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

by John Flanagan

  39

  THE CROWD CONTINUED TO YELL ITS APPROVAL, AND TENNYSON stepped closer to Halt. As he did so, Horace went to move to the side of the counterfeit King, with Sean half a second behind him. But Halt, unperturbed, held up a hand to stop them.

  “Something on your mind, priest?” he asked.

  For a moment, a frown touched Tennyson’s face. There was something vaguely familiar about the King, he thought. But he couldn’t place it. He discarded the momentary distraction and his cold anger returned.

  “We had an agreement, Ferris,” he said in a low tone.

  Halt raised an eyebrow. “Ferris?” he said. “Is that the way you address a king? I think you mean ‘your majesty.’ ”

  “You won’t be King when I’m finished with you. People do not break agreements with me. I’ll destroy your Sunrise Warrior and then I’ll have you dragged from the throne, screaming like a frightened girl.”

  Tennyson was confused and furious. All his intelligence, gathered by spies in the months preceding his march on Dun Kilty, had led him to expect a vacillating, uncertain, weak character. This hard-eyed King came as a surprise; he faced Tennyson’s threats with no sign of fear or weakness.

  “Brave talk, Tennyson, especially from a man who will be doing none of the fighting. And, I assume, none of the dragging. Now, let me tell you something: Scum like you don’t make agreements with kings. You do their bidding. And you don’t make threats to them, either. I’ll ruin your plan, and I’ll destroy your filthy cult as well. And then I’ll take a horsewhip to your fat, quivering hide and drive you out of this country. And unlike you, my friend, I will do it personally!”

  In the past two years, since he had begun his campaign to destabilize the island of Hibernia, nobody had dared to threaten Tennyson. Nobody had spoken to him with such an air of confident contempt. Now, looking into those dark eyes before him, he felt a slight tremor of fear. Tennyson wondered if he might not be wiser to withdraw from Clonmel and settle for his position of dominance in the other five kingdoms. But he sensed that the man before him wouldn’t be content with that. They were both committed now, and the situation would be resolved in trial by combat. He looked at his two massively built retainers, then at the muscular young warrior standing a pace behind the King. Surely no man could stand against both Killeen and Gerard, he thought.

  But the young man looked supremely unworried by the prospect.

  Horace, meeting Tennyson’s eyes, smiled at him. Tennyson was struck by a feeling that he had seen him before as well. But at their previous encounter, he had paid little attention to Horace, who had been dusty, travel stained and roughly dressed as a hired guard. Now, resplendent in chain mail and the surcoat of the Sunrise Warrior, he was an entirely different character.

  “The combat will take place in three days’ time,” Halt announced, speaking so that the entire assembly could hear him. He had no need to ask Horace if that timing suited him. Horace was always ready, he knew.

  Tennyson tore his glance away from Horace and regarded Halt once more.

  “Agreed,” he said.

  The crowd broke out in cheers once more. A public trial by combat would mean a holiday—with the added attraction of the opportunity to see at least one man killed.

  Halt glanced at Sean, who gestured to the escort to form around him. Then they marched off the platform and, shoving through the cheering, jostling crowd, headed up the hill back to the castle. As they made their way, they became aware of a chant spreading through the town.

  “Hail Ferris! Long live the King! Hail Ferris! Long live the King!”

  Horace grinned sidelong at Sean.

  “So that’s the way to win the crowd’s loyalty. Throw them a few violent deaths.”

  “At least,” Sean replied, “there’s no way Ferris can go back on it now. The mob would tear him to pieces if he did.”

  They made their way back to the castle and into the throne room. As their escort took up positions outside the room, Sean ordered one of them to fetch hot water, soap and towels. Then he followed Halt and Horace into the large inner room.

  Halt crossed quickly to the small robing annex. Gesturing for Sean and Horace to remain outside, he pulled the heavy curtain aside and entered. As he did, he could hear faint, muffled thuds coming from the large wardrobe where Ferris was concealed. Opening the door, he dragged his bound-and-gagged brother out by his collar, leaving him sprawled on the floor. Ferris, red faced and with eyes bulging, was trying to shout abuse at his brother. But the gag was a good one, and the only sound was a series of muffled, unintelligible grunts. Halt, who had worn the saxe knife under his brocade cloak, produced the heavy, gleaming blade now and held it before Ferris’s nose.

  “Two choices, brother. I either cut your gag and ropes, or I cut your throat. You choose.”

  Ferris’s grunting became more impassioned than before, and he strained against the bonds fastening his hands and feet. He stopped abruptly as Halt moved the blade closer to his face.

  “That’s better,” Halt told him. “Now just keep it quiet or you’re a dead man. Understand?”

  Eyes wide with fright, Ferris nodded frantically.

  “You’re learning,” Halt told him. “Now, I’m going to cut you free. And you will keep quiet. If you even begin to yell out, I’ll kill you. Understood?”

  Halt watched him for a few seconds, making sure that the King had grasped the position. Ferris was only too willing to agree.

  Carefully, Halt cut him free and waited while Ferris rubbed his wrists to relieve the discomfort. The King looked up at his brother. There was nothing but malice in his eyes.

  “How long do you think you can keep this up? You won’t get away with this, Halt!” he said.

  But Halt noted that, in spite of the animosity, Ferris was careful to keep his voice down. He smiled grimly at him.

  “I’ve already gotten away with it, Ferris. You’re committed now. I’ve made sure of it.”

  “Committed? How? Committed to what?”

  “You’re committed to supporting the Sunrise Warrior in trial by combat against two of Tennyson’s henchmen. I made the announcement on your behalf in front of the entire town. You’re quite the popular figure as a result,” he added mildly.

  “I won’t go through with it!” Ferris said. His voice started to rise, but a quick frown from Halt made him lower his tone. “I’ll call it off!”

  “You do and the mob will tear you to pieces,” Halt warned him. “They’re very keen on the idea. You should have heard them shouting ‘long live the King.’ It was very touching, really. I imagine they’ve never said that before.”

  “I’ll contact Tennyson! I’ll tell him—” He stopped. Halt was shaking his head.

  “I doubt he’ll talk to you. You defied him in public. You challenged him. You belittled him. You called him a charlatan and a deceiver, if memory serves me. Worst of all, you went back on your agreement with him. No, your majesty, you’re committed to defeating Tennyson because if you don’t, he will surely kill you. He would enjoy that now.”

  Realization was slowly dawning in Ferris’s eyes as he saw how Halt had closed the trap around him. His only course now was to go along with his brother and hope that the young warrior who accompanied him could defeat not one but two men in personal combat. Halt decided it was time to force the point well and truly home.

  “You’re caught, Ferris. Call off the combat and the mob will kick you off the throne. If they don’t, Tennyson will kill you. And if he doesn’t, I will. Understand?”

  Ferris’s eyes dropped from Halt’s, and he shook his head. Eventually, he said in a low voice, “I understand.”

  Halt nodded. “Good. Look on the bright side. If we succeed, you’ll have your throne back and your people will love you—at least until you start behaving like yourself again.”

  But Ferris had nothing more to say.

  “Sean! Is that hot water here?” Halt called through the curtain.

  Sean and Horace hu
rried into the robing room, bearing a bowl of hot water, several towels and soap. They glanced at the despondent figure of the King, and Halt explained what had gone between them.

  “I think it might be safer if the King is kept out of sight for the next few days,” he said. “Perhaps confined to his chambers. Can you organize that, Sean? It’d be better if Ferris and I weren’t seen together too often, now that Horace has savaged my poor beard.”

  Sean nodded. “I have people I trust who’ll help,” he said. “There’s more than one who’s wanted to see the King do something about the situation we’re in. They’ll lend a hand.”

  “Good. Just keep him quiet until the day of the combat. I take it you can organize the details for that?”

  “We’ll need stands for the crowd and an arena,” Sean said, his brow furrowed. “Pavilions for the combatants and so on. I’ll take care of it.”

  “I’ll leave that to you. Horace and I will go into smoke for the next few days. How can we contact you if we need to?”

  Sean thought for a few seconds. “ There’s a sergeant of the garrison called Patrick Murrell. He’s a former retainer of mine. Contact him, and he’ll get a message to me.”

  “That’s it, then.” Halt looked at his brother, still sitting hunched on a low stool. “Ferris, look up and listen to me. I want you to understand something.”

  Reluctantly, Ferris dragged his eyes up to his brother’s. Then he stared into them, like a bird watching a snake as it slowly draws closer.

  “This is your only chance of remaining King. I’ve told you I have no wish to take the throne, and I mean it. If things work out, you’ll be safe. But if you try to sabotage us, if you betray us, if you try to contact Tennyson and make some last-minute deal, I will find you. And the first you’ll know I’m around is just before you drop dead, when you see my arrow standing out from your heart. Is that clear?”

  “Yes.” Ferris’s voice was barely a croak.

  Halt drew a deep breath and let it out again. Dismissing the King from his thoughts, he turned to Horace.

  “Good. Now let’s get this soot and dirt out of my hair.”

  Some time later, the guards outside the throne room saw the two visitors leave. Halt’s hair had been restored to its normal shade of salt-and-pepper gray, and Horace had used another mixture of soot and dirt to re-create his original beard line. Seen close up, it wouldn’t stand muster. But from a few paces away, and in the shadow of Halt’s cowl, it served reasonably well. With a few days’ growth of stubble to enhance it, it would look even more realistic. For the moment, at least it masked Halt’s similarity to his twin brother.

  The two Araluens rode back down the ramp into the village, returning to the inn, where they had paid for another night’s accommodation.

  “We’ll spend a night here and give Will a chance to catch up with us,” Halt said. “ Then I think we’d better get out of town and become invisible.”

  “Fine by me,” Horace replied.

  Halt looked long and hard at his young friend. “Horace, I’ve sort of thrown you in at the deep end with all this. I just assumed you’d be willing to go along with the trial by combat challenge. But if you want to back away from it, just say the word, and we’ll leave Ferris to his own devices.”

  Horace was frowning at him before he finished speaking. “Back away, Halt? Why would I do that?”

  Halt shrugged uncomfortably. “As I said, I committed you to this without asking you. It’s not your fight. It’s mine, really. And those two islanders could be a handful.”

  Horace smiled and held out his hand, fingers spread. “Lucky I’ve got big hands, then, isn’t it? Halt, we’ve known it might come to this from the beginning. That was the reason for evoking the Sunrise Warrior legend, after all.”

  He paused, and Halt nodded reluctant agreement. It had been unspoken, but understood and accepted, in all their minds. Then he went on.

  “I can handle Tennyson’s two little playmates. That’s what I’m trained for. They’re big, but I doubt they’re too skillful. As for this being your fight and not mine . . . well, you’re my friend. And that makes it my fight.”

  Halt looked up at the earnest young face before him and shook his head slowly.

  “What did I do to deserve such loyalty?” he asked.

  Horace pretended to consider the question seriously, then replied, “Well, nothing much. But we promised Lady Pauline we’d look after you.”

  To which Halt replied with a few words Horace had heard before—and several that were new to him.

  40

  THE MARKET SQUARE HAD BEEN TRANSFORMED INTO AN ARENA. Down two sides, tiers of wooden bleachers had been constructed to provide seating for the spectators. In the center of the tiers on the western side, which would be more sheltered from the afternoon sun, an enclosed seating area set at the height of the third and highest tier of benches had been built to accommodate the King and his entourage. A canvas roof had been placed over the royal enclosure, and there were comfortable, cushioned seats for half a dozen people. At the rear of the box, a high-backed, well-upholstered wooden seat was placed for the King’s use.

  The long grass of the square had been scythed short by a group of a dozen workmen, to provide a true footing for the combatants. At either end of the square, there were two pavilions—one for Horace and one for Killeen and Gerard. A suitable open space was left around these pavilions to give their occupants a semblance of privacy as they prepared for the coming bouts. The rest of the open space was taken up by vendors, selling pies, sweetmeats, ale and wine. Although the first bout was over an hour away, they were doing a roaring trade.

  The bleachers were already almost full. By some tacit agreement, Tennyson’s followers had taken up their positions in the eastern stands. A central section, facing the King’s box, had been left clear for Tennyson and his closest supporters. His followers had rigged a canvas screen to shield their leader from the sun and scattered deep cushions along the benches. Originally, they had approached Sean, requesting that a seating area similar to the King’s be constructed. The young Hibernian had curtly refused. Ferris was King. Tennyson was a preacher. He could sit on a bench with his followers.

  Of course, there wasn’t enough room for everyone to find seats. The overflow gravitated to the open ground at the ends of the field, where marshals kept the crowd well away from the two pavilions.

  The townspeople, who were for the most part supporting Horace as the Sunrise Warrior, had filled the western stands. There was a nonstop buzz of conversation. Excited and expectant, it hung over the arena, creating a constant backdrop of sound reminiscent of a huge beehive at noon on a hot day.

  Horace, Will and Halt, who had spent the past couple of days camped in the forest a few kilometers outside the town limits, had slipped into Dun Kilty just after first light. Even at that early hour, there had been plenty of people stirring, and Horace kept his identity concealed beneath a long cloak. The two Rangers, of course, were virtually unknown in Dun Kilty, and the sight of three cloaked strangers evoked little interest. Those who did see them assumed they had simply come into the town to see the combats.

  They found an early-opening inn and breakfasted there. Halt was less concerned with eating than with eavesdropping on conversations around them. From what he overheard, it was obvious that the trial by combat was going ahead and that Ferris hadn’t managed to renege on his—or rather Halt’s—word. Townsfolk were interested and excited about the upcoming spectacle. There was even a general feeling of goodwill toward the King, partly because he had engineered this spectacle for them and partly because, finally, he was doing something about improving the situation in the kingdom. Halt smiled grimly to himself as he realized that he had been responsible for boosting the King’s popularity. Hardly typical behavior for the usurped heir to a throne, he thought.

  Will managed to cram down a buttered bread roll with hot bacon layered on top of it. But his stomach felt tight and he was on edge, worrying about his frie
nd. For his part, Horace seemed supremely unconcerned, eating large amounts of the delicious pink bacon accompanied by several fried eggs. Will found it difficult to sit still. He wanted to be up and prowling about to release the tension that he felt throughout his entire body. But, out of deference to Horace, he sat quietly. He reflected on that as they sat, not speaking. There had been plenty of occasions in times past when he and Horace had been waiting for a battle and Will’s Ranger training had made him seem calm and unconcerned. Horace had even remarked on his ability to sit unmoving for hours waiting for the enemy. So why did Will find it so difficult to remain calm and unconcerned today?

  He realized that, on other occasions, he had been sharing the danger with Horace. When they waited for the Temujai army outside Hallasholm, for example. Or when they had crouched for several hours, conversing in whispers, under the upturned cart by the walls of Castle Macindaw, waiting for darkness. But this was different. This time, Horace would be facing the danger alone, with no help from Will. And that was almost unbearable for the young Ranger. He would have to watch his friend risk his life—twice. He would be unable to take a hand to help him—all the while knowing that it was in his power to dispatch both of Horace’s opponents in the space of two heartbeats. The feeling of impotence was overwhelming.

  “Time to go,” Halt said, returning to their table after one of his circuits of the room.

  With a sigh of relief, Will leapt to his feet and made for the door. Horace, grinning at him, followed.

  “Why are you on edge?” he asked.“You’re not fighting the Grumpy Twins.”

  Will turned an anxious glance on him. “ That’s why I’m on edge. I’m not used to sitting by and watching.”

  They made their way to the market square and took in the preparations that had been made under Sean’s supervision. A group of Tennyson’s white robes, who were erecting the shelter where their leader would sit, glared at them. Horace smiled back, and they turned away, muttering.