The Kings of Clonmel

Chapter 22

The market ground was a large meadow at the eastern end of the village. To the north and south were open farmlands – ploughed fields and fields under crops. Several small farmhouses were visible in the near distance. On the eastern side of the meadow there was a thick band of trees where the forest began again.

`Look who's here,' Halt said quietly. Horace followed his gaze. In the south-western corner of the meadow was a large white pavilion. Several figures in white robes were moving around the pavilion, tending a fire and preparing food.

`That's them?' Horace asked and Halt nodded once. `That's them.'

They pitched their two small tents by a blackened ring of firestones some distance from the pavilion.

`What now?' Horace asked.

Halt looked up at the sun. He estimated that it was past noon.

`We'll have a bite to eat,' he said. 'Then, later on, we'll go and listen to what Tennyson has to say.'

Horace's face brightened at the mention of food. `Sounds like a plan to me.'

In the late afternoon, people began making their way towards the Outsiders' camp. Halt and Horace joined the rapidly growing crowd. Halt raised an eyebrow as he saw that Tennyson's followers had set up several casks of ale and wine under a large, open-sided marquee and were serving generous mugs of both to all comers.

`That's one way to get a congregation together,' he muttered to Horace. They edged their way through the throng who were jostling for position at the refreshment tables. 'Try to look diffident,' he added to Horace.

The tall warrior frowned. 'How do I do that?'

`Look as if you're not certain you should be here,' Halt said. 'As if you're uncertain of yourself.'

`Well, I'm not certain I should be here,' Horace said.

Halt sighed. 'Then stop striding along so confidently. Look as if you think I'm going to whack you over the head any minute. That'll do the trick.'

`Are you?' Horace asked, smiling to himself. 'Are you going to whack me over the head?'

Halt turned a baleful glance on the younger man. But before he could speak, another voice interrupted them.

`Greetings, friends! Greetings!' The voice was deep and resonant, the powerful, well-modulated voice of a trained orator. Halt and Horace turned to view the speaker, who was walking towards them. He was a tall, heavily built man in a long white robe. In his right hand, he held a staff.

Flanking him, but a few paces behind him, were two startling identical figures. They were massively built, well over two metres in height. Tall as the leader might be, he was dwarfed by these two men. Both were totally bald. Horace studied them for a few seconds, then turned his attention back to the speaker.

His face was broad, with strong features and a prominent nose. The eyes were a startling blue. They gave the impression that their owner was looking far into the distance and seeing things normal folk could not. Horace was willing to bet that this was a look the man had carefully cultivated. On a closer inspection Horace realised that the man was well built but somewhat overweight. Obviously, he wasn't a warrior. He was bare-headed and his hair was shoulder length, brushed back from his forehead, and grey all over. Not pepper and salt grey like Halt's, but a uniform shade of white-grey throughout. The man assessed Halt and Horace quickly, then addressed himself to Halt as the obvious leader.

`You're new to the town.' His tone was friendly and he smiled in greeting. 'I saw you arrive earlier today.'

Halt nodded. He made no attempt to return the other man's smile. 'And you're taking a census, are you?'

Horace stayed silent, content to let Halt take the lead. He realised that the Ranger was playing the role of a typical country person – guarded and suspicious of strangers. His manner didn't seem to bother the newcomer, however. He seemed genuinely amused by Halt's curt rejoinder.

`Not at all. I'm just always glad to greet a new friend.' `I wasn't aware that we were friends,' Halt said.

The burly man's smile widened. 'I'm a servant of the

Golden God Alseiass. And he says all men are my friends – and I should be a friend to all men.'

Halt shrugged, still unimpressed. 'Can't say I've heard of Alseiass, either,' he said. 'He's new, is he? Just arrived from another part of heaven, perhaps?'

The man chuckled. It was a rich, deep sound. Horace found himself thinking that, if he didn't know who this man was, he would find him easy to like.

`I'll admit that Alseiass isn't well known in this part of the country,' the man said. 'But that will change. My name is Tennyson, by the way. I'm the Golden God's minister and these are my assistants Gerard and Killeen, who are also disciples of Alseiass.' He indicated the two silent giants behind him. 'We bid you a warm welcome to our camp site.'

Neither Gerard nor Killeen looked particularly warm or welcoming, Halt thought. He could read the underlying message in Tennyson's words: Welcome to my camp site te and here are my two tame bruisers in case you get out of hand.

`Please enjoy our hospitality,' Tennyson continued smoothly. 'Alseiass tells us we should all share our bounty with our friends.' He smiled again. 'Particularly new friends.'

This time, his warm smile embraced both Halt and Horace. Then he turned to look at the crowd gathering around a dais at the far end of the marquee.

`The people are waiting,' he said. J should go.'

He raised a hand, describing a curve in the air in what was obviously a form of blessing. Then he turned and strode away. Flanked by his two disciples, he made his way through the crowd, stopping here and there for a quick word or a smile or to deliver a blessing.

`So that's Tennyson,' Halt said softly. 'What did you think of him?'

Horace hesitated, then, a little reluctantly,, he replied: `Actually, I found him rather impressive.'

Halt nodded. 'So did I.'

There was an buzz of interest from the crowd as Tennyson mounted the dais, smiling at those around him and holding up his hands for silence. An expectant hush fell and he began to speak, his deep, resonant voice carrying easily to all corners of the marquee so that nobody had to lean forward to hear his words.

He was a polished performer, there was no question about it. He began with a joke at his own expense – a story about a disastrous attempt at milking a cow. Such a task was second nature to a rural audience like this and the laughter swelled as he described his complete ineptitude. Then he segued neatly to the fact that all people had varying skills and the trick to life was to find ways for people to work together and make the most effective use of their abilities. From there it was a short step to the need for people to stick together in troubled times such as the ones they were going through.

`There are evil, lawless men abroad in the world. They are the servants of the black spirit Balsennis. I see his hand everywhere I go, bringing sorrow and despair and death to the people of this wonderful country,' he said. 'Where will we find the help we need to defeat them, to drive them out? To put this country back to the way it was before? Who will help us do this?'

`The King?' said a tentative voice from the side of the crowd. Halt was willing to bet that it was one of Tennyson's own followers who had said it.

The burly orator allowed himself a small, sad smile. `The King, you say? Well, I'll agree with you that he should be the one to set his own country to rights. But can you see him doing so?'

An angry muttering swept through the crowd. Tennyson had hit a sore point with that thrust. But the people's dissatisfaction wasn't quite strong enough for them to come out in the open and agree with him. Privately, and to each other, they agreed. Publicly, they weren't quite ready to commit themselves. Open criticism of a king was a dangerous path to tread.

Tennyson let the dissatisfaction grow for a few seconds, then he resumed. 'I can't see him doing anything. I can't see his troops on their way to flush out these bandits and outlaws who are destroying the country. After all, he's the man with the power, isn't he? Does he allow anyone else to keep a body of trained soldiers for protection?'

The word 'No!' rang out from several points in the crowd. Tennyson's stooges again, Halt thought. Then the cry gathered strength and momentum as more and more people began yelling it. A few fists were raised and shaken in the air. Tennyson raised his hands for silence and the shouting gradually died down.

`Now a king, any king, deserves the loyalty of his subjects. We all know that…' he began. An angry under- current of muttering went through the crowd again as they disagreed with him, thinking he was about to make excuses for King Ferris. Again, Tennyson held up his hands for silence and, reluctantly this time, the crowd went quiet.

`But…' he said, then repeated it with greater emphasis,

`But! That loyalty must pass both ways. If subjects must be loyal to their king, then kings must apply that same loyalty to their subjects. Otherwise…' He paused and the crowd seemed to lean forward, seeing where he was going before he actually went there. 'The king abandons any claim to loyalty from his people.'

There was a roar of agreement from the villagers. Halt leaned close to Horace and said in his ear, 'Dangerous stuff. This is sedition. He must be pretty sure of himself.'

Horace nodded and turned his own head to reply in a similar soft tone. 'From what you've told us, he's had plenty of practice.'

As the crowd settled down once more, Tennyson continued. 'King Ferris has done nothing to save the people of Clonmel from the depredations of the outlaws and bandits and killers who roam the land, doing the evil work of Balsennis. What did he do for the people of Duffy's Ford?' He paused and looked expectantly at the faces before him.

A ragged chorus rose from a dozen or so throats. `Nothing.'

Tennyson cupped a hand behind one ear and turned his head a little, a puzzled look on his face.

`What was that?' he asked and this time the answer was a full-throated roar from the entire assembly. `NOTHING!'

`Did he help that innocent twelve-year-old girl who was murdered at the ford? What did he do for her?'

Again: 'NOTHING!'

`It's not that Ferris can't help. The fact is, he refuses to do so!' Tennyson thundered. 'He has the power, if only he would choose to use it on your behalf. But he's content to hide behind the walls of his castle at Dun Kilty, on soft cushions, with plenty to eat and drink, and do nothing. He will not raise a finger to help his people. He has no loyalty!'

His voice rose to a crescendo on the last few words. He paused, looking out over the crowd. In twos and threes, they called their agreement. Hesitantly at first, then with growing conviction. Tennyson said nothing. And this time, he made no sign for silence. He let the resentment seethe, let the people build to a pitch of anger. Then, as they realised he was waiting for them to fall silent, they did so. This time, when he spoke, he forsook the dramatic thundering and said in a quiet, carrying voice:

`And if he shows no loyalty to you, then you owe him none at all.'

Again, the voice of the mob rose and, this time, Tennyson soared above them.

`Ferris will do nothing to help you. You must look to one' who will protect you!'

Now people began calling the same plea from different points around the crowd. Funny, Halt thought, how they all used the same words and phrases.

`Termyson!' they shouted, and the cry spread to all parts of the crowd.`Tennyson! Protect us!'

But now Tennyson was holding up his hands to calm them and shaking his head at their cries. When they fell silent, he spoke to them again, in that clear, ringing voice.

`No! No! No! Believe me, I'm not the one, my friends. I can't protect you. Your safety lies with the power of Alseiass.'

There was a groan of disappointment from the left-hand side of the crowd.

Then a voice called, 'We don't need fairy tales and superstition! They won't stop the bandits!'

Other voices were raised in agreement. But Halt noticed that they didn't seem to be a majority. The greater part of the crowd sat uncertainly, looking round at each interjection, studying the speakers and assessing the worth of what they said. They weren't willing to commit either way, he saw.

`We want swords and soldiers! Not pie in the sky, Tennyson!'

`You lead us!' a third voice called. 'You lead and we'll follow! We'll teach these brigands a lesson without some strange god's help.'

That, Horace and Halt saw, was a popular position. The majority of the crowd, uncertain which way to go, followed this lead eagerly. They began shouting for Tennyson to lead the way. To lead them against the outlaws who were preying on the countryside. They sensed the man's strength and authority. The chant grew, becoming louder and more insistent as more people joined in.

`No god! No king! Tennyson! No god! No king! Tennyson!'

Tennyson smiled around the mass of faces, many of them red now with excitement and the passion of the moment.

`People, you do me honour. But I tell you, I'm not the one!'

`Yes you are!' a lone voice shouted and several others raised a ragged chorus of agreement. But the majority sat, quiet now, watching him.

`No. Please believe me. I'm no war leader. Any strength

I have comes from Alseiass, the Golden God. The All-Seeing One. Believe me.'

Halt leaned over to Horace again and whispered, `My god but he's good. He could have taken the reins then and there and offered to lead them.'

`Then why didn't he?' Horace asked.

Halt chewed his lip thoughtfully. 'He needs a bigger reputation than he'll get from exciting a few hundred country villagers. He's taking on a king. He needs something big. Something supernatural. He needs them to believe in this god of his.'

But now Tennyson had stepped down from the podium he had been speaking from and approached the front row of the crowd. He spoke to them with warmth and friendliness as he walked among them.

`I promised you when I first arrived here that I wouldn't try to force my god upon you,' he said in a reasonable tone. `Have I tried to do that?'

– He spread his hands in question and looked from side to side. Halt and Horace could see heads shaking as people agreed with him.

`No. I haven't. Because that isn't Alseiass's way. He doesn't care to force himself upon you. If you have other gods you prefer, or no god at all, he doesn't condemn you. He respects your right to decide, without being harried or bullied or shouted at.'

`Interesting method,' Halt said softly. 'Most evangelists threaten fire and brimstone if you don't accept their teachings.'

`But I know Alseiass's power,' Tennyson continued. `And I tell you this: whether you are his followers or not, hecan protect you. And he will protect you. I'm simply the channel to him. Remember, Alseiass loves you. And because he does, he respects your right to disagree with me. But if you need him and I call upon him, he will arrive with power such as you've never seen.'

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.'