Kings of Clonmel (34 page)

“Lies!” he thundered. “It was the Golden God Alseiass!”

Again, a chorus of “Alseiass! Praise Alseiass!” arose from the white robes around him. Tennyson’s finger continued to point at Will, and the young Ranger realized that Tennyson was pointing him out to his followers in the crowd. Any moment now, a knife would slip between his ribs, he thought.

“He lies!” Tennyson continued. “And Alseiass strikes down those who bear false witness!”

Will glanced around quickly. He saw a glimpse of dull purple in the crowd, off to his right side and slipping through the crowd toward him. He watched from the corner of his eye as the figure drew nearer. Even without the wide-brimmed hat, he recognized him for one of the Genovesans. And he saw the gleam of a dagger held close against the man’s leg.

“The Sunrise Warrior!” he shouted again. “He can save us! Praise the Sunrise Warrior!”

A few people took up the cry and it began to spread. Will, watching Tennyson, saw him nod toward someone close to him in the crowd. He looked to his right. The Genovesan was almost upon him. Will saw surprise, then annoyance, in the foreigner’s eyes as he realized that he had been spotted by his quarry. A fraction of a second later, Will brought his right elbow up to face height and pivoted on his right heel, slamming the point of his elbow into the man’s face, breaking his nose and sending him reeling back against the people around them. Blood sprang from his injury, and the dagger clattered to the ground. Seeing it, those closest to him drew back, shoving each other and calling out warnings.

Will decided enough was enough. Dropping into a crouch so that Tennyson could no longer see him, he shoved through the crowd, running to a new position some fifteen meters away. Once there, he stood erect again and yelled, “Praise the Sunrise Warrior!”

Then he dropped to a crouch again and burrowed through the crowd before Tennyson could pinpoint him.

Tennyson had seen the flurry of violent movement that resulted in his assassin being sent reeling. But then he lost sight of the infuriating heckler who was destroying his momentum. Now, as the voice rang out from another part of the crowd, he went on the attack.

“ The Sunrise Warrior?” he sneered. “Where is he? Let’s see him if he’s so powerful. Produce him here and now. There is no Sunrise Warrior!”

His sycophants echoed the scornful words, demanding that the Sunrise Warrior step forward and be seen. But now a deep voice answered them, and a scuffle of movement could be seen at the front of the crowd, below the platform where Tennyson stood.

“You demand the Sunrise Warrior, you charlatan? Then here he is! And here I am with him!”

At least a hundred surprised voices all exclaimed at once. “The King!”

And a stocky figure in a green brocade cloak shoved his way onto the stage, flanked by a broad-shouldered warrior with a sunrise insignia on his surcoat, and a slimmer, dark-haired warrior whom many recognized as the King’s steward, Sean Carrick.

There was a collective gasp of surprise from the people assembled in the marketplace. The King was escorted by half a dozen members of the palace guard, who now took up positions screening him.

Will’s eyes narrowed. He saw the drawn-back, dark hair, the shaved face and the royal robes. But somehow, he knew this wasn’t Ferris. It was Halt.

“Who will protect you?” he now thundered. “I will! And not this deceiver, this sideshow performer from a county fair! He talks about some unseen god. I have the real power of ancient legend with me! The Sunrise Warrior!”

He indicated Horace, who drew his sword with a ringing sound of steel on leather and raised it high above his head, exposing, as he did so, the bright orange sunrise insignia he wore on his chest.

“The Sunrise Warrior!” The words ran around the square. Horace stepped back, resheathing his sword, leaving the focus on Halt once more.

“This man,” Halt continued, indicating Tennyson, whose face was twisted in rage, “is a liar and a thief. He’ll draw you in with words of honey, then he’ll take all you own. And he’ll do it in the name of a false god!”

“There’s nothing false about Alseiass—” Tennyson began.

“Then produce him for us!” Halt bellowed, cutting Tennyson off. Unpopular as the King might be, he was still the King. And with Halt playing the role, he projected a powerful aura of authority.“Produce him as I have produced the legendary warrior who’ll defend us! You asked to see the Warrior, and here he is! Now I demand to see this false god you prattle about! Produce him—if you can!”

The crowd began to drift his way, echoing the demand. Seizing the opportunity this gave him, Halt turned to challenge them.

“How many of you had ever heard of this ‘Golden God’ before this huckster told you about him?” he demanded. There was no answer, and he followed up with a roar. “
Well?
How many?”

Feet shuffled awkwardly in the crowd. Then he spoke again.

“And how many have heard of the Sunrise Warrior?”

This time, there were a few mumbled
yes
es from the crowd, then the trickle became a torrent. Alseiass was new and unfamiliar. They all knew the legend of the Sunrise Warrior.

Tennyson, lips compressed in an angry line, stepped forward, hands up to silence them.

“Proof !” he shouted. “Let’s see proof ! Anyone can put on a shirt with a picture of the sun on it and claim to be this mythical warrior! We want proof!”

A few voices agreed, then more and more. A mob was a fickle thing, Will thought. It could be swayed first one way, then the other.

“Give us proof!” they shouted.

Now it was Halt’s turn to raise his hands for silence.

“What proof do you want?” he shouted. “ The Warrior saved the village of Craikennis! He defeated two hundred and fifty men with his flaming sword!”

“And who saw this?” Tennyson demanded quickly. “No one here! If he’s the mighty warrior you claim, let him prove it in the surest manner of all! In combat!”

Now the crowd was really aroused. They might not know which of the two men they believed, but they were all eager at the thought of seeing a duel to the death.

“Trial by combat!” they chorused, and the demand swelled until Halt again raised his hands. The shouts died away, and he faced Tennyson.

“And who is your champion?” he demanded.

Tennyson smiled. “Not one but two. Let him face my twin retainers, Gerard and Killeen!”

He threw an arm back in a dramatic flourish to indicate the two islander giants. They stepped up onto the platform, and the crowd howled in delight at the size of them.

Again, Halt had to wait for the shouting to die down. “You expect him to fight two men?” he asked.

Tennyson smiled again, appealing to the crowd.

“What’s two men to a warrior who defeated two hundred and fifty?” he asked, and the crowd yelled their support.

Halt hesitated. He’d expected a challenge to combat, but he didn’t believe Horace, with all his skill, could fight these two giants at the same time.

As he searched for a way out of the predicament, Horace stepped forward again. He moved close to Tennyson, invasively close, and the look in his eye caused the self-proclaimed prophet to take a small pace back. But even a small pace was enough to establish Horace’s dominance.

“You talk of trial by combat, you cowardly fake!” He didn’t seem to be shouting, but his voice carried to all sides of the crowd. “Trial by combat is single combat!”

Will decided it was time to join in again and make sure the crowd supported Horace. At the moment, he realized, they were ready to agree to anything.

“He’s right!” he shouted. “Single combat!”

And he felt a huge surge of relief when those around him took up the cry.

“Single combat! Single combat!” As he’d hoped, they didn’t care about what was fair, but they wanted a show, and they knew single combat would last longer than a one-sided competition of one on two.

Again, Horace’s voice rang out over the square. His eyes were locked on Tennyson’s.

“I’ll fight both your mountains of blubber!” he said. “One at a time. One after the other. I’ll defeat them and then I’ll fight you, if you’ve the courage!”

And he shoved Tennyson hard in the chest, sending the white-robed man staggering back. Behind Horace, the two islander giants started forward to their leader’s defense. But they’d barely moved when Horace spun to face them. His sword seemed to leap into his hand of its own volition and to stop with its gleaming point at the throat of the nearest of the two, stopping them both in their tracks.

There was a gasp of admiration at his blinding speed. Most of those present hadn’t even seen him move. Instantly, Will saw there was another way to enlist the crowd’s support.

“ Two fights!” he yelled. “ Two fights instead of one!”

And they took up the cry. Now they had a chance of seeing twice as much bloodshed. And to this baying, half-drunk rabble, that meant twice the entertainment.

Tennyson, his face red with anger, glared at the crowd.

“Two fights! Let’s see two fights! Two fights! Two fights! Two fights!”

It became a rhythmic, insistent chant, one that brooked no argument. Tennyson understood mobs, and as he listened to that repetitive, mindless chant, he knew he had no way of changing their mind.

He raised his hands, and the chant died away. The mob watched him expectantly.

“Very well!” he agreed. “ Two fights!”

And the mob roared in exultation, taking up the chant again. Halt looked at Horace, a question in his eyes. Horace nodded confidently.

“Not a problem . . . your majesty.” He grinned as he added the last two words.

THE CROWD CONTINUED TO YELL ITS APPROVAL, AND TENNYSON stepped closer to Halt. As he did so, Horace went to move to the side of the counterfeit King, with Sean half a second behind him. But Halt, unperturbed, held up a hand to stop them.

“Something on your mind, priest?” he asked.

For a moment, a frown touched Tennyson’s face. There was something vaguely familiar about the King, he thought. But he couldn’t place it. He discarded the momentary distraction and his cold anger returned.

“We had an agreement, Ferris,” he said in a low tone.

Halt raised an eyebrow. “Ferris?” he said. “Is that the way you address a king? I think you mean ‘your majesty.’ ”

“You won’t be King when I’m finished with you. People do not break agreements with me. I’ll destroy your Sunrise Warrior and then I’ll have you dragged from the throne, screaming like a frightened girl.”

Tennyson was confused and furious. All his intelligence, gathered by spies in the months preceding his march on Dun Kilty, had led him to expect a vacillating, uncertain, weak character. This hard-eyed King came as a surprise; he faced Tennyson’s threats with no sign of fear or weakness.

“Brave talk, Tennyson, especially from a man who will be doing none of the fighting. And, I assume, none of the dragging. Now, let me tell you something: Scum like you don’t make agreements with kings. You do their bidding. And you don’t make threats to them, either. I’ll ruin your plan, and I’ll destroy your filthy cult as well. And then I’ll take a horsewhip to your fat, quivering hide and drive you out of this country. And unlike you, my friend, I will do it personally!”

In the past two years, since he had begun his campaign to destabilize the island of Hibernia, nobody had dared to threaten Tennyson. Nobody had spoken to him with such an air of confident contempt. Now, looking into those dark eyes before him, he felt a slight tremor of fear. Tennyson wondered if he might not be wiser to withdraw from Clonmel and settle for his position of dominance in the other five kingdoms. But he sensed that the man before him wouldn’t be content with that. They were both committed now, and the situation would be resolved in trial by combat. He looked at his two massively built retainers, then at the muscular young warrior standing a pace behind the King. Surely no man could stand against both Killeen and Gerard, he thought.

But the young man looked supremely unworried by the prospect.

Horace, meeting Tennyson’s eyes, smiled at him. Tennyson was struck by a feeling that he had seen him before as well. But at their previous encounter, he had paid little attention to Horace, who had been dusty, travel stained and roughly dressed as a hired guard. Now, resplendent in chain mail and the surcoat of the Sunrise Warrior, he was an entirely different character.

“The combat will take place in three days’ time,” Halt announced, speaking so that the entire assembly could hear him. He had no need to ask Horace if that timing suited him. Horace was always ready, he knew.

Tennyson tore his glance away from Horace and regarded Halt once more.

“Agreed,” he said.

The crowd broke out in cheers once more. A public trial by combat would mean a holiday—with the added attraction of the opportunity to see at least one man killed.

Halt glanced at Sean, who gestured to the escort to form around him. Then they marched off the platform and, shoving through the cheering, jostling crowd, headed up the hill back to the castle. As they made their way, they became aware of a chant spreading through the town.

“Hail Ferris! Long live the King! Hail Ferris! Long live the King!”

Horace grinned sidelong at Sean.

“So that’s the way to win the crowd’s loyalty. Throw them a few violent deaths.”

“At least,” Sean replied, “there’s no way Ferris can go back on it now. The mob would tear him to pieces if he did.”

 

They made their way back to the castle and into the throne room. As their escort took up positions outside the room, Sean ordered one of them to fetch hot water, soap and towels. Then he followed Halt and Horace into the large inner room.

Halt crossed quickly to the small robing annex. Gesturing for Sean and Horace to remain outside, he pulled the heavy curtain aside and entered. As he did, he could hear faint, muffled thuds coming from the large wardrobe where Ferris was concealed. Opening the door, he dragged his bound-and-gagged brother out by his collar, leaving him sprawled on the floor. Ferris, red faced and with eyes bulging, was trying to shout abuse at his brother. But the gag was a good one, and the only sound was a series of muffled, unintelligible grunts. Halt, who had worn the saxe knife under his brocade cloak, produced the heavy, gleaming blade now and held it before Ferris’s nose.