Kings of Clonmel (23 page)

There was an early moon, and they continued riding after dark. To make up for the time they’d lost taking their original detour to the southwest, Halt led them off the road and they cut across country, directly toward Craikennis. Around nine in the evening, they saw the lights of the little village across the fields. The three travelers eased their horses to a stop and took stock of the situation. They were on a slightly elevated position and could see the main road leading out of Craikennis—the road down which Padraig and his men were expected to come the next day. There was no traffic on the road now, no sign of the outlaw band.

Halt grunted in satisfaction.

“Looks quiet enough,” he said. “But keep your eyes and ears open.” He touched Abelard with his heel and the little horse trotted forward.

They crossed two more fields, then rode out onto the high road. As on their previous visit, the guard post was manned by two watchmen. Halt had hoped that they’d encounter the guards from their previous visit. It would save time identifying themselves. But unfortunately, these were two new men. They stepped out into the road, one of them holding his hand aloft in a signal for the three riders to stop.

“Idiots,” Halt muttered to his companions. “If we were here to cause trouble, we could simply ride them both down.”

The sentry who had signaled them to stop stepped forward and peered suspiciously at them. These were not run-of-the-mill travelers, he thought. Two of them wore mottled, hooded cloaks, rode small shaggy horses and carried massive longbows. The other rider was taller and rode a heavyset battlehorse. A long sword hung at his side, and there was a round buckler strapped to the saddle ties behind him.

These were fighting men, and the sentry was suddenly conscious of the fact that he was outnumbered.

“What do you want?” he called. His uncertainty made him abrupt and more strident than he’d intended.

The leader of the three riders, the bearded one, leaned forward and crossed his forearms over his saddle pommel. “We mean you no harm,” he said. The voice was quiet and reassuring. But that was no guarantee that the words were the truth.

“Don’t come any closer!” the sentry called. He wished he’d brought his spear out of the guard shelter. His companion had a spear, but he was armed only with a heavy, long-handled mace.

“We won’t,” Halt told him, in a reasonable tone. “We’re content to stay here. But we need to speak to your commander.”

“Our . . . what?” the sentry asked.

He wasn’t a military man, Horace thought.

Halt revised his request. “Your village head man. Or the senior member of the watch. We need to speak to someone in authority.”

The sentry eyed him suspiciously. If he sent Finneas, the other guard, to fetch the head man, he’d be left here facing these three alone. He didn’t like the idea of that. But at least if he called the head man he could hand this problem over to someone else, he thought. He hesitated, then decided.

“The head man’s asleep,” he said eventually, not knowing whether he was or not. “Come back tomorrow.”

“Dismount, boys,” Halt said, and the three of them swung down from the saddle, in spite of the guard’s shrill orders.

“No! You stay as you are! Turn around and ride away, d’you hear me?”

The sentry’s voice trailed off as he realized that the three strangers were taking no notice of him. Their leader spoke again.

“We’re setting down our weapons.” He led the way, moving to the side of the road, unstringing his longbow and laying it on the grass verge. The younger bowman followed suit. The tall youth unclipped the scabbard from his belt, and the long cavalry sword joined the two longbows on the grass. That done, the three strangers stepped back onto the road, away from their weapons.

“There,” said Halt. “Now fetch your head man or watch commander.” He paused a few seconds and added emphatically, “
Please
.”

The two watchmen exchanged a glance. Finneas raised one shoulder in a shrug. The strangers seemed trustworthy, he thought. He sensed what was troubling his friend.

“You fetch Conal. I’ll keep an eye on them.”

The senior man let go an involuntary sigh of relief. Anything to get this problem off his hands. He came to a decision. Then he thought he’d better make it seem as if this was his idea and he was giving the orders.

“All right. You keep them here. I’ll get Conal.”

Finneas looked at him and raised an eyebrow.

“Yes, we could do it that way instead,” he said sarcastically.

“Could we do it sometime before dawn?” Halt asked in an exasperated tone. The watchman took a pace toward him, his hand on the handle of his mace.

“I’ll go when I’m good and ready!” he snarled.

“Which is now, right?” Finneas cut across him.

The senior watchman drew himself up, trying to reclaim his dignity. “Er . . . yes. Which is now.” He turned about and hurried toward the village. He looked back several times, but the three strangers hadn’t moved and Finneas stood at ease, facing them, leaning casually on his spear. He turned and increased his pace a little, until he was half running.

 

Fifteen minutes later, he returned with Conal. Halt was quietly pleased to see that Conal, who turned out to be the head watchman, was the same man he and Horace had spoken to several nights previously. The man had struck him as sensible and reasonable. He was certainly going to be easier to deal with than the panicky guard who had gone to fetch him.

That wasn’t to say that Conal didn’t view the three travelers with suspicion. Halt noticed that he had taken the precaution of arming himself. He wore a sword and a long dirk in his belt. As he approached, the nervous senior guardsman darted into the shelter to fetch his spear.

Conal glanced at Finneas, then at the three figures standing by their horses in the road.

“Well, Finneas, what do we have here?” he asked. Finneas was standing facing them, his spear grounded beside his feet. He touched the spear head lightly to his forehead in salute.

“Three travelers, your honor,” he said, grinning. “They’ve given me no trouble.”

Conal looked more closely at Halt and Horace.“I know you two,” he said, and Halt nodded. Then the watch commander shifted his gaze to Will, his brow furrowing. “And you? Weren’t you here the other night as well?” The young man looked familiar, he thought, but he couldn’t quite place him.

“He’s the singer, Conal,” Finneas put in, and Conal nodded slowly as recognition dawned.

“Of course,” he said. “But you weren’t wearing that cloak. Or carrying that bow. What are you up to?”

The question was asked of all three as his gaze shifted from one to the other. There was something suspicious here, and in these times, suspicions were not to be disregarded. His hand dropped to the hilt of his sword. Then he noticed the trio’s weapons were laid by the side of the road and he relaxed a little. Just a little. He glared at Halt.

“I take it you’re not a shepherd looking for stock?” he said, and the bearded man nodded.

“No. You’re right about that.”

“Then you lied to me the other night. Why?” The challenge was gruff and uncompromising. Halt seemed to take no offense at being called a liar. He replied in a calm, reasonable tone.

“We weren’t sure what we were walking into,” he said. “These are troubled times, as you may well know.”

“Aye, and they’re not helped by people skulking around claiming to be what they’re not,” Conal replied with a little heat. He could hear a rustle of movement from behind him. He glanced quickly over his shoulder and relaxed slightly as another dozen members of the guard came shuffling at a half run down the high street. When he was first alerted to the presence of three strangers at the guard post, Conal had sent his son to rouse a platoon of the town guard, telling them to arm themselves and join him. Now they had arrived and he felt a little more in control of the situation. The numbers were comfortably on his side.

Horace sighed to himself. He was a direct sort of person, and this verbal sparring was beginning to annoy him. He and his friends were here to help the people of Craikennis, not to bandy words in the street in the middle of the night. Conal heard the slight exclamation and turned to him.

“Something to say, boy?” he demanded.

Halt’s eyebrow went up. “I wouldn’t be so free and easy with the word
boy
if I were you,” he said warningly. But Conal ignored him, and Horace was already replying.

“Yes. I’ve got something to say. My friends and I are here to help you. If you keep us standing here much longer while you throw accusations and insults, we’ll just ride on and leave you to the bandits.”

He was remarkably self-assured for one so young, Conal thought, his brow puckering at the last word.

“Bandits? What bandits would they be?”

“There are eighty of them heading this way. They’re planning to attack you tomorrow and wipe your village out. We came to warn you and to offer you our help. But if you prefer, you can go back to bed and we’ll just ride on. It’s really no skin on our nose.”

Halt glanced sidelong at Horace. The young man’s face was flushed with annoyance.

“I think that’s ‘
off
our nose,’ ” he pointed out. Horace glanced briefly at him.

“Whatever. He gets my meaning.”

And Conal did. So far, Craikennis had remained undisturbed. But there had been bandits and outlaws running amok in the south of Clonmel, and the trouble had been gradually spreading north, like a dark stain of spilled ink advancing over a map.

“How do I know you’re not with them?” he asked and instantly regretted the question. If they were, they would never admit it, and asking had only shown his own indecision. “Who are you, anyway?” he added angrily, trying to cover the mistake.

“We’re King’s Rangers from Araluen,” Halt told him, indicating himself and Will. “And this tall, rather aggravated young man beside me is a knight of the Araluen court.”

Conal frowned. He had no idea what Rangers might be. He guessed they must be woodsmen or scouts. But he knew what a knight was, and the tall stranger, in spite of his youth, had the look of a warrior about him.

“Your Araluen king has no authority here. King Ferris rules—in a manner of speaking,” Conal told them.

Interesting, Will thought. There had been a hint of distaste in Conal’s voice as he spoke of the King. He glanced at Halt to see if his mentor had noted it. But Halt’s face was a blank mask.

“Nevertheless, we’re all trained fighters, and we might be useful to you,” Halt said.

Conal scratched his ear, inspected his fingernails and then replied. “Exactly. And I’m thinking if there’s an attack coming, it might not be the wisest move to let three armed fighting men into the village.”

“Then don’t,” Halt said immediately. “We’ll camp in the trees there. If there’s no attack tomorrow, we’ll go on our way. If there is, you might be glad of a bit of support.”

“And how much use will three men be against eighty?” Conal asked.

“That depends on the three,” said the third member of the group, the one who had posed as a minstrel a few nights ago.

The bearded one turned to smile at him. “Well said, Will,” he said quietly. Then, to Conal: “However much help we can provide, it’ll be more than nothing. My main aim is to make sure you have your defenses ready, your men armed and warned. The outlaws will be looking to surprise you. If they find you ready and waiting, it might take a little starch out of them.”

Conal considered the point and nodded slowly. “Aye, that makes sense,” he said. “I’ll have the men stand to at dawn. We do that every day.”

Halt smiled grimly.“Then do it tomorrow. But the odds are, they won’t attack then.” He smiled. “The enemy will expect you to be ready at dawn. Most places ‘stand to at dawn,’ as you put it. My guess is, they’ll wait for you to lower your guard when nothing happens. If I were them, I’d hit you at noon, when people are relaxing, tired from the morning’s work and looking forward to their midday meal.”

Conal regarded the bearded man. He was small for a warrior, the Hibernian thought. But he carried an air of confidence and authority. He suddenly thought that if there were to be a fight, he’d prefer to fight with this man than against him.

“Good advice,” he said. “I’ll make sure everyone stays ready. Where will you be?”

Halt gestured to the forest north of Craikennis.“We’ll bed down inside the trees. Then we’ll take a position on that low hill outside the tree line.”

Conal stepped forward and offered his hand to Halt. He was a little awkward, realizing that this man had come to warn the village and, so far, had been treated with suspicion and distrust.

“I owe you thanks,” he said.

Halt took his hand. “ Thank me tomorrow, if we’re all still here,” he said. Then he and his two companions retrieved their weapons from the grassy verge, mounted their horses and rode away across the fields to the north.

They’d gone a hundred meters or so when Horace urged Kicker alongside Abelard.

“Halt?” he said, and the Ranger looked at him.

“Something troubling you?”

“Yes. I just realized we’ve left all our camping gear at Mountshannon,” Horace said.

Halt let out a deep sigh. “Yes. I remembered that too—just after I told him we’d camp out in the trees.”

Horace glanced at the sky above them. There were dark clouds scudding across it, blanking out the stars as they passed.

“Do you think it’s going to rain tonight?” he said.

“Probably,” Halt replied gloomily.

IT DID RAIN DURING THE NIGHT, A LIGHT SHOWER THAT FELL FOR about fifteen minutes just after midnight. But the campsite wasn’t quite as uncomfortable as Halt and Horace had envisaged. They had overlooked the fact that Will still had his tent and camping equipment with him.