Kings of Clonmel (6 page)

After the meal, the Rangers sat back as jugs of steaming hot coffee were set out. Will grinned at Gilan across the table as the tall Ranger reached for a honey pot a few spaces down the table.

“Don’t take it all,” he warned. A couple of the older Rangers sitting near them shook their heads in mock condemnation.

“I see Halt’s still passing on his bad habits,” said one.

Crowley announced that the entertainment was about to begin, and Berrigan, a former Ranger who had lost a leg in battle and now traveled the country as a minstrel (and an undercover agent for the Corps), stepped forward with his
gitarra
. He sang three songs to increasingly boisterous applause, then beckoned to Will.

“Come and join me, Will Treaty!” he called. “Let’s see if you remember what I taught you.” The former Ranger had coached Will in his role as a jongleur when he had gone on his mission to Norgate Fief.

Will flushed with pleasure as he rose from his seat to a chorus of friendly catcalls. He made his way to the cleared space at the head of the table where Berrigan was performing. One of the junior apprentices had been sent to fetch Will’s mandola from his tent—he rarely traveled anywhere without it—and passed the instrument to him now. Will strummed a chord experimentally.

“I tuned it,” Berrigan told him, and Will frowned as he adjusted the top string.

“So I see,” he replied, straight-faced, and a ripple of amusement went through the audience. Berrigan nodded appreciation of the gibe.

“What shall we start with?” he demanded. But Will was ready for that. It was the first trick of the trade Berrigan had taught him.
A professional entertainer is always ready with a song
, he had told him.
Hesitation marks you as an amateur.

“ ‘Jenny on the Mountain,’ ” he said promptly.

Berrigan smiled at him. “I see you’ve remembered some things, then.”

They performed together for three songs. Will had a pleasant voice, and Berrigan slipped effortlessly into a harmony as the younger man sang the melody. Will had to admit that they sounded pretty good together. But after the third song, he laid the mandola down.

“You also taught me not to overstay my welcome,” he said and he took his seat to a round of appreciative applause, content to watch the master performer for the rest of the evening.

He rejoined Berrigan for the final song. It was the unofficial Ranger anthem, a haunting ballad called “Cabin in the Trees,” and those assembled all joined in, singing softly along to the chorus.

The gentle, simple song of lost love and country living was a marked contrast to the harsh and dangerous life that Rangers led. Maybe that’s why they loved it as much as they did, Will thought. As he and Berrigan strummed the final soft chord, there was a sigh from the audience, then silence fell over them. Will glanced down the table and saw that the faces of his comrades, so often set in stern, harsh lines, had softened as they thought of old friends and times gone by.

“Right, everyone! Attention, please!” Crowley let the moment of reflection extend for a decent interval, then brought everyone back to the present. “Last official piece of business for this Gathering. Assignments and reassignments for the coming year.”

As Crowley took his place at the head of the table, Will resumed his seat opposite Gilan. There was a tightness in his stomach as he waited for Crowley’s next words. He’d been assigned to the sleepy backwater of Seacliff Fief for long enough, he felt.

Perhaps it was time for something more challenging.

“As some of you know already,” Crowley began, “Alun has decided to retire.”

Alun was the Ranger of Whitby Fief. Now he would move to Castle Araluen, as was the custom for retired Rangers, where he would assist with administrative tasks, taking some of the paperwork burden from Crowley’s shoulders.

He was a popular figure, and there was a round of warm applause as he stepped forward to receive his Gold Oakleaf—symbol of a retired Ranger—from Crowley.

There was also a scroll of commendation from King Duncan, thanking Alun for his many years of loyal service to the crown.

“I’ll think of you all,” Alun said, smiling around the circle of familiar faces. “I’ll think of you when I’m tucked up in a warm bed at Castle Araluen and you’re all out sleeping in muddy ditches and drafty barns.”

A chorus of cheerful abuse met this comment, and his smile widened. Yet Will could see a hint of wistfulness behind the smile. Alun would miss the freedom of the hills and forests and the excitement of facing the unknown with every sunrise.

But his retirement meant there was a vacancy for one of the graduating Rangers to fill. Not Whitby, of course—it was one of the more important fiefs in the kingdom, set almost exactly in the geographic center of the country, where all the major highways intersected and several important trading routes met.

Briefly, Will entertained the hope that he might be appointed to Whitby. He had proven himself over the past two years, he thought, and he knew that Crowley respected his abilities.

“Which leaves a place for us to fill at Whitby,” Crowley was saying. “And the new Ranger for Whitby Fief will be . . .”

Crowley couldn’t help himself. He paused dramatically to ensure he had the attention of all those present.

“Gilan.”

Will felt an instant shaft of disappointment, followed almost immediately by a sense of happiness and pride for his friend. Gilan was rising from his seat, his face flushed with pleasure, as he moved forward to accept the written commission from Crowley and shake the Commandant’s hand. Gilan deserved the recognition and Will felt guilty about that moment of jealousy that had gripped him when Gilan’s name was announced.

“Well done, Gilan. You deserve this,” Crowley was saying.

There was a murmur of agreement from the audience. Gilan was highly skilled, responsible and very intelligent. He was generally regarded as one of the brightest of the younger Rangers. In addition, his family connections would stand him in good stead at Whitby. His father was the kingdom’s supreme army commander.

As Gilan moved to resume his seat, Will rose and embraced his friend.

“Congratulations. Couldn’t have gone to a better man,” he said. He was pleased to realize that he meant it. And he knew that he had been unrealistic in hoping for the appointment himself. He was definitely too young. Gilan smiled at him, still a little overcome with this unexpected promotion.

“Well, at least we’ll be a lot closer to each other now,” he said. “That’s good news.”

His words raised a nagging doubt in Will’s mind. Whitby and Seacliff were almost neighbors, with only one other fief separating them. But now that Gilan was moving from Norgate, someone would have to replace him. Will faced that prospect with some misgivings. After all, with his knowledge of the fief and its people, he was the logical choice.

Yet, eager as he was for a greater challenge, the prospect of moving to Norgate was one that filled Will with dismay.

At Seacliff, he was only a few days’ ride from Redmont—and Alyss. In the past months, he had been able to make regular trips to visit the tall, beautiful girl. And she had found several occasions to bring messages to Seacliff—doubtless engineered by her benevolent mentor, Lady Pauline, who thoroughly approved of the growing relationship between her protégée and the young Ranger.

But Norgate! Norgate was several weeks away from Redmont. And the roads were often difficult and dangerous. To visit Alyss for one day would mean taking a leave of absence of almost a month from his post. And Norgate wasn’t the sort of fief that a Ranger could leave to its own devices for long periods. He might manage it once a year, certainly no more than that.

His heart was in his mouth as he watched Crowley pick up the next commission from the table.

“Norgate Fief will be the new posting for one of our most respected Rangers. . . .” Again he paused for dramatic effect. Will could have cheerfully leapt up and throttled him. Get on with it, he wanted to yell. But he forced himself to continue to breathe deeply, to relax.

“Harrison,” Crowley announced, and Will felt an enormous tide of relief sweep over him.

Harrison was in his late thirties. Dependable and trustworthy rather than brilliant, he had been badly injured in a battle with Iberian pirates some years previously and appointed to the small, sleepy fief of Coledale while he recuperated. Now fully recovered, he was an ideal choice for Norgate.

“Time we put you back to work, Harrison,” Crowley said.

“I’ll be glad of the chance, Crowley,” the short, powerfully built Ranger replied.

Will nodded to himself. Norgate could use a steady, dependable hand on the reins. And Harrison would cope well with the Baron and his Battlemaster—both of whom were inclined to be a little pompous at times.

The final appointment was to replace Harrison at Coledale and that commission went to the new graduate, Skinner. He flushed with pride as he received his commission scroll from Crowley. The Commandant then turned to the other graduate, Clarke.

“Clarke, I’m afraid there are no other vacancies at the moment. It was a tough choice between you and Skinner, but his Assessment marks shaded yours just a little. I’m sure that one of the old fogies out there”—he swept his arm around the assembled Rangers and there was a ripple of laughter—“will be retiring within the next six months or so . . . once Alun tells them about the advantages of a warm bed. Then you’ll have your appointment. In the meantime, you’ll move to Castle Araluen and work as my personal assistant. How’s that?”

Clarke nodded his thanks. Crowley’s duties as Commandant sometimes conflicted with his work as Ranger of Araluen Fief. Clarke could fill in for him as acting Ranger in his absences. It was a good solution to the problem. The boy would gain experience in the field, and Crowley could shed some of his workload.

Crowley folded up the sheet of notes he had been using for re ference.

“And that just about winds us up. There are no other assignments to discuss. It’s been a good Gathering, and I thank you all for your efforts. So now let’s have a glass of wine and call it a night.”

As the assembled Rangers broke up and moved off, forming smaller groups, Will sat quietly for a few moments. He was relieved that he hadn’t been sent to Norgate. But he couldn’t help feeling a little disappointed at being overlooked. He knew Crowley didn’t move people around merely for the sake of it—a Ranger formed a special bond with the fief he was assigned to. But still, very little happened in Seacliff these days.

He shook himself irritably. You worry they’ll send you to Norgate and then when they don’t, you feel slighted, he thought to himself. And he was honest enough to grin at his contrariness. Then he felt a hand on his arm and turned to find Crowley beside him.

“Give me a minute, please, Will?” Crowley said. “There’s something we need to discuss.”

HALT WAS TRAPPED. HE CURSED HIMSELF FOR TAKING THE ENEMY so lightly.

Once he’d reached Abelard, he had easily outstripped his pursuers. Gradually, their shouts died away to silence and, confident that he had shaken them off, he eased Abelard down to a trot. He had no idea that another group of enemies was on horseback and had been riding to flank him and cut him off from the main highway that led back to Redmont Fief.

Worse still, this second party had dogs. Abelard sensed them long before Halt did. He saw the little horse’s ears prick up and heard the nervous, warning whinny. A tremor ran through the sturdy horse’s body. Halt could feel it and knew something was wrong. He urged Abelard into a canter once more as the sun showed itself above the rim of the trees.

Then he heard the baying and realized that his pursuers had managed to get between him and the highway. He angled Abelard back, hoping to outdistance them and loop around the end of their picket line.

That was when the first of the dogs burst from the trees.

This was no tracking dog. It ran silently, wasting none of its energy on the baying and howling of the others. This dog was a killer. A war dog, trained to chase silently, then attack without warning and without pity.

It was huge, its short coat mottled gray and black and its eyes blazing red with hate. It saw its quarry now and leapt at Abelard, aiming for the horse’s throat with its massive fangs.

Any normal horse might have frozen in terror or shied violently at the sudden attack. But Abelard was a Ranger horse, well trained, intelligent and courageous. He spun on his rear legs and skipped sideways, avoiding the headlong rush of the monster with a minimum of panic and with just the amount of movement necessary. Abelard’s instinct, borne of long years of experience, told him that his best defense lay with the figure seated astride him. And a violent, sudden reaction could unseat his rider.

The dog’s jaws snapped shut on empty air, missing the horse’s throat by centimeters.

It hit the ground, spun and tensed, ready to spring again. Now, for the first time, it uttered a sound . . . a deep rumbling snarl.

Which was cut off almost instantly by Halt’s first arrow.

Faced with a head-on target, the Ranger waited until the dog had lifted its head to sound that snarling challenge. Abelard stood rock steady, giving Halt a stable platform. Then Halt shot for the throat, the impact of the heavy arrow, with the eighty pounds of draw weight from his bow behind it, sending the dog staggering backward and sideways.

The second arrow, coming within seconds of the first, struck the snarling killer in the heart, dropping it stone dead.

Halt patted his horse’s neck. He knew the strength of will it had taken for Abelard to stand steadily, allowing him to shoot. He understood the depth of trust the little horse had just placed in him and was glad he hadn’t let his old friend down.