Kings of Clonmel (30 page)

“Me?” Ferris was horrified at the concept. “What do you expect me to do?”

“Speak out! Take control of your Kingdom and offer the people an alternative to this charlatan! Break this cult of his. Roll it back and destroy his power! It’s built on an illusion anyway. Offer them another illusion.”

“What?” Ferris asked. “What illusion do I have?”

“The illusion of your own authority,” Halt said sarcastically. “That won’t go far. But fortunately for you, we’ve provided an additional one.” He pointed to Horace. “The Sunrise Warrior.”

“But that’s a myth!” Ferris cried, and Halt laughed bitterly.

“Of course it is! Just as Alseiass, the all-loving Golden God of the Outsiders, is a myth. Make the Sunrise Warrior your countermyth. Make him your champion, summoned by you to bring the rule of law back to Clonmel.

“We’ve already prepared the ground for you. The warrior was seen at a village called Craikennis just a few days ago. He wiped out a band of three hundred outlaws.”

“Three hundred?” Horace said, surprised. “You’re coming at it a bit strong, aren’t you, Halt?”

The Ranger shrugged. “The bigger the rumor, the easier it is to make people believe,” he said. But Sean had reacted instantly to the mention of Craikennis.

“It’s true, your majesty. I heard rumors of the Warrior in the marketplace yesterday. And I heard mention of a battle at Craikennis as well.”

Ferris looked from one to the other. He made an ineffectual, undecided gesture, one hand flapping in the air.

“I don’t know. I . . . I just don’t know.”

Halt stepped close to him so that their faces were only centimeters apart.

“Do this, brother. Speak out and denounce Tennyson and his cult. Offer the people the protection of the Sunrise Warrior at the head of your soldiers, and I promise we’ll give you every support.”

He saw that Ferris was wavering and added his final inducement.

“Do it and I swear I will make no claim against you for the throne. I’ll return to Araluen as soon as we’ve destroyed the Outsiders, and Tennyson with them.”

That struck home, he saw. For a second or two, Ferris was on the brink of agreeing. But decisiveness had never been his strong suit, and still he vacillated.

“I need time to think about this. I need a few days. You can’t just walk in here and expect me to . . .” He hesitated, and Halt finished the sentence for him.

“Make a decision? No, I suppose that’s a pretty foreign idea for you. All right. We’ll give you a day.”

“Two days,” Ferris replied instantly. Then, in a pleading tone, “Please, Halt, there’s a lot for me to take in here.”

Halt shook his head. The longer Ferris had to think about this, the more likely he would find a way to weasel out of his predicament. It was not impossible that he would try to contact Tennyson again.

“One day,” he said firmly. His tone told Ferris that there would be no further discussion of the matter, and the King’s shoulders slumped in resignation.

“Very well,” he muttered.

Halt studied the submissive figure for a few seconds. Ferris seemed cowed, but he still didn’t trust him. He turned to Sean.

“Do I have your word that you’ll prevent any trickery?”

Sean nodded instantly. “Of course. I’ll make sure he keeps his side of the bargain,” he said, then added, “Uncle.”

A grim smile touched Halt’s face at the word. He studied Sean for a few seconds. The eyes were clear and honest. The face was a trustworthy one. He felt a surge of warmth for this young man. Halt had lived his life without any knowledge of his family. At least one of them had turned out well, he thought. Pity about the other one in the room with them.

“That’s good enough for me.” He looked back to Ferris.“We’ll be back at noon tomorrow for your answer. Let’s go, Horace.”

They turned and walked toward the big double doors, their boot heels ringing on the flagstones. They were almost there when Ferris’s cry stopped them.

“Wait!” he called, and they turned to face him again. “What if my answer is . . . no?”

Halt smiled at him. At least, it might have been called a smile. Horace thought it was closer to the way a wolf shows its fangs to an enemy.

“It won’t be,” he said.

WILL WAS SEATED UNDER A TREE, HIS BACK COMFORTABLY against the trunk, repairing a part of Tug’s harness. He worked the point of an awl through the tough leather strap, wincing as the sharp end caught the ball of his thumb.

“I’m going to have to stop doing that,” he told himself. Perhaps the key to doing so would be to keep his eyes on the job in hand. But the broken strap was merely a ruse to occupy him while he studied the sprawling camp of Tennyson’s followers.

He had joined the band two nights previously, riding in after dark and being challenged by a sentry from the picket line thrown around the camp. He identified himself as a traveling minstrel and said he was anxious to join the followers of Alseiass. The sentry grunted, seeming to be satisfied, and waved him inside the camp.

There were nearly four hundred people massed under Tennyson’s banner. Most of them were people from villages along the way who had joined after hearing the enthusiastic testimony of the residents of Mountshannon. Some had been summoned from other villages farther south, where Tennyson had already driven off parties of outlaws. The prophet had left some of his henchmen in each of these villages and, once the march on Dun Kilty began in earnest, they had been summoned, along with their converts, to join the band.

But there was also a solid core of Tennyson’s acolytes, recognizable by their white robes. Most obvious of all were the two massively proportioned bodyguards who always stood close to the leader. They were surly brutes, Will thought. The Golden God Alseiass hadn’t imbued them with his much-professed love for their fellow man.

As the numbers grew, Tennyson continued to preach, stressing the King’s lack of decision and action, and laying the blame for Clonmel’s troubled situation squarely on his shoulders. And at each of these sessions, his subordinates moved among the crowd, collecting gold and jewelry in tribute to Alseiass.

As an outsider Will could see the sharp division in the camp. There were the fervent, hopeful new converts, the large mass of people who had chosen to follow Tennyson and who looked to him and his god as the new hope for peace and prosperity. That group grew larger each day as new converts flocked into the camp.

And there was the hard-edged core of existing followers, who collected the gold, protected Tennyson and, Will was sure, dealt with anyone who chose to speak out against Alseiass’s prophet.

The previous day, the latter group had been reinforced by three remarkable newcomers. Dressed in tight black leather, they wore dull purple cloaks and wide-brimmed, feathered hats of the same color. They were olive skinned and dark haired and obviously foreigners. And they weren’t simple pilgrims come to join the throng. They carried crossbows slung on their backs and, from Will’s careful observation, each of them had at least three daggers on his person—in belt sheaths, in their boots, and under the left arm. They were dangerous men. They carried themselves with an air of assurance that said they had confidence in their weapon skills.

He wondered who they were and where they had come from. He was less curious as to their purpose. They were Tennyson’s hired killers, he felt certain. Earlier, Will had been singing close to the white pavilion and had watched as one of them followed a shabbily dressed man out of the camp and into the forest. Fifteen minutes later, the foreigner returned alone, going straight to Tennyson’s pavilion to report. Will, who had discreetly followed them part of the way, waited by the edge of the forest until sundown. But there had been no sign of the other man returning.

He heard a raised voice now a few meters away and glanced up. One of the white-robed inner circle was walking among the haphazardly pitched tents and shelters, issuing orders to the people there. Will rose and moved closer to hear what was being said.

“Pack up your camp tonight after prayers. Get your goods loaded on your carts and horses and be ready to strike camp tomorrow. Tennyson wants everyone ready to move out by ten o’clock! So get busy! Don’t leave it till tomorrow! Get it done tonight and sleep in the open if you must!”

One of the pilgrims stepped forward and addressed the white-robed figure deferentially.

“Where are we going, your honor?” he said, and half a dozen voices echoed the question. For a moment, the messenger looked as if he wasn’t going to answer, out of simple contrariness. Then he shrugged. There was no need to keep it a secret.

“We’re marching directly to Dun Kilty. It’s time King Ferris was told his hour has come!” he said, and there was a swelling buzz of approval from those who heard him.

Interesting, Will thought. He threaded his way through the tents to the edge of the settlement, where his own small tent was pitched and Tug stood grazing close by. He quickly lowered the tent and packed it away. Tug looked at him curiously as he did so.

“We’re moving out tomorrow,” Will told him. He checked that everything was tightly rolled and secured. He’d be content to sleep in the open tonight. He glanced at the sky. There were clouds scudding overhead, obscuring the stars from time to time. It might rain, but his cloak was waterproof and he’d be comfortable enough.

“You!”

The voice startled him. It was rough and overloud and as he turned he felt a twinge of uneasiness as he saw who had spoken. It was one of the giants who attended to Tennyson—Gerard or Killeen. He had no idea which was which, and there seemed to be no way to tell them apart.

The huge man pointed a finger at him.

“You’re the singer, is that right?” he said, a challenging tone in his voice. Will nodded uncertainly.

“I am a jongleur, that’s true,” he said, wondering where this was leading. The word seemed unfamiliar to the man, and Will explained further. “I’m a minstrel. A musician and singer.”

The man’s face cleared as he heard a description he understood. “Not anymore, you’re not,” he said.“Tennyson has barred all singing—except hymns to Alseiass. You know any of them?”

Will shook his head. “Sadly, no.”

The big man smiled evilly at him. “Sad for you, because you’re out of business. Tennyson says you’re to bring your lute to him after the evening prayer session.”

Will contemplated whether there was any point in telling this oaf that he played a mandola, not a lute. He decided against it.

“Tennyson wants my . . . instrument?”

The man scowled at him. “Isn’t that what I said? No more music and hand in your lute! Clear?”

Will hesitated, thinking about the order and what it meant, and the man spoke, this time even louder and more abruptly.

“Clear?”

“Yes, of course. No more music. Hand in my . . . lute. I understand.”

Gerard or Killeen nodded in a satisfied manner. “Good. Make sure you do.”

He turned on his heel and swaggered away, his huge frame visible over the tents for some distance. Will sat on his rolled pack and looked at the mandola in its boiled-leather case. It was a beautiful instrument, made by Araluen’s master luthier, Gilet, and given to him as a present by a grateful Lord Orman of Castle Macindaw. If he handed it in to Tennyson, he had no doubt that he’d never see it again.

Besides, he thought, he’d learned as much as he could about Tennyson’s plans. The prophet was heading directly for Dun Kilty, cutting short his original scheme to gather an increasing number of followers in a triumphal progression through the countryside. Not that he needed any more. He had hundreds of them already.

Then there was the matter of the three new arrivals, the crossbowmen. It might be timely for Halt to hear about them. Will was sure that his old mentor would know who they were—or at least, where they came from and what their purpose would be.

All in all, Will decided, it was time for him to leave the followers of Alseiass.

He clicked his tongue and Tug trotted briskly to him, all thoughts of grazing forgotten. Quickly, Will saddled the horse, strapping his pack, mandola case and camping gear to the ties provided for them. Then he took a long oilskin-wrapped bundle that remained on the ground and opened it to reveal his longbow and quiver. He strung the longbow, slipped the strap of the quiver over his shoulder and mounted Tug.

He rode quickly through the outskirts of the camp, not making any attempt at concealment. That would only attract suspicion, he knew. As the tent lines began to thin out, he increased the pace to a trot, stopping briefly when one of the outer ring of pickets stepped into his path, his hand raised.

“Just a moment! Where do you think you’re going?”

“I’m leaving,” Will said. The man was standing on his right side, and Will slipped his right boot out of the stirrup.

“Nobody leaves,” the sentry said. “Get back into camp now.”

He had a spear. So far, he had kept the haft grounded, but now he began to raise it, to bar Will’s way.

“No. I have to go,” Will said in a pleasant tone. “You see, my poor old auntie on my mother’s side sent me a letter and said . . .”

A little pressure from his left knee had told Tug to shuffle closer to the man as he was talking. He could remember Halt’s teaching:
If you’re planning to surprise someone, keep talking to him right up until you do it.
He could see the annoyance on the sentry’s face as he rambled on about his auntie on his mother’s side. The man was drawing breath to cut him off and order him back into camp when Will shot his booted right foot forward, straightening his knee and slamming the sole of the boot hard into the man’s face.

The man stumbled and went down, and Will urged Tug into a gallop. By the time the dazed sentry had regained his feet and found the spear that had gone spinning out of his hand, Will and Tug had been swallowed by the early evening gloom. There was only the sound of fast-receding hoofbeats to mark the fact that they had been there.