Kings of Clonmel (16 page)

“Worst of all, I saw the expression on his face. You’d expect someone who had just witnessed his brother miss death by a few centimeters might look concerned. Ferris looked furious.

“Bear in mind, I had no real proof that he was trying to kill me. And at that time, my mother and father were arguing nonstop—they were never what you might call a happy couple. About the only bright thing in their lives was Ferris. Somehow I couldn’t bring myself to spoil that for them by accusing him. The only one who believed me was my younger sister. She could see what was going on.”

Horace and Will exchanged surprised looks. They were learning more about Halt in these few minutes than they had in the past five or six years.

“You have a sister?” Will said. But Halt shook his head sadly.

“I had a sister. She died some years back. I believe she had a son.” He paused for a few seconds, thinking about her, then he shook himself and went on with his story.

“The final time was a year after the roof incident, when my father was close to death. Ferris knew he had to act quickly. We were salmon fishing and I leaned over the side of our boat to untangle my line. Next thing, I felt a shove in the back and I was in the water. When I came up, Ferris was trying to reach me with an oar. At first, I thought he was trying to help. Then, when the oar hit me, I knew what he was really doing.”

Subconsciously, he rubbed his right shoulder, as if he could still feel the pain of that blow, all these years later. Will and Halt were horrified. But neither said anything. Both realized, somehow, that Halt had to finish this story, to purge his soul of the blackness that he had concealed all these years.

“He tried for me again, but I ducked underwater and swam for the bank. Nearly didn’t make it, but I managed to drag myself ashore. Ferris followed me in the boat, insisting that it had been an accident, asking if I was all right, trying to pretend that he hadn’t just tried to kill me.”

He snorted in disgust at the memory.“I knew then that he’d never let up. If I were to be safe, I had to do one of two things. Kill him or leave the country. Even if I were to simply stand aside, to abdicate, I knew he’d never trust me. He’d expect me to try to seize the throne from him at some time in the future. I guess it was just worth more to him than it was to me. It was worth his brother’s life.

“That’s what I told him. Then I left.” He smiled at the two concerned young faces opposite him now and added, “And the way things turned out, I’m rather glad I did.”

The two young men shook their heads. There were no words that could express their sympathy for the grim-faced Ranger who meant so much to both of them. Then they realized that Halt didn’t need words from them. He knew how much they cared about him.

“You might have noticed,” he said, trying to lighten the mood around the campfire,“I’ve been left with a distinct aversion to royalty and inherited authority. The fact that a person’s father is a king doesn’t necessarily mean that he will be a good one. All too often he’s not. I prefer the Skandian method, where someone like Erak can be elected.”

“But Duncan is a good king,” Horace answered quietly.

Halt looked at him and nodded. “Yes. There are always exceptions. Duncan is a fine king. And his daughter will make an excellent queen. That’s why we all serve them. As for Ferris, I confess I wouldn’t be heartbroken if this Tennyson character dragged him screeching off the throne of Clonmel. But then Araluen would be in danger, so we need to prop him up.”

“Unpalatable as that may be,” Will said.

“Sometimes we act for the greater good,” Halt said. Then he stood up, dusting himself off, as if to disperse the cloud of melancholy that had settled over them as he talked. He continued in a brisker tone.

“Speaking of which, it’s time we got moving. Will, I want you to go to Duffy’s Ford and pick up the trail of these bandits. Track them to their camp and see what you can find out about them: numbers, weapons, that sort of thing. If you can get any inkling of their plans, that’d be good. But be careful. We don’t want to have to come and rescue you. Don’t underestimate these people. They may look like an untrained rabble, but they’ve been doing this for some years now and they know what they’re about.”

Will nodded his understanding. He began to gather his equipment together and whistled to Tug, who walked forward to be re saddled.

“Will I meet you back here?” he asked.

Halt shook his head.“We’ll meet at Mountshannon. Horace and I are going to take a look at this Tennyson character.”

DUFFY’S FORD CROSSED A LONG, SLOW CURVE IN THE RIVER. OVER hundreds of years, the action of the water running through the curve had cut away the bank, eroding it so that the river gradually became wider. As the moving water was spread over a larger area, its speed and depth were both reduced accordingly, providing a crossing point for travelers. There was no logical reason why people on the road shouldn’t break their journey at any point along the way, but travelers tend to look for landmarks or significant features when choosing where to sit back, relax and enjoy a meal. Duffy’s Ford, with its wide, flat, grassy banks sheltered by willows, provided an ideal location.

As is often the case, the fact that travelers were drawn to a location resulted in the growth of a small settlement designed to serve their needs. The trees had been cleared, and there was a small huddle of buildings to one side of the ford.

Or there had been. Will dismounted and walked forward to look around. He studied the blackened remains of what had been a group of buildings, where wisps of smoke still rose in places. The largest, which had provided food and drink to passersby, had been a rambling, single-story affair, gradually added to over the years. Will guessed, correctly, that it had provided overnight accommodation to those who wanted it. Now less than half the building remained. The rest was a pile of blackened ashes. The roof had gone, of course, being made of thatch. And the mud walls had cracked in the heat of the fire that had swept through the building, then collapsed. But some of the timber framework remained in place—a skeletal structure of blackened beams and uprights that tottered precariously over the charred remains of beds, tables, chairs and other furnishings. There were several half-burned casks in one room. Will assumed that it had been the taproom, where thirsty travelers could relax over a glass of ale. Remarkably, demonstrating the capricious nature of a fire like this, one corner had remained relatively untouched, and there were several dark bottles still standing on a shelf behind the collapsed charred bench that had been the bar. Gingerly, Will picked his way through the ashes and debris and picked one up. He unstoppered it and sniffed the cork, wrinkling his nose in distaste at the powerful smell of cheap brandy. He restoppered it and went to put it back—but then a thought struck him. It could come in handy at a later date. So he slipped the bottle into an inner pocket.

He made his way back onto clear ground and walked around the perimeter of the ruined central building, turning his attention to the other three destroyed structures. One had been the stables, placed behind the main building. There was nothing much left there. It had burned fiercely, the flames not even extinguished by the heavy rainstorm that had saved some of the main building.

“Probably full of straw,” he said to himself. The dried-out hay would have been perfect fuel, defying the efforts of the rain to quell the flames.

Beyond the ruined stable there were two other, smaller buildings. In front of one was a stone fireplace, where an assortment of blacksmith’s tools—hammers, awls and pliers—was scattered. It made sense, he realized, for a smithy to set up shop here. There’d be plenty of trade from passing travelers needing wagons repaired, horses shod or tack mended. The other building had probably been a residence—perhaps for the smithy and his family. There was little left of it now. The small settlement had a forlorn feeling to it—deserted and lifeless.

As the last word came to his mind he became conscious of something else—the by now familiar nauseatingly sweet smell of rotting bodies. As he walked farther to the back of the smithy, he made out the shapes of several carcasses in the small meadow behind it. Sheep, most of them. But there was also one huddled furry body that had been the dog that guarded them.

The survivors of the attack must have buried or carried away the bodies of the four human victims. But they had no time or inclination to dispose of the remains of the animals.

He moved back to the main building, where the strong smell of charred wood and ashes masked the unpleasant smell of corruption. He began to cast around the site for tracks, stopping almost immediately at the sight of a large red-brown stain on the grass on the shallow slope leading to the river.

Blood.

There were more signs in that spot. Footprints, faint now that a few days had passed, and the marks where several horses had ridden up from the river. The hoofprints were deep and easily visible in the softened ground—far deeper than a walking animal would have left. These horses had been galloping. And one of them had galloped right past the spot where the large bloodstain still marked the grass.

He looked around, from the river to the main building, picturing what had happened.

The raiders had crossed the river, then, led by several mounted men, had charged up the shallow slope, across the open grassy meadow. One of the men from Duffy’s Ford had run forward to stop them—or perhaps delay them while the others tried to escape. And he’d been cut down here.

Will searched around the immediate area and soon found a sickle lying a few meters away, almost hidden by the long grass. He turned it over with the toe of his boot. Already, a few rust stains were showing on the curved blade. He shook his head. The makeshift weapon would have given its owner little chance against the determined raiders. He had been cut down without a second thought. Probably a sword or spear thrust, Will thought, a weapon that would have given its owner a longer reach than the short-handled sickle.

He followed the hoofprints back up the slope for a few meters. One horse had diverted to the right, and he followed it to another drying brown bloodstain. He dropped to one knee to study the ground more closely and made out the faint trace of footprints in the grass and mud. Small footprints, he saw. A child’s.

He closed his eyes briefly. He could see the scene in his mind’s eye. A boy or girl, terrified by the galloping, screaming men, had tried to run for the shelter of the trees. One of the raiders had swung out of line to pursue the little running figure. Then he’d cut his victim down from behind. Without pity. Without mercy. He could have let the child escape. What harm could a child have done them? But he hadn’t. Will’s lips set in a hard line as he realized that this atrocity had been committed, at least ostensibly, in the name of religion.

“You’d better pray that your god will protect you,” he said quietly. Then he rose from the crouching position he’d assumed to view the tracks. There was no point studying further on events that had taken place here. He knew the general outline, and he could picture some of the details as well.

Now it was time to track these murderers back to their lair, wherever that might be.

He remounted Tug and urged the horse into the river. The raiders had come from the other side. Presumably they had returned there as well. The water came no higher than Tug’s belly, and there was little current to contend with. The small horse splashed easily across the sandy bottom to the far bank. Leaning out of the saddle, Will searched for the party’s return tracks.

It didn’t take him long to find them. It had been a large party, perhaps twenty or thirty men, he estimated. It was certainly the largest group to have crossed the ford in the preceding few days, so the tracks were easy to follow. Added to that, they’d made no attempt to cover the sign of their passing, although perhaps a person without a Ranger’s skill at tracking wouldn’t have been able to follow them.

Or perhaps the raiders simply didn’t expect anybody to dare make the attempt.

That was more likely the case, Will thought. They’d been raiding and killing and burning throughout Hibernia, virtually unopposed, for months now. It was logical that they would have begun to believe that there was no one who could be a threat to them. Will smiled grimly to himself as he followed the trail of hoofprints and footprints to the southwest.

“Just keep believing that,” he said. Tug swung his head curiously at the unexpected sound of his master’s voice. Will patted the coarsemaned neck reassuringly.

“Nothing,” he said. “Just ignore me.”

Tug tossed his head briefly.
Fine. Let me know if you want to talk.

The raiding party had moved onto a narrow trail now and there was less need to search for every heel print, every indentation in the damp ground. Time enough for that when he reached a fork in the track. For the moment, Will could simply follow the track, noting the occasional sign that a group of people had passed by—broken branches, threads of cloth caught on twigs and, at one point, a dried pile of horse droppings. This sort of tracking he could do in his sleep, he thought.

Eventually, the trail forked and he saw that the band had diverged to the left, taking the smaller of the two trails. The ground began to rise gradually, and the tree cover, although still substantial, thinned as they climbed higher. In the middle distance, Will could make out the steep cliffs of an escarpment. He had the sense that they were nearing the end of their search. He doubted that the raiders would have climbed the escarpment. Their disregard for the possibility that they might be followed dictated against it. If they hadn’t taken any steps to cover their tracks, he doubted that they’d bother with the difficulty of climbing that forbidding line of black granite cliffs, although to do so would have given them a virtually unassailable sanctuary.