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

by John Flanagan

  Halt studied his brother’s face for a few seconds, saw the devious mind working behind the ever-shifting eyes. He shook his head in contempt.

  “I might think that way, Ferris. If I were you. But my real concern is for the people out there.” He gestured in the direction of the town below them. “The ones who call you their King—who look to you for leadership and protection. And God help them, for they’ll get little of either from you.”

  “Please, your majesty,” Sean said, stepping forward. “Please reconsider. Halt is right. The people do need you. They need someone to lead them. To take charge.”

  Ferris laughed scornfully at his nephew. “Oh, it’s ‘please, your majesty’ now, is it, Sean? Yesterday, you were all too ready to call him ‘your majesty,’ weren’t you? Don’t think I don’t see through your treacherous ways. You’re in it with them.”

  Sean stepped back now, as if being too close to his uncle made him feel unclean. His voice was low and angry as he spoke.

  “I have never been disloyal to you, your majesty. Never!”

  The anger was so palpable that Ferris eyed his nephew nervously. Perhaps he had gone too far. He knew how much he relied on Sean. But he still refused to budge on the main question.

  “Perhaps I spoke too hastily,” he said in a conciliatory tone. Then his voice hardened and he turned to Halt. “But I will not do as you ask. If you want to oppose Tennyson, you take the risk. You go out and rally the people behind this ridiculous Sunrise Warrior of yours.”

  “If it comes to it, I will,” Halt told him. “But I’m a stranger here, and you’re the King. It will seem—”

  Before he could continue, Ferris seized on his words and interrupted. “ That’s right. I am the King. I’m glad someone here remembers that small fact. I am the King, and I will decide for myself.”

  He drew himself up, trying to look haughty and decisive. But the eyes, as ever, gave him away as they shifted and slid away from any contact with the other three.

  Halt silently cursed Ferris. Without the King’s authority, any resistance to the Outsiders would be ineffectual. The people would not follow an unknown stranger and a young warrior against Tennyson, the savior of Mountshannon and half a dozen other villages, a skilled orator and an expert at whipping a crowd into a frenzy.

  And a man with hundreds of fanatical followers at his back.

  In spite of his inner turmoil, Halt allowed no sign to show on his face. He drew breath for one last attempt to convince Ferris. He wasn’t sure what he was going to say, for it had all been said already. He stopped when he heard a commotion outside the throne room doors. Then one of the doors opened and a guard entered, hurrying toward the small group at the far end of the room. Halt noticed that he reported to Sean, not Ferris. That might be simply protocol. Or it might indicate where the man’s real loyalty lay.

  “Sir Sean, there’s a messenger outside. Claims it’s urgent. He wants to see this one.” He indicated Halt.

  Sean turned to him. “Are you expecting a message?”

  Halt hesitated. It could only be one person. He addressed the guard. “Is he dressed like me?” he said, indicating the mottled cloak and empty double scabbard—as before, they had left their weapons outside.

  The guard nodded. “He is indeed. Exactly so, your honor.”

  “Yes,” Halt told Sean. “I was expecting him. He has important news bearing on this problem.” He had no idea why Will had come after them, but he realized that it must be important.

  Sean nodded to the guard. “Let him in.”

  The guard withdrew, and a few seconds later Will entered the room. Ferris let out a snort as he took in the cowled cloak, the drab brown and green tunic and leggings.

  “Brought your own follower, have you, Halt?” he sneered. “I’d say that Tennyson has a few more than you.”

  Will glanced curiously at the King, seeing the same similarities, and dissimilarities, that Horace had noted the day before. Then he dismissed him and looked to Halt.

  “He’s here,” he said simply. For a moment, the significance didn’t register with Horace, but Halt saw it immediately.

  “Tennyson?” he said, and Will nodded.

  “They’re setting up their camp. He’s announced that he’ll be addressing the people at three o’clock.”

  There was a twelve-hour water clock in the throne room and Halt looked quickly at it. It was just before one o’clock. Inwardly, he was seething, but as before, he controlled his emotions so there was no trace of them on his face or in his manner.

  “Very well,” he said. “Thanks, Will. Go and keep an eye on them. Let me know if anything else develops.”

  Will nodded. He glanced inquisitively at Ferris, then back at Halt, his eyes asking a question: How is it going here? But Halt’s quick headshake told him not to ask it aloud. Will gathered enough from this subtle response.

  “Right, Halt. I’ll be at the market ground. That’s where they’re setting up the pavilion.”

  He turned and left the room quickly. Halt studied his brother’s set features, and he felt a very unfamiliar sensation—that of failure. But he had to try once more.

  “Ferris . . . ,” he began.

  Ferris raised an eyebrow. “That’s your majesty, I think.” He sensed that Halt was going to try appealing to his better nature. Perhaps even to plead with him. And now, as he knew he had the upper hand, his confidence flowed back. Halt glared, but before he could say anything, the young warrior who had accompanied him cut him off.

  “Your majesty,” Horace said, and his tone was conciliatory, even respectful, “I think I might see a way to resolve this problem—and it’s one that we might all profit from, if you take my meaning?”

  He rubbed finger and thumb together in the universal gesture of greed—a gesture that Ferris understood only too well. The King turned to him, interested to hear what he might say.

  But Halt interrupted before Horace could go further.

  “Leave it, Horace. It’s useless,” he said, his voice tired.

  Horace pushed his bottom lip out, assumed a thoughtful expression and replied, in a slightly disparaging tone, “Oh, Halt, let’s skip your claptrap about honor and duty to the people. You’ve tried. You’ve failed. Face up to it and move on. Now, I can see a definite opportunity with this Sunrise Warrior nonsense. Why shouldn’t we make a little cash for ourselves here?” He looked back to the King. “And a lot for you, your majesty.”

  Ferris nodded. Horace was talking the language he understood best. Self-interest. Halt’s angry reply convinced him of this.

  “Horace, shut up! You’ve forgotten your place! You’ve got no right to—”

  “Oh, come off it, Halt! Admit for once that your way isn’t going to work,” Horace told him, cutting him off. Halt stopped, but the fury was still evident on his face as he glared at his young companion.

  He’s speechless, Ferris thought delightedly. Then Horace turned to the King again.

  “Well, your majesty? Interested?”

  Ferris smiled and nodded. It wasn’t just the promise of money that attracted him. It was seeing his brother bested, and seeing his impotent rage when one of his followers turned against him.

  “Go on,” he said. He could see the disappointment in Sean’s face at Horace’s unexpected interruption. Served him right. Sean was an idealist, and it was time he learned a little about the realities of life.

  Horace looked around the echoing throne room, saw a small curtained doorway to one side. “Perhaps if I could have a few words in private, your majesty. Could we . . . ?” He indicated the side room.

  “My robing room,” Ferris said, and led the way toward it. “We can talk in there, undisturbed.” He looked meaningfully at Sean and Halt as he said the last word.

  Horace followed him, shouldering his way past Sean as he did so, a smirk on his face. Sean shook his head and turned despairingly to Halt. The Ranger had his eyes lowered, but as the King and Horace went through the curtain, he looked up to m
eet Sean’s gaze. The young Hibernian was startled to see that Halt was grinning.

  Sean started to speak, but Halt held up a hand. A second or so later, they heard the sound of a fist striking flesh and a sudden cry of pain, cut off by the clatter of furniture being knocked over. Then Horace’s voice came from behind the curtain.

  “Can you come in here, Halt?”

  Sean followed as the Ranger crossed the room and stepped behind the curtain. The chamber was a small annex where the King’s official robes for state occasions were kept. It contained a large wardrobe for the purpose, along with several chairs, a dressing table and a mirror. There was a small fireplace in the corner. The King was stretched unconscious on the floor, an overturned chair beside him. Horace was shaking his right hand, nursing his obviously bruised knuckles.

  “Horace Altman,” Halt said, “what on earth have you done?”

  Horace gestured to the wardrobe full of official garments. “I’ve just elected you King,” he said. “Start getting dressed.”

  37

  SEAN MOVED QUICKLY TO KNEEL BESIDE THE UNCONSCIOUS FIGURE on the floor of the robing room. He felt for a pulse, was relieved to find there was one, then looked up at the two Araluens, now facing each other.

  “He’s out cold,” Sean said.

  Horace glanced at him. “Do you have a problem with that?”

  Sean considered the question for a few seconds. “Not really. But you might have when he wakes up. He’ll bring the guards down on you like a ton of bricks. And I doubt I’ll be able to protect you.”

  Horace shrugged. “It won’t be a problem. I’ll be walking out of here with the alternative King.”

  “Horace, take a good look at Ferris. Then take a good look at me. This may not be so simple,” Halt said.

  “It will be,” Horace said calmly. “All we need to do is pull your hair back off your face and fasten it with that leather headband he wears . . .”

  “That’s the royal crown of Clonmel,” Sean felt he had to interject.

  Horace glanced at him. “All the better. Adds to the illusion.”

  “You’ve noticed that our beards are completely different?” Halt said sarcastically, and Horace nodded.

  “Luckily, yours is fuller than his. I noticed you’ve been letting it grow since we’ve been on the road.”

  Halt shrugged. “That was intentional. I didn’t want people to notice my similarity to Ferris.”

  “Well, now we do want them to. So we have to remove some of it. Be a bit difficult if the situation were reversed. Hard to put more beard on.”

  “You’re planning to shave me?” Halt said. For the first time in many years, he was taken aback by the turn of events.

  “Halt, you know as well as I do that we need the King to appear in public and denounce Tennyson and the Outsiders . . . and to invoke the myth of the Sunrise Warrior. Put on one of those robes and that leather thingy”—he looked at Sean, who had opened his mouth to protest—“all right, the royal crown thingy . . . and I’ll bet nobody will see the difference. They’ll see what they expect to see. Isn’t that what you always say?”

  It was true. Halt knew that an impersonation was already halfway to success if people were expecting to see the real subject. And of course, few in Clonmel would have seen the King at close quarters. But Halt was stuck at one thought.

  “You’re planning to shave me?” he repeated.

  Horace nodded, turning to Sean. “I’ll need my dagger. Can you get it for me without making too much fuss about it?”

  Sean met his gaze coolly. “You expect me to go along with this?”

  Horace answered without hesitation. “Yes. Because you know it’s the only way. And you know that he”—he jerked his thumb at the unconscious Ferris—“is willing to sell this country out to Tennyson and his thugs.”

  His confidence was a mask. As he said the words, he found himself hoping that he’d been right in his judgment of the young Hibernian. Halt, disguised as Ferris, and in the company of the King’s steward, would most likely be accepted as the King. If Sean wasn’t with them, they’d never get past the guards outside the throne room doors.

  Sean hesitated a moment longer. Yet he realized that, when he failed to call the guards the moment he had seen Ferris sprawled on the floor, he had already decided to throw in his lot with the two Araluens.

  “You’re right,” he said. “I’ll get the knives. I suppose it’d be too obvious if I asked for a razor?”

  “My dagger will do. It’s sharp enough,” Horace said. But Halt demurred as Sean began to turn away.

  “Not the dagger. Get my saxe. It’s good enough to cut my hair. It’ll shave me.”

  Horace was looking at him, fascinated by the revelation.

  “So it’s true,” he said. “You really do cut your hair with your saxe knife.” It had long been a subject of discussion in Araluen; now Halt was confirming it. The Ranger didn’t bother to reply.

  “And get a bowl of hot water,” Halt continued to Sean. Then he glanced at Horace. “You’re not shaving me dry.”

  “Make it tea,” Horace corrected him. “A pot of hot tea. People might wonder why we’d want a bowl of hot water. But a pot of tea won’t make them curious.”

  Sean hesitated. “You’re going to shave him in tea?”

  “You’re certainly not going to shave me in tea,” Halt added. But Horace made a conciliatory gesture.

  “It’s still essentially hot water. And we can use it to darken the parts of your face where the beard has been.”

  Sean looked from one to the other. Then he nodded agreement. Horace was right. Shaving Halt would expose an area of his face that had been protected from sun and wind for years. It would show like a beacon unless they disguised it somehow.

  “Saxe knife and tea,” he muttered, as if it were some bizarre kind of shopping list. Then he hurried from the robing room.

  “One more minor problem,” Halt said. “Ferris’s hair is dark, while mine is a dignified shade of gray.”

  “He dyes it,” Horace said, and Halt exploded irritably.

  “Well, of course he dyes it! But somehow I don’t think tea will do the trick for me. Any thoughts?”

  “Soot,” Horace told him. “The fireplace and chimney will be full of it. We’ll rub it through your hair. We might mix a bit into the tea for your face as well.”

  Halt reached down and righted the chair that had been knocked over when Ferris went down. He slumped on it, resigned to his fate.

  “It just gets better by the minute,” he said gloomily.

  An hour later, the doors of the throne room crashed open. The six guards in the outer room all came to attention as Sean emerged.

  “The King has decided to visit the market ground,” he announced. “Form up to escort him.”

  The guards hurried to obey as the King, dressed in a heavy green satin cloak decorated with intricate brocade work and trimmed with pure ermine, swept out of the throne room. The cloak reached to the ground and had a high collar, which the King had turned up. One of the foreign visitors accompanied him. There was no sign of the second foreigner, but the guards, if they registered his absence, didn’t have time to dwell on it. They formed up rapidly, two in front of the royal party and four behind, maintaining a respectful distance so that they were close enough to protect the King if required, without being able to eavesdrop on the royal conversation.

  Sean led the way, with the King and Horace side by side behind him. Sean had to agree that Horace’s handiwork had been effective. Halt’s hair, darkened with chimney soot, was parted in the middle, slicked down with tea and drawn back beneath the royal crown. A close inspection of the King’s face would have revealed a rather patchwork effect on the lower areas, where an uneven paste of soot, dirt and tea dregs had been smeared on the pink flesh left bare by Horace’s inexpert efforts with the saxe knife. The paste also went some way toward concealing half a dozen small nicks and cuts on his face, where the saxe had not been quite up to the tas
k of dealing with Halt’s wiry beard. Horace had quickly found that a thick slurry of soot and tea served to staunch the bleeding quite effectively.

  “I’ll get you for this,” Halt had told him as he dabbed the disgusting mixture on the worst of the cuts. “That soot is filthy. I’ll probably come down with half a dozen infections.”

  “Probably,” Horace had replied, distracted by his task. “But we only need you for today.”

  Which was not a comforting thought for Halt.

  Also aiding their deception was the fact that Ferris, over the years, had made it clear that he did not want his subjects looking directly into his face. Most people, even many of those in the castle, had never had a chance to study the King’s features in detail. They had an overall impression of him, and that impression was matched by the way Halt looked, talked and moved.

  Preceded by two of the throne room guards, the party marched out of the keep tower into the courtyard. Abelard and Kicker were standing close by the doorway. Kicker’s reins were fastened to a tethering ring. Abelard, of course, simply stood where he was until he was wanted.

  He looked up as the party emerged and nickered a soft hello to his master, who was dressed in an unfamiliar green cloak and had dirt plastered on his face. Halt glanced at him, brow furrowed, and silently mouthed the words “shut up.” Abelard shook his mane, which was as close as a horse could come to shrugging, and turned away.

  The small group marched down the ramp to the town itself. As they approached, Halt was conscious of the fact that, while people drew back from their path and lowered their heads or curtseyed as their King passed, there was no sign of cheering or waving. Ferris, now unconscious and bound and gagged in the wardrobe of the robing room, had done little over the years to endear himself to his subjects.

  They made their way into the town proper and the way continued to clear for them—whether out of respect or because of the armed men who flanked them, Halt couldn’t tell. He suspected it was a combination of the two. They turned down a side street, and at the end of it he could make out an open space. The buzz of hundreds of voices carried to them. They were approaching the market ground, where Tennyson was already addressing a large crowd.