The Kings of Clonmel

Chapter 42

The purple-cloaked figure slid easily through the last-minute customers round the food and drink vending stalls. As he approached the tall white pavilion he slowed his pace a little, glancing left and right to see if there was anybody watching him, or standing guard over the pavilion.

But he saw no sign of surveillance and walked directly to the entrance to the pavilion. As before, the tent flaps were fastened on the outside, which meant there could be nobody in the tent. Quickly, his strong fingers undid the knots. As the last one fell loose, he resisted the temptation to look around. Such an action would only appear furtive, he knew. Far better to simply walk in as if he had every right to be here.

He slipped the dagger from the scabbard under his left arm – it never hurt to take precautions – and stepped quickly into the tent, allowing the flap to fall back into place.

He let out a pent-up breath, relaxing. There was nobody in the tent, but the water jug stood on the table where he had last seen it. Quickly, he crossed to the table, picked up the jug and poured its contents onto the ground, watching in satisfaction as the drugged water soaked into the dirt.

`And that's the end of the evidence,' he said softly, in a satisfied voice, a second before something heavy and hard crashed into his head, behind the ear, and everything went black.

`So you say,' Will said. He re-sheathed his saxe knife, satisfied that the Genovesan was unconscious. He rolled the man over on his back and searched him quickly, disarming him as he did so. He glanced curiously at the crossbow that had been slung over the man's shoulder. It was a graceless weapon, he thought, heavy and utilitarian. He tossed it to one side and resumed searching the unconscious man. There was a dagger in his belt, another in each of his boots and one strapped to his right calf. He also found the empty scabbard under the man's left arm. He whistled softly.

`Planning on starting a war?' he asked. The Genovesan, naturally, made no reply.

Will dug into his belt pouch and produced thumb and ankle cuffs. He quickly secured the man's hands in front of him and trussed his ankles, leaving enough slack so he would be able to hobble awkwardly, but not run.

Will sat back on his heels, thinking quickly. They needed proof, he knew. He'd arrived a few seconds before the Genovesan, approaching from the opposite side and entering by cutting through the canvas at the rear corner, where the privy was positioned. That way, the outer knotson the door were left undisturbed. Unseen by the assassin, he had watched as he poured away the remaining water. A second too late, he had emerged from the privy and slammed the brass pommel of his saxe just behind the man's ear.

There was something in the back of his mind – something that would help him connect the Genovesan with the drugged water. Then he had it. When he had poured the glass for Horace, he had heard the tinkle of ice. Yet the ice he'd placed in the water should have melted long ago. The Genovesan must have replenished it and there was only one place he could have done so.

He looked at the man, saw that he was still unconscious and hurried outside the tent. One of Sean's marshals, tasked with keeping an eye on the pavilion – as well as watching for the inevitable pickpockets who'd be working the crowd – was strolling nearby. He turned and approached quickly as Will hailed him.

`Keep an eye on him,' Will said, jerking his thumb at the unconscious Genovesan inside the pavilion. The marshal's eyes widened at the sight but he recognised Will as one of the Sunrise Warrior's retainers and nodded agreement.

`I'll be back,' Will told him and hurried towards the drink stalls.

There was one stall selling ice. It was where Will had bought his supply previously and, presumably, where the Genovesan had done the same. Ice was a rare commodity. It would have been cut in large blocks, high in the mountains during winter, then packed in straw and brought down, to be stored deep in a cool cellar somewhere. The vendor looked up as Will approached. Initially, he'd been reluctant to sell some of his ice without selling a drink as well, but the young man had paid well. He nodded a greeting.

`Will it be more ice for you, your honour?' he asked. But Will cut him off abruptly.

`Come with me,' he said. 'Right away.'

He was young and fresh faced, but there was an unmistakable air of authority about him and it never occurred to the ice vendor to argue. He called to his wife to mind the stall and hurried to follow the fast-moving figure in the grey-green cloak. As they entered the pavilion, his eyes also goggled at the sight of the unconscious man lying bound on the grass.

`Did he buy ice from you?' he demanded and the man nodded, instantly.

`He did, your honour. Said it was for the mighty Sunrise Warrior.' He glanced around the tent and his eye fell on the water jug. 'Fetched it in that jug, as I recall,' he added, wondering what this was all about. Then, making sure that he couldn't be blamed for anything, he volunteered more information.

`He was watching earlier when you bought the ice. I assumed he was with you.'

So that was it. Will guessed that the Genovesan, when he had drugged the water, had added ice so that the chill would mask the taste. Or simply make the water more appealing. Yet he would hardly have done so if he hadn't known there was already ice in the jug. He looked at the marshal and the vendor. In the background, he could hear cheering welling up from the arena and realised that toomuch time had passed while he had been occupied with this problem. The formalities must be over and Horace would be preparing to face the giant islander.

He looked at the two men.

`Come with me!' he ordered. He recovered his bow from behind the privy screen and gestured at the Genovesan, now stirring groggily. 'And give me a hand with that!'

As he and the marshal dragged the bleary-eyed assassin to his feet, he heard the single note of a trumpet. The combat had started.

`You can't do this,' Halt said out of the side of his mouth as he accompanied Horace to the centre of the field. He was carrying Horace's shield and sword, using the shield to keep a surreptitious pressure on the young man's arm so he could guide his footsteps.

`That man! What is that man doing?' Tennyson's voice rang out across the arena, rising above the cheers that rang out from both sides of the field. Halt looked and saw the white-robed figure had come out of his chair and was standing, pointing at him, shouting his protest.

`Just get me to the starting point, Halt. I'll be fine,' Horace said, equally quietly. He could hear Sean Carrick replying to the priest's protest, stating that Halt was acting as Horace's shield bearer, which was allowed within the rules. Horace allowed himself a bitter smile. Arguing over such fine points of procedure was unimportant to him. He was wondering how he was going to fight when all he could see of Gerard was a massive, blurred shape.

`His presence is a breach of the rules! He must remove himself from the field!' Tennyson shouted.

Sean drew breath to reply but stopped as he felt a hand on his shoulder. Surprised, he turned to see the King had left his throne and was standing behind him.

`Be silent, you posturing fake!' Ferris shouted. For a moment, the people of Dun Kilty were shocked to see their King taking such a positive stance. Then they roared their wholehearted approval. 'Don't quote rules unless you know them and understand them! The shield bearer is legitimate! Now sit and be silent!'

Again, his subjects yelled their approval. Ferris looked around, mildly surprised and pleased. He'd never heard that sound before. He drew strength from it and held himself a little taller. Opposite him, Tennyson pointed a threatening finger.

`You've crossed me once too often, Ferris. I'll see you pay for this!'

But he retreated to his seat, contenting himself with glaring at the King. Ferris, after enjoying the plaudits of the crowd for a few more moments, also went back to his seat.

On the field, Halt pulled the arm strap tight on Horace's shield.

`How's that?' he said and Horace nodded.

`Fine,' he said. The blurred figure of Gerard stood in front of him and he concentrated on it, squinting as he tried to see more clearly and force his eyes to focus. With the distraction of his diminished vision, he had forgotten the sense of weariness that had settled over him after he had woken up. Now he was aware of it once more. His limbsfelt leaden and clumsy as he tested the balance of his sword. He realised what poor condition he was in.

He decided that his best chance lay in a sudden attack as soon as the trumpet sounded, lunging with the point for the mass of the body before him. Most combatants circled briefly at the start of a fight, looking to test their opponents' reactions. He hoped Gerard would be expecting him to do that. He sensed Halt was still close by but he didn't want to take his attention, away from his mighty opponent.

`Thanks, Halt,' he said. 'You'd better go now.'

`I'll fight in your place,' Halt said, in one last desperate attempt. Horace smiled, without humour, his attention still on Gerard.

`Can't be done. Against the rules. I have to finish it. Now go away.'

Reluctantly, Halt withdrew, backing away, watching his young friend in an agony of doubt and fear. He reached the single rail fence, ducked under it and took. his seat in the front row.

`Ready, combatants!' Sean called. Neither answered and he took that for a positive reply. He nodded to the trumpeter.

`Sound,' he said quietly. The braying note rang over the field.

Horace didn't wait for the sound to die away. The instant he heard it begin, he lunged forward, his right foot stamping out towards Gerard, the blade of his sword thrusting at the fuzzily seen mass before him.

It might have worked, had he not been slowed down by the effect of the drug. Gerard was expecting his smaller opponent to circle and weave, testing his own defences and speed. He was surprised by the sudden attack. The sword point struck him in the centre of his body but he managed to twist so that his hard leather breast plate deflected it, sending it skating across his ribs.

It hurt him and winded him. And it may well have cracked a rib. But it wasn't the killing stroke Horace needed so desperately. He continued the forward rush, a little more clumsily than his normal sure-footed movement, spinning to his left so that he brought his shield up to ward off the counterstroke he expected from Gerard.

He was just in time; the backhand cut clanged heavily against his shield. It was a solid blow, but nowhere near as bad as the hammering mace strokes he had taken from Killeen.

He shuffled backwards, straining to see. His eyes watered and Gerard was a shapeless mass moving towards him. He saw the vague outline of a sword arm rising and threw up his shield again. Gerard's sword slammed into it again and Horace, acting purely on instinct, cut back at the giant with his own sword.

Gerard was big and strong. But he was no combat master. In addition, knowing that Horace had been drugged, he was expecting no opposition at all and he was overconfident. His shield was poorly positioned and a fraction too low to take Horace's counter. The long blade caught the top of the shield, deflected and clanged solidly off Gerard's helmet, leaving a severe dent on the curved metal.

Horace felt the satisfying shock of solid contact up his right arm. The crowd on the western bleachers roared their approval. He saw the fuzzy lumbering shape that was Gerard move back, becoming more difficult to see as he merged into the background.

Gerard, for his part, shook his head to clear it, and stood like a huge, angry bull, glaring at the young warrior before him. The padded lining to his helmet had absorbed some of the blow he had just taken, but even so it had shaken him. He was furious now. He had been told he would face minimal resistance while he avenged his brother's death. But to his way of thinking, he had only just avoided suffering a similar fate. He roared with fury and charged at Horace.

Horace heard the roar but, virtually blinded as he was, he was slow registering the fact that Gerard was coming at him. Too late, he realised what was happening and tried to retreat. At that moment, Gerard rammed his shield into Horace's, with all the force of his charging body behind it. Horace, already beginning to move backwards, was hurled off his feet, and crashed onto his back on the grass, his sword flying from his hand.

There was a concerted gasp of horror from the western stands, a simultaneous shout of triumph from Tennyson's followers. Horace, winded and almost blind, saw the outof-focus figure towering over him. He sensed rather than saw that Gerard was raising his sword, point down, holding it in both hands to drive it into Horace's body.

So this is how it's going to happen, he thought. He felt a vague sense of disappointment that he had let Halt down. He heard Tennyson's section of the crowd shouting encouragement to Gerard and resolved to keep his eyes open as he died, in spite of the fact that he could see almost nothing of his killer. That was annoying, somehow. He wanted to see.

He wished he wasn't going to die while he was annoyed. It seemed such a petty emotion.