely the larger force would be needed for Mountshannon?

  Perhaps he’d heard wrong?

  He took a drink of cold water from his canteen, regretting the lack of a good cup of hot, sweet coffee.

  No. He was sure he’d heard it correctly. Thirty men for Mountshannon. The combined force of eighty for Craikennis.

  Unless they’re not actually attacking Mountshannon, he thought. Maybe Driscoll is leading a reconnaissance in force? But he shook his head at that thought. If he wanted to reconnoiter, half a dozen men would be sufficient. Even fewer.

  He replaced the cap on the water bottle and set it to one side, yawning hugely. Now that he had decided that he would get some rest, the efforts of the day and the tension he’d been under made themselves felt and he couldn’t wait to turn in. Taking his blankets, he moved across the clearing and quickly made himself a bed inside the trees, where a large bush would shelter him from unfriendly eyes.

  His mind kept turning over the problem that was nagging at him. Eventually, he shrugged it away and fell asleep within a few minutes.

  25

  MARKET DAY IN MOUNTSHANNON WAS WELL UNDER WAY. THERE had been a few showers of rain just after dawn, when most of the stall holders had arrived to set up their shelters and lay out their goods for display. But as the morning wore on, the sun came out and set the dampened ground steaming.

  Horace and Halt had watched preparations from their campsite as they breakfasted. The villagers knew that market day was a case of first in gets the best goods, so they had thronged to the market while the rain was still drifting down. Now the large meadow, formerly deserted but for their two small tents and the Outsiders’ pavilion, was a pulsing mass of stalls, people, performers, animals, carts and food vendors.

  Tennyson and his people were taking advantage of the crowd to promote their message. A small group of them, all in the usual white robes, were singing country folk songs, with the occasional hymn of praise to Alseiass.

  The singing was good, thought Horace, enjoying the three-part harmony. He commented on the fact to Halt.

  The Ranger shrugged. “ Three donkeys braying is much the same as one,” he said, “save that it’s louder.”

  “Nonetheless, they are good entertainers, Halt.”

  Halt nodded thoughtfully. “This is the way they work. They worm their way into people’s affection. It’s all very easygoing and nonconfrontational. Then they spring their trap.”

  “Well, they’re good trappers. And their bait is very effective,” Horace told him. Again, Halt nodded.

  “I know. That’s what makes them so dangerous.” He stood up, dusting off the seat of his pants. They had spread a canvas square over the wet ground outside their tents, but his backside still felt a little damp. “Come on, we’d better look at livestock. Although, thank God, I’ve seen little in the way of good animals arrive so far. Otherwise I might have to buy some.”

  “We could always eat ’em,” Horace suggested cheerfully. Halt eyed him.

  “It always gets back to eating with you, doesn’t it?” he asked.

  “I’m a growing boy, Halt,” the young warrior said. Halt snorted and led the way toward the market.

  They strolled among the stalls and the livestock pens.

  There were plenty of chickens and ducks and geese for sale. And quite a good selection of pigs. There were no cattle and only a few scrubby, ill-conditioned sheep. Horace commented on the fact.

  “The animals for sale here are the ones that people raise close to the farmhouse,” Halt explained. “Chickens, ducks and pigs all stay close by, so the farmer has no call to go out into the fields to tend them.”

  “And of course,” Horace replied, understanding, “people are staying close by their houses these days.”

  “Exactly.” Halt stopped by a small pen that held three sheep. Their wool was coated and matted with mud. He nodded to the owner and stepped into the pen. He caught the nearest, held it between his knees and pried its jaws apart, peering at its teeth. The sheep struggled in protest at this treatment and eventually he released it, dusted his hands together and looked at the owner again, giving a small shake of his head. He stepped out of the pen and they moved on.

  “So, what was wrong with them?” Horace asked after a few moments.

  Halt turned a curious gaze on him. “Wrong with what?”

  Horace jerked his thumb back toward the small sheep pen. “The sheep’s teeth. What was the problem?”

  Halt shrugged.“Haven’t the faintest idea. What do I know about sheep?”

  “But you—”

  “I looked at his teeth. That’s what people seem to do when they look at animals. They look at their teeth. Then they usually shake their heads and walk off. So that’s what I did.” He paused, then continued. “Did you want me to buy it?”

  Horace raised both hands in a defensive gesture. “Not at all. I just wondered.”

  “Good.” Halt smiled sardonically. “For a moment there I thought you might be feeling peckish.”

  They stopped at a fruit stall and bought several apples. They were good. Crisp and juicy, with just a hint of tart flavor hiding behind their sweetness. The two of them crunched away as they inspected a stall full of camping gear and kitchen utensils.

  “Good filleting knife,” Halt said. He asked the price of the stall owner, haggled for several minutes, made to walk out in mock disgust, then settled on a price and bought the thin-bladed knife. As they left the tent, he said to Horace, “We should fish for some trout in the streams around here. Make a nice change to the menu.” He paused and looked around the nearby stalls. “Might as well look for some almonds if we’re going to catch trout.”

  “Fishing for and
catching are two different matters,” Horace said, and Halt eyed him sidelong.

  “Are you casting aspersions on my fishing ability?”

  Horace met his gaze. “You don’t strike me as the fishing type. It’s a genteel sort of sport, and I can’t picture you sitting sedately with a fishing rod in your hands.”

  “Why use a rod when you can use a bow?” Halt replied, and Horace frowned.

  “You shoot the fish?” he said. And when Halt nodded, Horace went on. “ That’s not very sporting, is it?”

  There was a good deal of hunting and fishing done around Castle Araluen, usually involving the royal family.

  It was all done according to strict rules and conventions. A gentleman, Horace had been taught, only fished for trout with a rod and with a manmade lure—never live bait. He certainly didn’t skewer them on the end of an arrow.

  “I never said I was sporting,” Halt said. “I said I catch fish. I doubt they care whether they’re killed by a hook or an arrow. And they taste pretty much the same.”

  Horace was about to reply when they heard a cry of alarm. Both of them stopped. Halt’s hand went instinctively to the saxe knife at his belt. Horace’s left hand closed over the top of his scabbard, ready to steady it if he needed to draw his sword quickly.

  There was a buzz of fear from the people around them. The shout was repeated, and this time they could make out where it came from—the line of trees that marked the eastern side of the market ground. Without needing to confer, they started in that direction. Already a few families were hurrying the opposite way, back to the shelter of the village.

  “Sounds like it’s started,” Halt said. “Whatever ‘it’ may be.”

  They threaded their way through the stalls toward the trees. For a moment, Halt considered returning to their camp to fetch his bow. He hadn’t brought it, as it didn’t quite match the picture of a shepherd looking for new stock in the market. Then he decided against it.