“My lords, I’ll be brief,” Halt said. “You know who I am. You know how my brother cheated me. You know I have an undeniable claim to the throne of Clonmel.”
He paused and let his eyes roam around the half circle. He saw heads nodding and eyes dropping from his. He understood their nervousness and decided not to prolong their uncertainty any further.
“What you don’t know is that I have no intention of claiming it.”
That got their attention, he noticed. Heads came up around the half circle, curiosity mingled with disbelief in their looks. Nobody in his right mind refused the throne.
“I know what you’re thinking. Well, let me tell you, I have no wish to be a king, here or anywhere else. I’ve been gone too long to consider this my home anymore. I have a home in Araluen. And I have a king I respect. I think you should have the same. Sean, who is next in line to the throne?”
He fired the question at the younger man without warning. Sean rose to his feet, a little taken aback.
“Um . . . oh . . . well, in fact, that would be . . . me,” he said. Halt nodded. He had known as much.
“Then you appear to be the most suitable candidate for the position,” he said. He looked around the room. “Anybody disagree?”
In truth, there had been more than one who had heard Halt’s disavowal of the throne and had felt a quick surge of ambition—a hope that they might be able to assume the crown for themselves. But the speed of events, and the gleam in Halt’s eye, told them that it might be a bad idea to continue to nourish such ambitions. There was a hasty mumble of assent from the circle of nobles.
Halt nodded. “I didn’t think you would.”
“Just a moment! I certainly disagree!” Sean said.
The Ranger turned to him. “You have a clear and unchallenged claim to the throne. Do you not want it?”
He saw Sean hesitate and knew that he was an intelligent young man. There were many good reasons not to take the crown, Halt knew. A king’s hold on the throne in this country could be tenuous. Sean would need to be a strong and alert ruler at all times. And he would be surrounded by a group of venal, self-seeking nobles who would take any opportunity to undermine him if it advanced their own interests. All good reasons to refuse the crown.
But before Sean could answer, he rephrased his question.
“Let me put that another way. Is there anyone here you would prefer to see on the throne?” He indicated the half circle of nobles, who were watching this conversation with growing fascination.
And that was the crux of it. The same reasons why Sean might refuse the crown were also the ones that made it imperative that he accept it.
If any one of these men took the crown, it wouldn’t be long before others contested the choice and the Kingdom was thrown into disarray. Sean was the only one among them with a rightful claim to the throne and the strength of character and purpose to command their loyalty. And at heart, Sean knew it. Reluctantly, he took a step forward.
“Very well. I accept,” he said. It might not be what he wanted, but it was what the country needed, and he was enough of a patriot to recognize the fact. Halt waited a few seconds, then turned to the others.
“Anyone object?” he asked—and it may have been a coincidence that his left hand dropped casually to the hilt of his saxe knife as he did so. The nobles hastily agreed that no, nobody objected, fine choice and congratulations King Sean.
Halt turned to his nephew. “Now, Sean, I have one condition, before I formally renounce any claim I might have to the throne. We’ve broken the back of the Outsiders’ movement in Clonmel. But they’re still entrenched in the other five kingdoms. I want them rolled up, disbanded and their leaders imprisoned. With Tennyson out of the way and discredited, it shouldn’t be too much of a problem. A bit of firm action and they’ll collapse like a house of cards. And I’m sure the other five kings won’t object.”
But Sean was shaking his head. “That’ll take a strong military force,” he said. “I don’t have the men for it, unless I leave Clonmel unprotected. And I’m not prepared to do that.”
Halt nodded approvingly. The young man’s answer told him that he’d been right in selecting him as the new King.
“Which is why I’m willing to write to King Duncan in Araluen and request that he send an armed force of, say, one hundred and fifty men to serve under you: knights, men-at-arms and a company of archers. If you agree.”
Sean considered the offer. “And when we’ve got rid of the Outsiders, this force would return to Araluen?” No ruler would be eager to see a powerful foreign force on his own land without such an assurance.
“You have my word on it,” Halt said.
“Agreed,” Sean said, and they shook hands. He glanced at the group of nobles, and they hastened to mumble their agreement. “I’ll be needing levies of troops from all of your estates as well,” he said to them, and again heads nodded around the half circle.
“We can iron out the details later,” Halt said. “Right now, Horace is waiting for me, and unless I miss my guess, he’ll be hungry. Gentlemen, I’ll leave you to discuss matters such as the coronation.” He smiled at Sean, one of his rare genuine smiles. “With your permission, your majesty?”
For a moment, Sean didn’t react. Then he realized he was being addressed.
“Eh? Oh, yes. Of course, Halt . . . Uncle. Carry on . . . please.”
Halt stepped a little closer so that only Sean could hear him.
“You’d better work on your regal manner,” he said.
Horace was waiting for him in the anteroom. The young warrior’s eyesight was nearly fully recovered as the drug worked its way out of his bloodstream. On the surgeon’s advice, he was bathing his eyes several times a day in warm salted water. They were a little red-rimmed, but he was moving more certainly now.
“So, how did it go?” Horace asked cheerfully. “Should I curtsey to you, good King Halt?”
“You do and I’ll give you a clip over the ear,” Halt growled, suppressing a smile. “Sean is to be King.”
Horace nodded. “Good choice,” he said. “By the way, a rider came in a little while ago with a message from Will.”
Halt’s head snapped up at that. It was the first word they had had from Will since he had ridden out in pursuit of Tennyson.
“He said, ‘Fingle Bay.’ ”
The Ranger pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Fingle Bay is to the north. A fishing port and a small harbor. Let’s collect our gear and get on the road.”
Horace gave him a pained look.
“What about lunch?” he asked. His hopes of a meal sank as he saw that familiar lift of Halt’s eyebrow.
“What about lunch?” Halt replied. Horace shook his head despondently.
“I knew I should have told you after we’d eaten,” he said.
EPILOGUE
IN SPITE OF HALT’S DESIRE TO COVER GROUND AS QUICKLY AS possible, they made one detour, riding to the crest of a small hill to the west of Dun Kilty.
It was a windswept area, where the trees had been cleared to leave an open meadow. In the place of the trees there was a collection of stone cairns—perhaps fifty of them in all. Some were ancient and crumbling. Others were more recent. One had been recently constructed, and the stones were still new and fresh from the quarry.
This was Cairnhill. This was the ancient burial ground where the kings of Clonmel were laid to rest.
As they reached the entrance in the low stone wall that encircled the burial ground, Horace checked Kicker, leaving Halt to ride on alone. Abelard stopped before the cairn of freshly quarried stone. For some time, the Ranger sat, not saying a word, looking at the burial plot of his brother. After several minutes, he wheeled Abelard away and rode slowly back to Horace. Silently, Horace fell in beside him and they trotted their horses down the hill and back to the main road. They planned to spend the night at Derryton, a coastal village on the road to Fingle Bay.
Horace looked at the sky. It was mid-afternoon, but
dark clouds were scudding in from the west and there’d be rain before too long, he thought.
The silence grew between them until Horace finally spoke.
“He wasn’t much of a king,” he said, “but I suppose he was the only one they had.”
It wasn’t quite the way he had intended to put it, and he realized that he’d phrased the thought clumsily. He glanced anxiously at his companion, hoping that he hadn’t offended him.
“Sorry, Halt,” he said awkwardly. Halt looked up at him and gave him a sad smile. He knew there was no malice intended in the young warrior’s words.
“ That’s all right, Horace,” he said. “He wasn’t much of a brother, either. But he was the only one I had.”
The first big drops of rain hit them, and Halt pulled the cowl of his cloak further over his head.
“We should try to make Derryton before dark,” he said.
Ranger's Apprentice, Book 8: The Kings of Clonmel: Book 8 Page 32
