The Kings of Clonmel

Chapter 39

The market square had been transformed into an arena.

Down two sides, tiers of wooden bleachers had been constructed to provide seating for the spectators. In the centre of the tiers on the western side, which would be more sheltered from the afternoon sun, an enclosed seating area, set at the height of the third and highest tier of benches, had been built to accommodate the King and his entourage. A canvas roof had been placed over the royal enclosure and there were comfortable, cushioned seats for half a dozen people. At the rear of the box, a high-backed, well-upholstered wooden seat was placed for the King's use.

The long grass of the square had been scythed short by a group of a dozen workmen, to provide a true footing for the combatants. At either end of the square, there was a pavilion – one for Horace and one for Killeen and Gerard. A suitable open space was left around these pavilions to give their occupants a semblance of privacy as theyprepared for the coming bouts. The rest of the open space was taken up by vendors, selling pies, sweetmeats, ale and wine. Although the first bout was over an hour away, they were doing a roaring trade.

The bleachers were already almost full. By some tacit agreement, Tennyson's followers had taken up their positions in the eastern stands. A central section, facing the King's box, had been left clear for Tennyson and his closest supporters. His followers had rigged a canvas screen to shield their leader from the sun and scattered deep cushions along the benches. Originally, they had approached Sean, requesting that a seating area similar to the King's be constructed. The young Hibernian had curtly refused. Ferris was King. Tennyson was an itinerant preacher. He could sit on a bench with his followers.

Of course, there wasn't enough room for everyone to find seats. The overflow gravitated to the open ground at the ends of the field, where marshals kept the crowd well away from the two pavilions.

The townspeople, who were for the most part supporting Horace as the Sunrise Warrior, had filled the western stands. There was a nonstop buzz of conversation. Excited and expectant, it hung over the arena, creating a constant backdrop of sound, reminiscent of a huge beehive at noon on a hot day.

Horace, Will and Halt, who had spent the past couple of days camped in the forest a few kilometres outside the town limits, had slipped into Dun Kilty just after first light. Even at that early hour, there had been plenty of people stirring and Horace kept his identity concealed beneath a long cloak. The two Rangers, of course, were virtually unknown in Dun Kilty and the sight of three cloaked strangers evoked little interest. Those who did see them assumed they had simply come into the town to see the combats.

They found an early-opening inn and breakfasted there. Halt was less concerned with eating than on eavesdropping on conversations around them. From what he overheard, it was obvious that the trial by combat was going ahead and that Ferris hadn't managed to renege on his – or rather Halt's – word. Townsfolk were interested and excited about the upcoming spectacle. There was even a general feeling of goodwill towards the King, partly because he had engineered this spectacle for them and partly because, finally, he was doing something about improving the situation in the Kingdom. Halt smiled grimly to himself as he realised that he had been responsible for boosting the King's popularity. Hardly typical behaviour for the usurped heir to a throne, he thought.

Will managed to cram down a buttered bread roll with hot bacon layered on top of it. But his stomach felt tight and he was on edge, worrying about his friend. For his part, Horace seemed supremely unconcerned, eating large amounts of the delicious pink bacon accompanied by several fried eggs. Will found it difficult to sit still. He wanted to be up and prowling about to release the tension that he felt throughout his entire body. But, out of deference to Horace, he sat quietly. He reflected on that as they sat, not speaking. There had been plenty of occasions in times past where he and Horace had been waiting for abattle and Will's Ranger training had made him seem calm and unconcerned. Horace had even remarked on his ability to sit unmoving for hours waiting for the enemy. So why did Will find it so difficult to remain calm and unconcerned today?

He realised that, on other occasions, he had been sharing the danger with Horace. When they waited for the Temujai army outside Hallasholm, for example. Or when they had crouched for several hours, conversing in whispers, under the upturned cart by the walls of Castle Macindaw, waiting for darkness. But this was different. This time, Horace would be facing the danger alone, with no help from Will. And that was almost unbearable for the young Ranger. He would have to watch his friend risk his life – twice. He would be unable to take a hand to help him – all the while knowing that it was in his power to dispatch both of Horace's opponents in the space of two heartbeats. The feeling of impotence was overwhelming.

`Time to go,' Halt said, returning to their table after one of his circuits of the room.

With a sigh of relief, Will leapt to his feet and made for the door. Horace, grinning at him, followed.

`Why are you on edge?' he asked. 'You're not fighting the Grumpy Twins.'

Will turned an anxious glance on him. 'That's why I'm on edge. I'm not used to sitting by and watching.'

They made their way to the market square and took in the preparations that had been made under Sean's supervision. A group of Tennyson's white robes, who were erecting the shelter where their leader would sit, glared at them. Horace smiled back and they turned away, muttering.

`Nice to know who your friends are,' he said. He looked at the two pavilions and saw another group of white robes outside the southern one. He turned and looked at the tent at the northern end of the field. Aside from the two marshals posted to keep sightseers away, there was nobody close to the tent.

J guess that's us,' he said and started towards it. Will followed a few paces behind him, having to hurry to match Horace's long-legged stride. Halt walked beside him for a few minutes, then said:

`You keep an eye on Horace. I'm going to find Sean.'

Will nodded. He knew that Halt had been working on the text of Sean's announcement – an announcement that would set the combats in train. Halt wanted, to be sure that Horace's victory would signal an unmistakable refutation of Alseiass's power and a total acceptance of the Sunrise Warrior. This was to be the definitive fight – or fights, he corrected himself. Sean would make that plain before the combat began, and he would require Tennyson to agree without equivocation or qualification to the conditions. If the Outsider leader hesitated or refused to agree in full, then his lack of conviction would be exposed to the crowd – and his own recently recruited followers. Support for the Outsiders would begin to crumble.

As Halt hurried away towards the royal enclosure, Will and Horace made their way to the pavilion.

It was a high tent, easily three metres tall at its middle point, so there was no need to stoop as they entered. Inside, the white canvas sides filtered the early morning sun.

There was a small screened-off space in one corner. Will poked his nose into it and saw a bucket.

`What's this for?' he asked.

Horace smiled. `It's a privy,' he said. 'In case I need a nervous wee.'

Will hastily withdrew. Now that Horace had raised the subject, he realised that his own bladder seemed a little tight. He put it down to nerves and tried to ignore it while he examined the very basic furnishing in the pavilion.

The main part of the tent held a couch, a table, a canvas chair and a rack where Horace could store his arms and armour. His mail shirt, helmet with chain mail neck guard, and light metal greaves to protect his shins and lower legs had been delivered to the castle for scrutiny the day before. In addition, two round bucklers embellished with the sunrise insignia had been supplied at Halt's request. Now the shields and armour were neatly placed on the rack for him. He checked over each piece carefully, ensuring that nothing had been tampered with and that all straps and fittings were secure.

Sensing Will's continuing restlessness, he glanced around the interior of the tent to try to find something to keep his friend busy. His eye fell on a water jug and two mugs on the table. A quick glance told him the jug was empty.

`Would you mind filling this with cold water?' he asked. `I know I'll have a raging thirst after the first fight. I always do.'

Glad to be able to help, Will seized the jug and started out the door. He paused, uncertainly.

`You're sure you'll be all right?'

Horace smiled at him. 'I'll be fine. See if you can find some linen or muslin to wet and drape over the jug. It'll keep it cool.'

`I'll do that. You're sure you're…'

`Go!' said Horace, making a mock swipe at his friend. When he was alone, Horace sat on the chair, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, breathing deeply. He felt his pulse. It was racing a little, just as he expected. In spite of his outward appearance of calm, Horace was beginning to feel a familiar tautness in his stomach, as if a hard Jump had settled there. It didn't bother him. He felt it before every battle or combat. If he hadn't felt a little nervous, he'd have been worried. A little nervousness was a good thing. It gave you an edge. Maybe, he smiled to himself, that's why they called it edginess.

But he was glad to have a few minutes to himself, without the constant, concerned scrutiny from Will. He knew Will was tensed up because he felt useless in the coming battle. Sometimes, Horace thought, standing by and watching a friend in danger could be worse than being in danger yourself. Even so, it didn't help to have Will so keyed up and tense. He'd have to find another errand for him when he came back with the water, he thought.

It took longer than he expected, but when the young Ranger returned, he had the jug full of water and Horace could hear the unexpected clinking of ice as well.

`Where did you get that?' he asked, surprised by his friend's initiative. Will grinned.

`One of the drinks vendors had a supply. He didn't want to part with any but he agreed once I mentioned my friend.'

`Me?' said Horace, raising his eyebrows. Will shook his head.

`My saxe knife,' he said, grinning. 'Plus I paid a little extra.' He set the jug down on the table, carefully drapinga piece of wet muslin over it as Horace had suggested. Then, with nothing to do, he began to pace back and forth.

`So… are you all right?' he asked. 'Need anything?'

Horace eyed him for a moment, then had an idea.

`Will you take my sword to the steward's table?' he said. `Weapons need to be inspected before the combat. And find out what my opponent is using if you can.'

Will was out of the pavilion before he had finished the sentence. Horace smiled and began deep breathing again, clearing his mind, emptying it of any stray distractions so he could concentrate on the task ahead of him. It wouldn't be easy, he knew. But he was confident that he could defeat the two huge twins. Just so long as he could concentrate and bring his fighting instincts up to their highest pitch. So much of a battle like this depended on aligning his instinctive reactions to the movements he'd been trained to perform, so that he could execute a sword stroke or a lunge or a shield block without having to think about it. So he could anticipate, from his opponent's eyes and body position, where the next attack was intended.

He closed his eyes, concentrating on hearing the faintest noises: the burr of conversation from the stands. The sound of a songbird in a tree. The cries of the vendors. He heard them all and dismissed them all.

He didn't hear Halt re-enter the tent, take one look at the young warrior sitting, eyes closed and preparing himself, and leave again.

When Will returned a few minutes later, Halt intercepted him and led him to a bench under a tree a few metres away, where they could sit and watch the tent without disturbing its occupant. Time passed and they heard movement and the clinking of metal from inside the pavilion. Halt led the way to the entrance once more. Horace was pulling the mail shirt over his head. He nodded a greeting to them.

`What's he using?' he asked Will.

Will glanced around the tent nervously. 'A mace and chain,' he answered and heard Halt's sharp intake of breath. 'That's bad, isn't it?'

Horace shrugged. 'I don't know. I've never faced one before. Any thoughts, Halt?'

Halt rubbed his vestigial beard thoughtfully. The mace and chain wasn't a common weapon in Araluen but he had known men who had fought against it.

`It's awkward,' he said. `It'll give him extra reach – and he's got plenty already. And it develops massive force in its strokes. You'll feel like you've been hit by a battering ram.'

`That's encouraging,' Horace said. 'Any more good news?'

`For God's sake, don't try to parry it with your sword. It'll wrap around the blade and it could even snap it off. Most people use a battleaxe to counter a mace and chain. You could change to one,' he suggested.

Horace shook his head. `I'm used to my sword. This is no time to try out an unfamiliar weapon.'

`True. Well, try to keep your distance. If the chain catches the rim of your shield, the spiked ball will whip over and hit your shield arm or your head. One thing in your favour, it's an unwieldy weapon and it's slow. It takes a very strong man to use one effectively.'

`And unfortunately, that's exactly what Grumble One is,' Horace said, then shrugged. 'So I just have to keep mydistance, don't let him hit my shield with the chain, get hit by a battering ram and not parry with my sword. All in all, it sounds like money for jam. Now give me a hand with these greaves, Will, and I'll go out and finish him off.'