The Kings of Clonmel

Chapter 19

After Will had left for Duffy's Ford, Halt and Horace broke camp and took the high road that headed north-west to Mountshannon. They saw only a few other travellers along the way: a single rider on a tired-looking, elderly horse and a small group of traders walking alongside a wagon pulled by a mule.

Halt greeted the traders politely as they rode past. There was no response. Four pairs of eyes followed the two riders suspiciously. Halt's bow and the fact that Horace wore a sword and rode a battlehorse were sufficient reasons for their mistrust.

The grey-bearded Ranger sighed and Horace looked at him, a question in his eyes. It was unlike Halt, he thought, to show emotion so easily.

`What's up?' he asked.

`Oh, I was just thinking,' Halt said. 'This used to be such a friendly place. People would stop and chat on the road if they met. And a road like this would be covered in travellers, all on their way to somewhere or other, all with important things to be done. Now look at it.'

He indicated the long empty road. It ran in a straight line at that point and Horace could see for perhaps a kilometre in either direction. Ahead of them, the road was deserted. Behind, there was only the plodding cart and its four attendants, becoming smaller and smaller with each passing minute.

If they expected traffic on the road to increase as they neared Mountshannon, they were disappointed. The wide, dusty- highway continued to stretch empty before them.

Gradually, the forest on either side of the road gave way to open farmland. Here, the fields were in slightly better shape than those they'd passed when they first arrived in Clonmel. And the farms themselves weren't deserted. They could see occasional figures moving in the farmyards, although the yards themselves were barricaded in the now familiar way and it was rare to see anyone moving too far from the farm buildings.

`Things don't look quite as bad here,' Horace ventured.

`There haven't been any raids in this area so far,' Halt reminded him. 'People are a little more confident this close to a large village like Mountshannon. And the farms themselves aren't so isolated.'

There was a warning shout from a farmhouse they were passing and they glanced across at it, in time to see two men running in from a field where they had been stacking hay to take shelter behind the barricaded farmyard wall. They still carried their pitchforks, Halt noticed.

`A little more confident,' he repeated. 'Not a lot.'

Mountshannon was similar to Craikennis, although considerably larger. One main street held the principal buildings of the village – an inn, and the buildings of the various traders that would be found in any sizeable centre: blacksmith, wheelwright, farrier, tool maker, harness maker and general store, where the ladies of the town could buy cloth and yarn and dried foodstuffs while their menfolk could buy seed, tools, oil and those hundred and one items that were always needed on a working farm.

The store was only a stopgap measure, of course; the main trading would take place in a weekly market.

Small lanes ran off the main street, linking to a network of back streets that ran more or less parallel to the high road. These were lined by houses, where the town's population lived. As in Craikennis, the majority of the houses were single-storey, roofed with thatch and constructed with whitewashed clay set over timber frameworks. The inn was two storeys, as was the farrier's building. There was a hay loft there, with a derrick projecting over the street to raise and lower the heavy hay bales stored inside.

Once again, the two riders had to submit to an examination when they approached the town. There was no barricade here but a small stream ran past the village, at right angles to the road, and a guard post had been established at the bridge that crossed it. As in Craikennis, it was a simple canvas pavilion with a couple of chairs and beds inside and a charcoal-burning brazier for warmth at night. It was manned by two members of the town watch, both armed with heavy clubs and with long daggers in their belts. They stepped out onto the road now, eyeing the new arrivals suspiciously. As before, Halt had tossed the cowl back from his face.

`What's your business in Mountshannon?' the taller of the two men asked. Horace eyed them critically. They were both big men, probably reasonably competent fighters, he thought. But, from the self-conscious way they handled their weapons, it was obvious to him that fighting wasn't their principal business. They weren't warriors.

`I'm looking to buy sheep,' Halt said. 'A ram and a pair of ewes. I need to replace my breeding stock. You'll have a market here, no doubt?'

The man nodded. 'Saturday,' he said. 'You're a day early.'

Halt shrugged. 'We've come from Ballygannon,' he said, naming an area that was well in the south, where the Outsiders had been active for some time. 'Better a day early than a day late.'

The watchman frowned thoughtfully at the name. He'd heard rumours of what had been going on in the south. Everyone had. But Halt was the first person he'd seen in some weeks who had actually been through the troubled area.

`How are things in Ballygannon?' he asked.

Halt eyed him bleakly. 'As I said, I need to replenish my breeding stock. They didn't all drop dead of old age at the same moment.'

The watchman nodded understanding. 'Aye, we've heard dark tales of doings in the south.' He looked now at Horace. Like the man in Craikennis, he could see the broad-shouldered young man didn't have the look of a farmer or woodsman. Besides, there was a long sword at his hip and a round buckler strapped at the back of his saddle. 'And who's this?' he asked.

`My nephew Michael. He's a good boy,' Halt told him. The other man spoke now for the first time. 'And would you be a farmer too, Michael?' he asked.

Horace gave him a cold look. 'A soldier,' he said briefly. `And what's a soldier going to do at the markets?' the second man asked.

Halt hurried to answer. Horace's accent was foreign and he didn't want the youth saying more than the odd word.

`I'm here to make sure I get the sheep home,' he said. `Michael is here to make sure I get home.'

The watchman considered them for a few moments. It made sense, he thought. 'And he looks like the boyo who could do it,' he said, a faint smile thawing his features a little.

Horace said nothing. He simply met the man's gaze and nodded once. Strong, silent type, he thought.

The two watchmen seemed satisfied. They both drew back to the side of the road, waving Halt and Horace into the town.

`Ride in,' said the one who had spoken first. 'There's an inn in the main street or, if you've a mind to save a few pennies, you can pitch camp in the market ground at the far end of the village. Stay out of trouble while you're here.' He added the last statement almost as an afterthought. It was something all watchmen felt the need to say, Horace realised. He probably would have said it if they were two eighty-year-old dodderers hobbling along on walking sticks.

Halt touched a finger to his forehead in a informal salute and urged Abelard forward. Then he stopped, as if the thought had only just occurred to him, calling to the two men as they headed back to their pavilion.

`One thing,' he said and they turned back to face him. `I've heard talk along the road of a man called Tennyson -some kind of priest?'

The watchmen exchanged sceptical glances. 'Yes,' said the leader, 'he's some kind of priest, all right.' There was a hint of sarcasm in his tone.

`Is he…?' Halt began but the second man answered the question before he could ask it.

`He's here. He and his followers are at the market ground too. Chances are you'll hear him preaching this afternoon if you've a mind.'

`Chances are,' his companion put in with now unmasked sarcasm, 'you'll hear him preaching every afternoon.'

Halt maintained a noncommittal expression, appearing to think over their words. 'Perhaps we'll listen in.' He looked at Horace. `It'll break the monotony, Michael.'

`Break your eardrums more like,' said the 'second watchman. 'You'd do better to spend your time at the inn, you ask me.'

`Maybe,' Halt agreed. 'But we'll give the man a hearing at any rate.'

He nodded to them again and urged Abelard on. Horace, who had been waiting a few metres down the track, fell in beside him.