Tennyson switched his gaze from Will to the King, seated opposite. His voice rose, thundering now with all the power of a trained orator, sure of his ground once more.
“This man has violated the sacred rules of trial by combat! He has attacked my champion. Now his life must be forfeited and Gerard must be proclaimed the winner! He makes charges against me, but he does so without proof. If there is proof, let him show it now!”
He frowned as he realized that eyes in the royal enclosure were looking to his right, where Will stood. He followed their gaze and saw the young man smiling triumphantly as he held up a tumbler. Beside him, the ice vendor, who had run all the way to do his bidding, stood hunched over, recovering his breath.
Will looked at the Genovesan. “You thought you’d destroyed the evidence, didn’t you? You poured the water out of the jug onto the ground so nobody would ever know.”
Tennyson saw the doubt suddenly flicker in his henchman’s eyes as they fastened on the tumbler. Will raised his voice now so that more people could hear him.
“But I got to the tent first. And I poured some of the water into this mug. I thought Tennyson might try something like that. I was curious to see what this poisoner would do when he got there.”
He looked to Ferris, who had risen from his throne and moved forward to the front of the enclosure.
“Your majesty, this is a sample of the poisoned water they used to drug the Sunrise Warrior. It’s Tennyson and his cult who have broken the rules of fair combat. They’ve tried to subvert a fair trial by combat, and they stand condemned.”
Ferris rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. He might have been weak and vacillating, but even a weak man will resist if he’s given enough provocation. And Tennyson’s contemptuous threats had finally gone too far.
“Can you prove this?” he asked Will. Will smiled and gripped the Genovesan by his collar, dragging him to his feet and shoving the tumbler against his tightly closed lips.
“Easily,” he said. “Let’s see what happens when our friend here drinks it.”
The Genovesan began to thrash frantically against Will’s iron grip. But Will held him fast and again thrust the tumbler to his mouth.
“Go ahead,” he said. He turned to the marshal. “Marshal, would you pinch his nose for me so his mouth will have to open?”
The marshal obliged and the Genovesan’s lips finally parted as he had to breathe. But as Will raised the tumbler to his open lips, the assassin, with a supreme effort, tore one hand free from his restraints and dashed the tumbler out of Will’s hands, sending it spinning and spilling the water onto the grass.
Will released him and stood back. He spread his hands in appeal to the King.
“I think his actions speak for themselves, your majesty,” he said. But Tennyson instantly screamed his dissent.
“They prove nothing! Nothing! There is no real proof. It’s a web of lies and tricks.”
But the crowd was against him. And now, a large proportion of those who had come there with him were also turning away. Voices were raised against him, angry voices of people who were beginning to realize they had been tricked.
“There’s one certain way to find out who’s lying,” Will shouted, and the arena went silent. “Let’s test it in the highest court of all.”
Ferris was taken aback. The suggestion was unexpected. “ Trial by combat?” he said.
Will nodded, jerking a contemptuous thumb at the Genovesan.
“Him and me. Here and now. One arrow each, from opposite ends of the ground,” he said.
“No! I tell you it’s—” Tennyson began to shout, but the crowd drowned him out. They were eager for another duel, and they believed in the divine, unarguable power of trial by combat as a way of finding the truth.
Ferris looked around the arena. Tennyson was glaring his hatred at him, and suddenly Ferris was heartily tired of the overweight, overblown charlatan in a white robe.
“Go ahead,” he said.
45
THE RULES WERE SIMPLE. A MARSHAL FETCHED THE GENOVESAN’S crossbow from the pavilion and returned it to him. He was allowed one bolt from his quiver and positioned beside the southern pavilion.
Will took up a similar position at the northern end of the field, also with one arrow. The two opponents were just over one hundred meters apart. The area around each pavilion, where people had been visiting the vending stalls, emptied rapidly. They took up positions along the long sides of the arena, in front of the railing that had formerly kept spectators from straying onto the field of combat. A broad corridor was left down the middle, with the two antagonists at either end.
Sean Carrick was setting the rules of engagement.
“Neither party shall make an attempt to evade the other’s shot. You will both stand fast, and, on the sound of the trumpet, you may shoot in your own time. In the event that both miss, you will each be issued another arrow, and we will repeat the sequence.”
He looked to his left and right, studying the two figures to see if there might be any sign of misunderstanding. But both Will and the Genovesan nodded their agreement.
Will was calm and collected. His breathing was easy and even. The crossbow was a fearsome weapon, and it was relatively easy to achieve a degree of accuracy with it. Far easier than with the longbow. The shooter had sights, consisting of a notched V at the back and blade at the front. And there was no need to hold the weight of the drawstring while the bow was aimed. That was done mechanically, and the bolt was released by means of a trigger.
So the average person could quickly learn to become a good shot with a crossbow. That was why, years ago, the Genovesan hierarchy had selected the weapon for their forces. Because almost anybody could shoot one with reasonable success. There was no need to search for particularly talented recruits. The crossbow was an every-man’s weapon.
And that was where Will believed his advantage lay. The crossbow did not require the hours and hours of practice that went into becoming a proficient shot with the longbow. You raised the bow, centered the sights on the target and pulled the trigger lever. So after some practice, it was easy for the shooter to settle for being a good shot—rather than an excellent one. And most people did settle for that.
On the other hand, the longbow was an instinctive weapon, and an archer had to practice over and over again to achieve any level of proficiency and consistency. For the Rangers, there was an almost mystic union with the bow.
A good shot versus an expert shot. That was what it boiled down to. Had they been fighting over a range of fifty meters or less, Will would have called the odds even. At a little over one hundred meters, with the resulting smaller margin for error, he felt he had the edge.
There was another factor. Genovesans were, by trade, assassins, not warriors. They were not used to a target that was shooting back at them. They were more accustomed to shooting at an unsuspecting victim from a well-hidden position. Will knew from experience that nothing could affect accuracy or the need to remain calm like the prospect of being shot oneself.
So he stood now, confident in his own ability, staring down the field at the figure in purple facing him.
He saw the trumpeter raise his instrument and laid the single arrow on his bowstring. Then he focused totally on the dull purple shape a hundred meters away. The trumpet sound split the air, and Will raised his bow, drawing back on the string as he did so.
There was no need to hurry. He saw the bow coming up in the foreground of his sighting picture, with the purple figure that was his target behind it. He didn’t sight down the arrow or concentrate on any one aspect of the picture. He needed to see it all to estimate elevation, windage and release.
His rhythm was set, his breathing smooth and even. He took a breath, then, fractionally before he felt his right forefinger touch the corner of his mouth, he released half of it. It was an automatic coordination of the two separate actions, and he wasn’t aware that it had happened. But he saw the sight picture, and it was good. Every eleme
nt was in its correct correlation. Bow, arrowhead and target all formed one complete entity.
And as he saw it and sensed that it was right, he realized, without knowing how, that at the last moment, the Genovesan would try to avoid his arrow. It would only be a small movement—a half step or a sway of the body. But he would do it. Will swung his aim to a point half a meter to his right.
And released—smoothly and without jerking.
He made sure that he held the sighting picture steady after he released, not succumbing to the temptation to drop the bow, but following through with it still in position.
Something flashed by his head, a meter or so to his left. He heard a wicked hiss as it passed, and he registered the fact that the Genovesan had shot before he did. And now, as he finally lowered the bow, he saw the fractional movement from the other man as he took a half-step to the left—directly into the path of Will’s speeding arrow.
The purple figure jerked suddenly, stumbled a few paces and then fell faceup on the grass.
The crowd erupted. Some of them had seen the slight movement the Genovesan had made. They wondered if the Araluen had allowed for it or if it was a lucky mistake. Whichever way it was, the result was a popular one. As Will walked slowly back down the field, the crowd cheered themselves hoarse, on both sides.
He glanced to his left and saw the thickset white-robed figure slumped back against his cushions, obviously in the depths of defeat.
So much for you, he thought. Then, at ground level on the opposite side, his attention focused on Halt and Horace.
“What happened?” Horace was asking. “What happened? Is he all right?” Halt patted his arm.
“He’s fine. He’s just fine.” Halt shook his head and sank down onto the bench. The tension of watching his two young friends risk their lives in one afternoon was almost too much.
“I am definitely getting too old for this,” he said softly. But at the same time, he felt a deep swelling of pride at the way Horace and Will had conducted themselves. He rose as Will reached them and, without a word, stepped forward to embrace his former apprentice. Horace was busy pumping Will’s hand and slapping his back, and they were soon surrounded by well-wishers trying to do the same. Finally, Halt released him and stepped back.
“Just as well you got to the tent in time to save that glass of drugged water,” he said. Will grinned, a little shamefaced.
“Actually, I didn’t. I only just made it before he did. I had no time to get to the jug. I sent the ice vendor to fill the tumbler with any water he could find. I figured our Genovesan friend wouldn’t take the chance on drinking it.”
A delighted smile began to spread over Halt’s face. But it faded as they heard an urgent shout from the royal enclosure.
“The King! The King is dead!”
Leading Horace, they fought their way through the surging crowd as people tried to move closer to get a better view. Sean saw them coming and signaled for them to move to the front of the stand, where he leaned down and helped haul them up onto the raised platform.
“What happened?” asked Halt.
Wordlessly, Sean gestured for them to take a closer look. Ferris was in his throne, a surprised expression on his face, his eyes wide open. Finally, the royal steward found his voice.
“I don’t know. Nobody saw it in all the excitement of the duel. When I looked back, there he was, dead. Perhaps it’s a stroke or a heart attack.”
But Halt was shaking his head. Gently, he tried to move the King forward and felt resistance. Peering behind the throne, he saw the flights of the crossbow bolt protruding from the thin wood. The missile had gone through the back of the chair and into Ferris’s back, killing him instantly, pinning him to the chair.
“Tennyson!” he said, and dashed to the front of the enclosure, where he could see the opposite stands.
There was a heavyset figure still in the main seat. But it wasn’t Tennyson. It was one of his followers who bore a passing resemblance to the fake priest of Alseiass.
Tennyson, along with the two remaining Genovesans and half a dozen of his closest followers, was nowhere to be seen.
46
NOBODY HAD SEEN HIM GO. AS SEAN HAD SAID, EVERYONE’S EYES were riveted on the drama being played out on the combat arena.
“Odds are, he left before the duel even took place,” Halt said. “He’s not the type to take chances. If his man had won, it would have been easy to return and claim victory. So he sent one of the assassins to murder Ferris, then got clean away. Now he has a head start on us. And we have no way of knowing which way he went.”
They had ridden immediately to the Outsiders’ camp, but there was no sign of Tennyson or his party. There were a few sullen followers remaining there, but the vast majority had been at the market ground. Those remaining in camp denied seeing their leader depart.
Halt was torn by frustration. There was so much to attend to here. Tennyson’s remaining followers had to be rounded up and secured. He set Sean and the castle garrison to that task. The vast majority would be turned loose, he knew. They were simple dupes, and Tennyson’s behavior had alienated most of them, revealing his true colors to them. But there were perhaps eighty white robes who had been part of his inner circle and willing accomplices to his crimes. They would have to be arrested, tried, and imprisoned.
At the same time, all his instincts told him he should be out hunting Tennyson and his small party, finding which way they had gone. But he was needed in Dun Kilty. Ferris’s death had left a power vacuum. Someone had to take control and, as the rightful heir, he was the logical choice. It would only be temporary. As he had told Ferris, he had no wish to be King—but every moment he delayed meant that Tennyson would be slipping farther away.
Finally, he came to the logical, the only, solution.
“Go after them for me, Will,” he said. “Find out where they’re headed and send word. Don’t try to stop them yourself. There are too many of them, and those Genovesans will be doubly dangerous now they’ve seen you kill their comrade. Stay out of sight and wait for us to catch up.”
Will nodded and started toward the stable where they had left their horses that morning. Then he hesitated and turned back.
“What about Horace? His eyes . . .” He paused uncertainly, not wanting to continue. Halt patted his shoulder reassuringly.
“Sean had the royal surgeon check him over. He’s pretty sure he knows what the drug was and that it’s a temporary condition. His vision seems to be improving already. In a day or so, he’ll be back to normal.”
Will let go a small sigh of relief. “At least that’s good news.”
Halt nodded agreement. “I think we deserved some.” Then he thought about that and realized that they had enjoyed more than their share in the past day or so.
“I haven’t had a chance to say it, but you did well,” he told the young Ranger. “Very well indeed. The bluff with the water was inspired. We needed to reveal Tennyson’s treachery, and that tipped the scales. A simple defeat in combat might not have convinced all his followers that he was a charlatan.”
Will shrugged awkwardly. He was embarrassed by the praise. Yet at the same time, it meant so much to him. There was only one person in the world whose approval he sought, and that was his gray-haired former teacher.
“One question,” Halt said. “How did you know the Genovesan was going to duck?”
He’d seen the flight of Will’s arrow, seen the assassin step into its path. And he knew Will’s standard of accuracy with the longbow. The arrow had gone where he had intended it to.
Will scratched his head. “I don’t know. I just . . . knew it somehow. It seemed so much in keeping with everything else they’d done so far. And he was right-handed, so I thought the odds were good that he’d step off his right foot, the master side. So I aimed to compensate. Call it instinct, I suppose. Or dumb luck.”
“I prefer to think that it was instinct,” Halt told him.“Sometimes I feel we should pay more attention to
it. In any event, well done. Now, go and find Tennyson for me.”
Will grinned and slipped away, hurrying through the crowds, who were still thronging the market square, talking excitedly about the events of the day. Within ten minutes, he was riding out the gates of the town, looking for someone who might have seen which direction Tennyson and his group had taken. This close to Dun Kilty, where hundreds of hooves and feet had trampled over the main road all day, there was little chance that he’d find tracks to follow. But once he was clear of the town, he knew he’d find country people—the sort of folk who noticed strangers riding past. It was only a matter of time. He came to a T junction in the road and stopped. Which way? North or south?
“You choose,” he told Tug, and released the reins. The little horse tossed his head impatiently and turned right—to the north. It was as good a way of deciding as any, Will thought. He touched the barrel sides with his heels and set Tug to a slow, easy canter north.
Three days later, Halt had Sean call an assembly of the senior nobles in Dun Kilty. They would be the people who would have to ratify the succession of the new King, whoever he might be.
They assembled in the throne room, eyeing each other uncertainly. By now they all knew Halt’s identity and knew he was the rightful King. They wondered how he would deal with the people who had accepted Ferris, a usurper, all these years. All too often, people who had been cheated had a tendency to pay back those who had cheated them—and those who had accepted the situation, even unknowingly.
Several of them were discussing this in low tones as they waited for Halt to arrive—until they realized that he was already among them. They weren’t used to this. Kings were supposed to sweep into a room majestically—not suddenly appear without anyone seeing their arrival. They shifted uncertainly, waiting for the green-and-gray-cloaked stranger to state his terms—and determine their fates.
Sean of Carrick stood at Halt’s side. Halt motioned for the nobles to seat themselves. A half circle of benches had been placed in front of the throne. They were surprised when he sat with them. They had expected him to take the dominant position, assuming the throne on its raised dais.
Ranger's Apprentice, Book 8: The Kings of Clonmel: Book 8 Page 31
