Kings of Clonmel (21 page)

The meadow was silent now as he walked among the crowd. Those at the front turned to watch him as he moved past them.

“And then, if you see his power and compassion and want to turn to him and join our band, then Alseiass will make you doubly welcome.”

“Well said, Tennyson!” a woman shouted, and he smiled at her.

“But let’s hope that it doesn’t come to that,” he said.“Let’s all hope that this lovely village of yours remains a haven of peace and Alseiass won’t need to be asked to protect it.”

There was a murmur from the crowd. Horace sensed a feeling of contentment in those around him. It was an interesting proposition Tennyson had put:
You don’t have to believe in my god. But if danger arrives, he’ll protect you nonetheless.
It was what he’d heard described as a win-win situation. Gradually, the crowd began to break up as Tennyson stopped once more to chat with individuals and smaller groups.

Horace caught Halt’s eye. “D’you think Alseiass will be called on to maintain the peace of this beautiful village?”

Halt let one corner of his mouth turn up in a cynical smile.

“I’d bet my life on it.”

TUG WELCOMED WILL BACK TO THE LITTLE CLEARING WITH A brief toss of his head. Will moved to the horse and stroked his soft nose.

“Good boy,” he said quietly. Tug snorted softly in reply, aware that if Will was speaking, there was no need to maintain his own silence. Will considered his situation for a moment, then decided that there was time for a few hours’ rest. The man called Driscoll was leading his raiding party out at dawn. But they were going by the lowland route to Mountshannon, crossing the river that ran past the camp and following a trail that led through the flatlands below the hills. He wouldn’t be bothered by them.

The second group, as Padraig had ordered, would be moving out around midday and following the ridge trail that Will was on. But he planned to be on his way before first light, so there was no chance that they’d catch up to him. That decided, he prepared to get a few hours’ rest. He’d been on the move all day and well into the night, after all.

He unsaddled Tug. There was no need for the little horse to endure the discomfort of the saddle now. Tug shook himself gratefully and moved away to crop the grass. Will looked up through the tree canopy to the sky. He could see the stars quite clearly. Occasionally, a wisp of cloud would slide across the sky, blotting them out. But he could tell there was little chance of rain, so he didn’t bother to set up the small one-man tent that was rolled behind his saddle. He’d sleep in the open tonight, he thought.

He ate a cold meal. He wanted to leave no trace of his presence here, so he couldn’t light a fire. He reflected, as he chewed doggedly on the tough dried beef, that he’d be glad when this was over and he could find a good hot meal.

Potatoes would be nice, he thought. Boiled in their jackets, perhaps, and then smothered in butter, salt and pepper. His stomach growled at the thought, and he glanced with disfavor at the unappetizing twist of dried beef in his hand. Earlier in the day, he had reflected that he quite enjoyed the taste. In the ensuing hours, it seemed to have lost some of its appeal.

There was something still niggling in the back of his mind about the conversation he’d overheard in Padraig’s tent. Something was illogical, but he couldn’t put his finger on it.

Then it fell into place.

From all he’d heard, Mountshannon was considerably larger than Craikennis. Yet Driscoll was attacking the larger village with thirty men only. Then he was rendezvousing with another force of fifty men, led by Padraig himself, to attack Craikennis. It didn’t make any sense. Surely the larger force would be needed for Mountshannon?

Perhaps he’d heard wrong?

He took a drink of cold water from his canteen, regretting the lack of a good cup of hot, sweet coffee.

No. He was sure he’d heard it correctly. Thirty men for Mountshannon. The combined force of eighty for Craikennis.

Unless they’re not actually attacking Mountshannon, he thought. Maybe Driscoll is leading a reconnaissance in force? But he shook his head at that thought. If he wanted to reconnoiter, half a dozen men would be sufficient. Even fewer.

He replaced the cap on the water bottle and set it to one side, yawning hugely. Now that he had decided that he would get some rest, the efforts of the day and the tension he’d been under made themselves felt and he couldn’t wait to turn in. Taking his blankets, he moved across the clearing and quickly made himself a bed inside the trees, where a large bush would shelter him from unfriendly eyes.

His mind kept turning over the problem that was nagging at him. Eventually, he shrugged it away and fell asleep within a few minutes.

MARKET DAY IN MOUNTSHANNON WAS WELL UNDER WAY. THERE had been a few showers of rain just after dawn, when most of the stall holders had arrived to set up their shelters and lay out their goods for display. But as the morning wore on, the sun came out and set the dampened ground steaming.

Horace and Halt had watched preparations from their campsite as they breakfasted. The villagers knew that market day was a case of first in gets the best goods, so they had thronged to the market while the rain was still drifting down. Now the large meadow, formerly deserted but for their two small tents and the Outsiders’ pavilion, was a pulsing mass of stalls, people, performers, animals, carts and food vendors.

Tennyson and his people were taking advantage of the crowd to promote their message. A small group of them, all in the usual white robes, were singing country folk songs, with the occasional hymn of praise to Alseiass.

The singing was good, thought Horace, enjoying the three-part harmony. He commented on the fact to Halt.

The Ranger shrugged. “ Three donkeys braying is much the same as one,” he said, “save that it’s louder.”

“Nonetheless, they are good entertainers, Halt.”

Halt nodded thoughtfully. “This is the way they work. They worm their way into people’s affection. It’s all very easygoing and nonconfrontational. Then they spring their trap.”

“Well, they’re good trappers. And their bait is very effective,” Horace told him. Again, Halt nodded.

“I know. That’s what makes them so dangerous.” He stood up, dusting off the seat of his pants. They had spread a canvas square over the wet ground outside their tents, but his backside still felt a little damp. “Come on, we’d better look at livestock. Although, thank God, I’ve seen little in the way of good animals arrive so far. Otherwise I might have to buy some.”

“We could always eat ’em,” Horace suggested cheerfully. Halt eyed him.

“It always gets back to eating with you, doesn’t it?” he asked.

“I’m a growing boy, Halt,” the young warrior said. Halt snorted and led the way toward the market.

They strolled among the stalls and the livestock pens.

There were plenty of chickens and ducks and geese for sale. And quite a good selection of pigs. There were no cattle and only a few scrubby, ill-conditioned sheep. Horace commented on the fact.

“The animals for sale here are the ones that people raise close to the farmhouse,” Halt explained. “Chickens, ducks and pigs all stay close by, so the farmer has no call to go out into the fields to tend them.”

“And of course,” Horace replied, understanding, “people are staying close by their houses these days.”

“Exactly.” Halt stopped by a small pen that held three sheep. Their wool was coated and matted with mud. He nodded to the owner and stepped into the pen. He caught the nearest, held it between his knees and pried its jaws apart, peering at its teeth. The sheep struggled in protest at this treatment and eventually he released it, dusted his hands together and looked at the owner again, giving a small shake of his head. He stepped out of the pen and they moved on.

“So, what was wrong with them?” Horace asked after a few moments.

Halt turned a curious gaze on him. “Wrong with what?”

Horace jerked his thumb back toward the small sheep pen. “The sheep’s teeth. What was the problem?”

Halt shrugged.“Haven’t the faintest idea. What do I know about sheep?”

“But you—”

“I looked at his teeth. That’s what people seem to do when they look at animals. They look at their teeth. Then they usually shake their heads and walk off. So that’s what I did.” He paused, then continued. “Did you want me to buy it?”

Horace raised both hands in a defensive gesture. “Not at all. I just wondered.”

“Good.” Halt smiled sardonically. “For a moment there I thought you might be feeling peckish.”

They stopped at a fruit stall and bought several apples. They were good. Crisp and juicy, with just a hint of tart flavor hiding behind their sweetness. The two of them crunched away as they inspected a stall full of camping gear and kitchen utensils.

“Good filleting knife,” Halt said. He asked the price of the stall owner, haggled for several minutes, made to walk out in mock disgust, then settled on a price and bought the thin-bladed knife. As they left the tent, he said to Horace, “We should fish for some trout in the streams around here. Make a nice change to the menu.” He paused and looked around the nearby stalls. “Might as well look for some almonds if we’re going to catch trout.”

“Fishing for and catching are two different matters,” Horace said, and Halt eyed him sidelong.

“Are you casting aspersions on my fishing ability?”

Horace met his gaze. “You don’t strike me as the fishing type. It’s a genteel sort of sport, and I can’t picture you sitting sedately with a fishing rod in your hands.”

“Why use a rod when you can use a bow?” Halt replied, and Horace frowned.

“You
shoot
the fish?” he said. And when Halt nodded, Horace went on. “ That’s not very sporting, is it?”

There was a good deal of hunting and fishing done around Castle Araluen, usually involving the royal family.

It was all done according to strict rules and conventions. A gentleman, Horace had been taught, only fished for trout with a rod and with a manmade lure—never live bait. He certainly didn’t skewer them on the end of an arrow.

“I never said I was sporting,” Halt said. “I said I catch fish. I doubt they care whether they’re killed by a hook or an arrow. And they taste pretty much the same.”

Horace was about to reply when they heard a cry of alarm. Both of them stopped. Halt’s hand went instinctively to the saxe knife at his belt. Horace’s left hand closed over the top of his scabbard, ready to steady it if he needed to draw his sword quickly.

There was a buzz of fear from the people around them. The shout was repeated, and this time they could make out where it came from—the line of trees that marked the eastern side of the market ground. Without needing to confer, they started in that direction. Already a few families were hurrying the opposite way, back to the shelter of the village.

“Sounds like it’s started,” Halt said. “Whatever ‘it’ may be.”

They threaded their way through the stalls toward the trees. For a moment, Halt considered returning to their camp to fetch his bow. He hadn’t brought it, as it didn’t quite match the picture of a shepherd looking for new stock in the market. Then he decided against it.

They emerged from the cluster of market stalls into clear ground.

“Over there,” said Horace, pointing.

An armed man stood a few meters clear of the trees. Behind him, half hidden by the uncertain shadows among the trees, more armed men were visible. Standing between Halt and Horace’s position at the edge of the market ground were three of the village’s watchmen. They too were armed, but their weapons—clubs, a sickle blade mounted on a spear handle and one slightly rusty sword—seemed inadequate when viewed against the chain mail, swords, shields and maces wielded by the newcomers.

As the two Araluens watched, one of the village guards called a challenge to the man standing clear of the trees.

“That’s far enough! You have no business here. Turn around and be on your way!”

The stranger laughed. It was a harsh sound, devoid of any humor.

“Don’t tell me where my business lies, farmer! I’ll come and go as I please. My men and I serve Balsennis, the mighty god of destruction and chaos. And he’s decided that it’s time your village paid him tribute.”

A buzz of recognition went around the marketplace as he spoke the name Balsennis. They had heard Tennyson warn of this dark and evil spirit, heard him blame the god for the reign of lawlessness and terror that was sweeping Clonmel.

Several more of the town watchmen had thrust their way through the crowd. They had obviously armed themselves in haste, as most of them carried makeshift weapons. They formed up in an uneven line behind the first two. There were ten of them in all. If their intent was to discourage the stranger with their numbers, they were doomed to failure. He laughed again.

“That’s what you have to oppose me? A dozen farmers, armed with sharp sticks and sickles? Get out of my way! I’ve got eighty armed fighting men in the trees here. If you choose to resist, we’ll kill every man, woman and child in the village, and then take what we want. Drop your weapons and we might spare some of you! I’ll give you ten seconds to think it over.”

Halt leaned closer to Horace and said in a low tone, “If you wanted to frighten people with your overwhelming numbers, would you keep them hidden in the forest?”

Horace frowned. He had been thinking much the same thing. “If I had eighty men, I think I’d show them. A show of force like that would be more frightening than simply talking about them.”

“So the odds are,” Halt said, “that he’s bluffing.”

“Probably. But he’s still got the watchmen outnumbered. I count at least twenty men in the trees. Of course,” he added, “the village can probably muster more men, given time. Those dozen out there are just the ones on duty at the moment.”