Kings of Clonmel (36 page)

It was a high tent, easily three meters tall at its middle point, so there was no need to stoop as they entered. Inside, the white canvas sides filtered the early morning sun.

There was a small screened-off space in one corner. Will poked his nose into it and saw a bucket.

“What’s this for?” he asked.

Horace smiled. “It’s a privy,” he said. “In case I need a nervous wee.”

Will hastily withdrew. Now that Horace had raised the subject, he realized that his own bladder seemed a little tight. He put it down to nerves and tried to ignore it while he examined the very basic furnishing in the tent.

The main part held a couch, a table, a canvas chair and a rack where Horace could store his arms and armor. His mail shirt, helmet with chain mail neck guard and light metal greaves to protect his shins and lower legs had been delivered to the castle for scrutiny the day before. In addition, two round bucklers embellished with the sunrise insignia had been supplied at Halt’s request. Now the shields and armor were neatly placed on the rack for him. He checked over each piece carefully, ensuring that nothing had been tampered with and that all straps and fittings were secure.

Sensing Will’s continuing restlessness, he glanced around the interior of the tent to try to find something to keep his friend busy. His eye fell on a water jug and two mugs on the table. A quick glance told him the jug was empty.

“Would you mind filling this with cold water?” he asked. “I know I’ll have a raging thirst after the first fight. I always do.”

Glad to be able to help, Will seized the jug and started out the door. He paused, uncertain.

“You’re sure you’ll be all right?”

Horace smiled at him. “I’ll be fine. See if you can find some linen or muslin to wet and drape over the jug. It’ll keep it cool.”

“I’ll do that. You’re sure you’re—”

“Go!” said Horace, making a mock swipe at his friend. When he was alone, Horace sat on the chair, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, breathing deeply. He felt his pulse. It was racing a little, just as he expected. In spite of his outward appearance of calm, Horace was beginning to feel a familiar tautness in his stomach, as if a hard lump had settled there. It didn’t bother him. He felt it before every battle or combat. If he hadn’t felt a little nervous, he’d have been worried. A little nervousness was a good thing. It gave you an edge.

But he was glad to have a few minutes to himself, without the constant, concerned scrutiny from Will. He knew Will was tensed up because he felt useless in the coming battle. Sometimes, Horace thought, standing by and watching a friend in danger could be worse than being in danger yourself. Even so, it didn’t help to have Will so keyed up and tense. He’d have to find another errand for him when he came back with the water.

It took longer than he expected, but when the young Ranger returned, he had the jug full of water and Horace could hear the unexpected clinking of ice as well.

“Where did you get that?” he asked, surprised by his friend’s initiative. Will grinned.

“One of the drinks vendors had a supply. He didn’t want to part with any, but he agreed once I mentioned my friend.”

“Me?” said Horace, raising his eyebrows. Will shook his head.

“My saxe knife,” he said, grinning. “Plus I paid a little extra.” He set the jug down on the table, carefully draping a piece of wet muslin over it as Horace had suggested.

Then, with nothing to do, he began to pace back and forth.

“So . . . are you all right?” he asked. “Need anything?”

Horace eyed him for a moment, then had an idea.

“Will you take my sword to the steward’s table?” he said. “Weapons need to be inspected before the combat. And find out what my opponent is using if you can.”

Will was out of the pavilion before he had finished the sentence. Horace smiled and began deep breathing again, clearing his mind, emptying it of any stray distractions so he could concentrate on the task ahead. It wouldn’t be easy, he knew. But he was confident that he could defeat the two huge twins. Just as long as he could concentrate and bring his fighting instincts up to their highest pitch. So much of a battle like this depended on aligning his instinctive reactions to the movements he’d been trained to perform, so that he could execute a sword stroke or a lunge or a shield block without having to think about it. So he could anticipate, from his opponent’s eyes and body position, where the next attack was intended.

He closed his eyes, concentrating on hearing the faintest noises: the burr of conversation from the stands. The sound of a songbird in a tree. The cries of the vendors. He heard them all and dismissed them all.

He didn’t hear Halt reenter the tent, take one look at the young warrior sitting, eyes closed and preparing himself, and leave again.

When Will returned a few minutes later, Halt intercepted him and led him to a bench under a tree a few meters away, where they could sit and watch the tent without disturbing its occupant. Time passed and they heard movement and the clinking of metal from inside the pavilion. Halt led the way to the entrance once more. Horace was pulling the mail shirt over his head. He nodded a greeting to them.

“What’s he using?” he asked Will.

Will glanced around the tent nervously. “A mace and chain,” he answered, and heard Halt’s sharp intake of breath. “That’s bad, isn’t it?”

Horace shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve never faced one before. Any thoughts, Halt?”

Halt rubbed his vestigial beard thoughtfully. The mace and chain wasn’t a common weapon in Araluen, but he had known men who had fought against it.

“It’s awkward,” he said. “It’ll give him extra reach—and he’s got plenty already. And it develops massive force in its strokes. You’ll feel like you’ve been hit by a battering ram.”

“That’s encouraging,” Horace said. “Any more good news?”

“For God’s sake, don’t try to parry it with your sword. It’ll wrap around the blade, and it could even snap it off. Most people use a battleax to counter a mace and chain. You could change to one,” he suggested.

Horace shook his head. “I’m used to my sword. This is no time to try out an unfamiliar weapon.”

“True. Well, try to keep your distance. If the chain catches the rim of your shield, the spiked ball will whip over and hit your shield arm or your head. One thing in your favor, it’s an unwieldy weapon, and it’s slow. It takes a very strong man to use one effectively.”

“And unfortunately, that’s exactly what Grumble One is,” Horace said, then shrugged.“So I just have to keep my distance, don’t let him hit my shield with the chain, get hit by a battering ram and not parry with my sword. All in all, it sounds like money for jam. Now give me a hand with my armor, Will, and I’ll go out and finish him off.”

“NOW LISTEN, ALL PEOPLE! GIVE SILENCE FOR SIR SEAN OF Carrick, chief steward to the King and master-at-arms for these combats! Silence for Sir Sean!”

The herald’s voice thundered the formally worded, rather stiff announcement across the market square, dominating the loud buzz of conversation in the stands. The herald was a thickset man, with a barrel-shaped chest and massive lung capacity. He had been specially selected and trained for his role.

Gradually, the chatter in the stands died away as people realized that it was almost time for the first combat to begin. They edged forward expectantly on their seats, those at the extreme ends of the bleachers craning to see Sean as he moved to the front of the royal enclosure. He held a rolled parchment in his hand. He unrolled it and began to read. His voice lacked the stentorian qualities of the herald’s, but it was strong and clear and it carried easily in the sudden silence.

“People of Dun Kilty! At issue today is the legitimacy or otherwise of the so-called god Alseiass, also known as the Golden God of Good Fortune.”

There was a moment of subdued muttering from the eastern stands as he said the words “so-called god.” It stopped as he raised his eyes and directed a hard look across the combat ground.

“Ferris, High King of Clonmel, contends that Alseiass is a false god and that his prophet Tennyson is a false prophet.”

He paused, turned and looked at Ferris, who was sitting huddled in the thronelike chair at the back of the royal enclosure. A wave of cheers rang around the arena, mingled with cries of “Hail Ferris!” and “Long live the King!” Sean waited till they died away, then he continued.

“His majesty also contends that the one true hope of deliverance for the kingdom is the warrior known as the Sunrise Warrior. That under his guidance and protection, we shall restore the rule of law and order.”

More cheers. And stony silence from the eastern stands.

“The prophet Tennyson, for his part, contends that Alseiass is a true god.”

Now cheering rose in the eastern stands. Tennyson leaned back in his chair, looked around him at his supporters and smiled. Halt, watching from the opposite side of the field, thought the smile was a smug one. He frowned as he noticed three figures sitting behind Tennyson, all cloaked in dull purple. The Genovesans, he realized.

Sean was continuing. “Tennyson has guaranteed the protection of his god to those who will follow him, and vows that Alseiass and Alseiass alone can restore order to the kingdom.

“These matters having been under contention, and with no resolution attained, the parties have agreed to the ultimate resolution of differences: trial by combat.”

The thunderous cheering that rose now was all-embracing. Both townsfolk and Outsiders alike roared their approval. After some thirty seconds, Sean glanced at the herald behind him. The heavyset man stepped forward and his voice rang out above the crowd.

“Silence! Silence for Sean o’ Carrick!”

Gradually, the cheering died away, like a mighty wave that crashes in upon a beach, then recedes until there is nothing of it left behind.

“Trial by combat is the sacred, unarguable method of judgment, the ultimate court against which there may be no appeal. It is the direct appeal to all gods to decide these matters. On behalf of King Ferris, I swear the crown’s willingness to abide by the final judgment, absolutely and without further argument.

“Should the followers of Alseiass prove victorious, King Ferris will withdraw all claim of the powers of the Sunrise Warrior and submit utterly to the will of Alseiass.”

There were a few scattered cheers and catcalls from the bleachers opposite the King’s enclosure. For the most part, however, there was silence as the true gravity of this contest and its result sank in. And the followers of Tennyson realized that a similar binding vow would be required of their prophet—and a similar pledge to deny the god Alseiass if Killeen and Gerard were to lose. For the first time, many began to examine their own impetuous actions in joining Tennyson’s band. Swept along by a mixture of excitement, fear and blind hope, they had followed Tennyson’s lead without giving the matter too much rational thought. Now Sean showed them the other side of the coin—the risk Tennyson was running.

“Should the Sunrise Warrior prevail, Tennyson and his followers must give the same undertaking. The sacred trial by combat to take place here will determine whether or not Alseiass is truly a god—and whether Tennyson is a true prophet or a false pretender.”

Sean paused, staring across the open ground at the white-robed figure seated opposite him. Tennyson showed no sign of responding.

“Tennyson! So-called prophet of Alseiass! Do you swear to be bound by these proceedings? Do you swear to agree to the result of trial by combat, whatever that result may be?”

Tennyson, remaining seated, glanced around at his followers. Their eyes were on him. He nodded curtly. But that wasn’t enough for Sean.

“Stand, Tennyson!” he demanded. “And swear to it in the presence and hearing of all here!”

Still Tennyson remained seated. He was unwilling to commit to such a definite course of action. Who knew what could go wrong in a trial by combat? But as he sat there, he began to hear muttering from his own followers. Not the hard-core fifty or so who were his inner circle. They, after all, were under no delusions that there was a god Alseiass. But his new converts, the crowds of people swept up from Mountshannon and half a dozen other villages along the way, were beginning to look at him suspiciously and doubt the level of his conviction and the truth of his teaching. In another few seconds, he realized, he could lose them. Reluctantly, he stood.

“I swear it,” he said.

Sean, opposite him, allowed himself a small smile.

“Then let all here witness that fact. These matters will be settled this day by combat. All parties have agreed. All parties will be bound by the result.”

Slowly, Sean began to roll up the parchment from which he had read the ritualistic formulas setting out the parameters of the day. He glanced to the pavilions, one at either end of the field.

“Let the combatants come forward! Sunrise Warrior! Killeen of the Isles, disciple of Alseiass! Step forward and receive your weapons for this sacred trial.”

And the cheering began to build again as Horace and Killeen emerged from their respective pavilions. Somewhere, a drumbeat began, giving them a cadence by which to march. Each warrior was fully armored. Killeen wore a shirt of scale armor—brass plates shaped like fish scales that were fastened onto an inner leather garment. Like fish scales, the brass leaves overlapped each other. Horace had small links of closely knit chain mail under his white surcoat and covering his arms. Killeen wore a full helmet that concealed his face, with only his eyes glittering through the vision slit. Horace wore his familiar conical helmet with its dependent fringe of mail hanging to his shoulders as a neck guard.

Both carried their shields on their left arms. Horace’s was circular, made of steel fastened over toughened wood, painted white, with the emblem of the sunrise depicted on it. Killeen’s was kite shaped, with a rounded top. It bore the double circle emblem of Alseiass. Beside each strode an attendant. A white-robed acolyte flanked Killeen, and Will strode beside Horace, desperately trying to keep up. Compared to Horace and the huge figure of Killeen, he looked almost childlike.