The Kings of Clonmel

Chapter 41

Halt shook his head at Horace, a delighted grin on his face.

Horace, you continue to amaze me! How did you ever think of that stunt with the shield?'

Horace looked at his two friends. To be truthful, he was a little surprised that he was still here and able to talk to them. There had been an ugly few minutes during the combat when he thought he'd bitten off more than he could chew.

`It seemed like a good idea at the time,' he said mildly. `I just hope Gerard isn't using one of those damned maces. I don't think I could pull it off twice.'

`He's using a sword,' Will said, smiling up at him. He felt a great sense of relief. Like Horace, as he had watched Killeen battering his friend from pillar to post, he had begun to fear that there was no way he could survive, let alone win.

Halt clapped the tall warrior on the shoulder.

`Well done, anyway!' he said heartily. He was fond of Horace, nearly as fond of him as he was of Will. He had decided that, rules of combat notwithstanding, if Killeen had looked like winning, he was going to shoot him down.

Horace winced at the impact.

`Thanks, Halt. But I'd appreciate it if you didn't hit me just there. I'm a little tender. I've just had a giant walloping me with a large iron ball.'

`Sorry,' said Halt, but the grin was still on his face. He glanced now at the eastern stands, to see how Tennyson was reacting to the totally unexpected result. The smile faded as he did so.

The priest looked surprisingly unperturbed by the death of his bodyguard. Or by the implications of the loss. He was talking calmly to one of his white robes, smiling at the man's reply. Yet he must have been surprised by Horace's sudden reversal of fortune. During the fight, Halt had looked across several times and seen Tennyson, flanked by his three Genovesans, leaning forward, shouting encouragement as Killeen had rained blow after blow down on his seemingly helpless opponent.

A small frown creased Halt's forehead. There had been three Genovesans behind Tennyson. Now he could see only two. He turned to Will.

`Get back to the tent quickly and keep an eye on things. We'll be along shortly.'

Will took one look at his teacher's face, saw the sudden concern there and needed no further urging. He ran lightly through the milling crowd of people who had invaded the arena, making his way to the imposing white tent at the northern end of the ground. When he was a few metres short, he stopped. The crowd was thick here as the vendors had recommenced selling their wares and people were queuing for refreshments before the next bout. But, slipping through the mass of jostling people, he thought he had seen of a glimpse of dull purple, heading away from the pavilion. He shoved his way for a few more metres in pursuit and caught one more brief glimpse before the crowd swallowed the figure.

It could have been one of the Genovesans, he thought, and, if so, he had been very close to Horace's pavilion. He was torn by the temptation to follow and catch up with whoever it was. But Halt had told him to keep watch at the tent. Reluctantly, he turned back to the pavilion. As he approached the canvas flap that screened the entrance, he surreptitiously slipped the saxe knife out of its sheath, holding it low, against his leg, so that people wouldn't notice it.

The leather thongs securing the canvas door seemed to be as he'd left them, but he couldn't be sure. Quietly, he untied them and, jerking the screen back, darted quickly inside, the saxe held ready now at waist height.

Nothing.

The tent was empty. Somewhere he could hear a bluebottle fly, trapped inside and buzzing frantically as it butted against the canvas, seeking to escape. He scanned the interior. Table, water jug and two tumblers, still draped with damp muslin. Chair, lounge, arms rack – empty now but with the spare shield standing beside it. Nothing else in sight.

It was hot inside the tent. The sun had been beating down on it and the flap had been closed, trapping thehot, stuffy air inside. He turned, meaning to tie back the canvas door flap and let some fresh air in, when he realised that he hadn't checked the screened-off privy. He crossed the tent now and jerked the screen back, saxe knife ready to lunge.

Empty.

He let out a long pent-up breath and re-sheathed the saxe. Then he busied himself tying back the door flap and opening a ventilation panel at the rear of the tent. A breeze of cooler air swept in and the interior temperature quickly began to fall. The stuffiness was dispelled as well.

Halt and Horace arrived, the former carrying Horace's sword, helmet and the battered, crumpled shield. He tossed it into a corner.

`You won't be needing that again,' he said. He looked a question at Will and the young Ranger shook his head. Nothing suspicious to report. Although Halt's remark about the shield reminded him that he should check the straps and fittings on Horace's reserve shield before the next combat.

Horace sank back on the lounge, sighing as his bruised muscles came in contact with the cushions, and glanced longingly at the jug on the table.

`Pour me a drink, would you, Will?' he said. 'I'm parched.'

His dry mouth and throat were caused by nervous tension and fear as much as exertion, he knew. And Horace wasn't ashamed to admit that he had felt fear while he was fighting Killeen. He leaned back, his eyes closed, and heard the soft tinkle of ice as Will poured.

`That sounds good,' he said. 'Make it a big one.'

He drank the tumbler in one long draught, then nodded as Will offered the jug for a refill. This time, he sipped at the cold water more slowly, enjoying the sensation of the cold liquid sliding down his dry throat. Gradually, he began to relax.

`How long till I face Gerard?' he asked Halt.

`You've got over an hour,' the Ranger told him. 'Why don't you get out of that armour and lie back and relax for a while?'

Horace went to rise, groaning softly as he did so. 'Good idea. But I should check my sword's edge first,' he said. Halt gently stopped him. 'Will can do that.'

Horace smiled gratefully as Will moved to take the sword and check it. Normally, Horace would have insisted on doing the task himself. Will or Halt were the only people he would have trusted to do it for him.

`Thanks, Will.'

`Let's get that mail shirt off you,' Halt said and helped pull the long, heavy garment over his head. The mail shirt had a light chamois leather liner, now stained and damp with sweat. Halt turned it inside out and draped it across the arms rack, moving the latter so that it was just inside the doorway, catching the cross breeze.

`Now rest. We'll take care of things. I'll wake you in plenty of time for a massage to get the kinks out,' Halt said. Horace nodded, and lay back with a contented sigh. It was nice, he thought, to have attendants to fuss over him.

`I think I could get used to this Sunrise Warrior thing,' he said, smiling.

He could hear the gentle rasping sound as Will put an extra-sharp edge on his sword. There had been one slightnick in the blade, where it had caught against Killeen's shield, and the young Ranger set himself to remove it. The sound was oddly relaxing, Horace thought. Then he drifted off to sleep.

Halt woke him after half an hour. Horace's muscles were stiff and aching, so at Halt's bidding, he rolled over onto his stomach and let Halt work on them. The Ranger's strong fingers dug and probed expertly into the muscle and tissue, loosening knots and easing the tension, stimulating blood flow back to the bruised, strained parts of his body. It was painful, but strangely enjoyable, he thought.

The short nap had left him feeling drowsy and sluggish. He shrugged to himself. That often happened if you slept during the day. Once he started moving and got some fresh air in his lungs, he'd be fine.

He swung his legs off the lounge and sat, head down for a few seconds. Then he shook himself. Will looked at him curiously.

`Are you all right?' he asked. He'd watched over Horace while he slept, his saxe knife drawn and lying ready across his knees.

Horace looked at the weapon and grinned sleepily. `Planning on chopping vegetables?' he asked, then answering his friend's question, `I'm just a bit foggy, that's all.'

Halt looked at him, a small light of concern in his eyes. `You're sure?' he said and Horace smiled, shaking off the torpor that seemed to have claimed him.

`I'll be fine. Shouldn't sleep during the day, really. Pass me that mail shirt, will you?'

The chamois lining had dried in the breeze and he pulled it on over his head as he sat on the edge of the lounge. Then he stood to let it fall to its full length, just above his knees. As he did so, he swayed and had to grasp the back of the lounge to steady himself.

Both the Rangers watched him with growing concern. He smiled at them.

`I'm fine, I tell you. I'll walk it off.'

He took the clean surcoat that Will offered and pulled it on over the mail shirt.

Halt glanced outside. The area around the food and drink stalls was becoming less crowded as the spectators made their way back to their seats. Horace and Gerard would be called to the arena in the next ten minutes. He decided that Horace was probably right. A bit of fresh air and exercise would see him right.

`Let's head up there now. The stewards will have to examine your sword again anyway,' he said, coming to a decision. In fact, the entire preamble to the combat would be repeated, as Sean made sure that neither party was ready to resile from their position. It was a bore, he thought, but it was part of the formal ceremonial ritual attached to trial by combat.

Halt and Will gathered Horace's helmet, his spare shield and his sword. Will refastened the tent flaps and they walked alongside Horace, flanking him as he made his way back to the combat ground. The dwindling crowd at the stalls made way for them, showing deference to the Sunrise Warrior. He had already become a popular figure among the people of Dun Kilty. The spectacular way he had dispatched Killeen had caught their collective imagination.

Halt watched the young warrior carefully as they approached the weapons table set in front of the King's enclosure. He let go a small sigh of relief as he saw Horace's stride was firm and unfaltering. Then his heart missed a beat as the young man leaned down to him and said, in a conversational tone and without any outward sign of concern:

`Halt, we have a problem. I can't focus my eyes.'

The three of them stopped. Halt's mind raced and he glanced instantly to where Tennyson was sitting, surrounded by his cronies. There were three purple-clad figures with him now but as he watched, Tennyson leaned over and spoke to one of them. The Genovesan nodded and slipped away into the crowd.

In that moment, Halt knew what had happened. He spoke urgently to Will.

`Will! Get that water jug in the pavilion! It's drugged! Don't let anyone interfere with it!'

He saw a moment of confusion in Will's eyes, then dawning comprehension as the younger Ranger came to the same conclusion he had just reached. If the water had been drugged, they'd need to keep it safe to prove the fact.

Will spun on his heel and darted away.

Horace jogged Halt's arm. 'Let's keep moving,' he said.

Halt turned to him. In spite of the urgency in Horace's tone, an observer would have thought they were simply discussing unimportant matters.

`We'll call for a postponement,' he said. 'You can't fight if you can't see.'

But Horace shook his head. 'Tennyson will never accept that. If we withdraw, he'll claim victory. Unless we can prove that they've broken the rules.'

`Well, of course they've broken the rules! They've drugged you!'

`But can we prove it? Even if we prove that the water's drugged, can we prove they did it? I'll have to keep going for now, Halt.'

`Horace, you can't fight if you can't see!' Halt repeated. His voice was strained now, showing the depth of concern he felt for his young friend. I should never have got him into this, he told himself bitterly.

`I can see, Halt. I just can't focus,' Horace told him, with the ghost of a smile. 'Now let's go. The scrutineers are waiting.'