The Tournament at Gorlan (12 page)

A
S
H
ALT
DUSTED
HIMSELF
OF
F
,
HIS
THREE
COMPANIO
NS
moved forward to join him. All of them were wearing huge grins, which they now made no attempt to conceal. From somewhere behind the house, he heard the sound of children giggling.

“Welcome to our world,” said Berrigan.

Halt turned a baleful look on him. “You knew this was going to happen.”

It was an accusation, not a question, and Berrigan shrugged diffidently. “Let's say I had a good idea it might,” he replied.

Leander said, past a huge grin that threatened to split his face in two, “It's happened to all of us.”

The baleful look now turned in his direction. “Your horses are constantly bucking you off into the dust? I can't say I've noticed.”

Leander shook his head. “Not constantly. It happened the first time to all of us. Because we forgot to ask the right question.”

“And that question is?”

“It's a lesson in not taking things for granted,” Crowley said, joining the conversation. “Did Bob tell you that a Ranger horse can never be stolen?” he asked. Then he answered his own question. “Yes. He did. I heard him. Why do you think he told you that?”

“I have no idea,” Halt said. “I thought he was just naturally garrulous.” He turned to the breeder. “No offense, Bob.”

Bob shook his head and spread his hands out, palm upward, in a gesture of acceptance. “None taken, Master Halt. Gammulous is a good description of me, I think.”

Crowley continued. “He told you just before you went to mount Abelard, didn't he? In fact, he stopped you mounting to
tell you. Didn't that make you think?”

“Think what?” Halt asked shortly, although he was beginning to get the glimmering of an idea about what Crowley was getting at.

“Didn't you wonder why a Ranger horse can never be stolen?”

“Perhaps you could enlighten me,” Halt said.

Crowley turned to Bob and gestured for him to explain. Like the others, Bob was grinning broadly.

“It's a matter of training, Master Halt. The horses are specially trained not to let anyone ride them unless they've said the secret password to them.”

“Secret password?” Halt said incredulously. This was beginning to sound like some far-fetched fantasy tale. He wondered if this wasn't a further practical joke that they were playing on him. But Bob was nodding, with no sign of any hidden smile.

“Each horse is given a private phrase, or password, if you like, during its training. When the horse is assigned to a rider, he's told the phrase and he has to say it to the horse before he mounts up.”

“Every time?” Halt asked, his voice rising with his incredulity. “That could be a darn nuisance if someone was chasing you.”

Bob shook his head patiently. “Not every time. Just the first time. After that, the horse knows you're allowed to ride him. Didn't you notice how Abelard turned his head to look at you just before you went to swing up into the saddle?”

Now that he mentioned it, Halt did recall that Abelard had done so. He'd assumed at the time it was just the horse's natural curiosity. Now it seemed there had been an ulterior motive behind the movement. He still wasn't totally convinced, but when he glanced around at the other Rangers, he could see they were nodding in confirmation of what Bob told him. And none
of them seemed to be hiding a smile.

“Wouldn't it have been simpler if you had just told me about this before I tried to mount?” He addressed the question to Crowley, who considered it, and then answered.

“Well, yes. I suppose it would've. But it's something we do with all our apprentices—a kind of rite of passage, if you like. It teaches them never to take things for granted, and always to question the most obscure and seemingly unimportant piece of information.”

“I'm not an apprentice, you know,” Halt said. He could feel the heat of anger rising in his cheeks and worked to subdue it.

Crowley inclined his head, admitting that there was some truth in what Halt had said. “That's true. But you're not formally a Ranger yet either, are you? And this way, you'll know never to try to mount one of our horses without knowing the permission phrase, won't you?”

Halt said nothing for several seconds, merely glaring at his friend. Crowley seemed totally unabashed by the fierce look. He met Halt's eyes readily, smiling back at him, until Halt eventually realized that he wasn't going to shame or browbeat his friend into any sort of apology. With a sigh, he dismissed the redheaded Ranger and turned back to Bob.

“Very well. What's this magic phrase I have to say?”

“No magic,” Bob told him. “Just good sense and good training. You say it once and you never need say it again.”

Halt made a “hurry up” gesture with his right hand. “So what is it?”

But Bob glanced at the three Rangers, who were well within earshot, and beckoned Halt closer.

“It's private,” he said. “Between you and Abelard. Although
it might be a good idea to share it with one of your friends in case there's an emergency and one of them has to ride young Abelard.”

At that moment, Halt had no intention of sharing anything with his three so-called friends and his expression said so, very definitely.

Bob, studying the dark-bearded man's scowling face, nodded his understanding. “Still,” he said, “that's up to you. You may change your mind in the future. Good enough to do it then, I say. After all, a man's—”

“The permission phrase,” Halt reminded him, an ominous note in his voice.

Bob nodded again. He could see that Halt's temper was stretched almost to breaking point. “Of course. Step a little closer, so the others can't hear.” And when Halt stepped close to him, he put his mouth up to the Hibernian's ear and whispered: “
Permettez moi
.”

“
Permett
—” Halt began to say, incredulously, but Bob hastily silenced him.

“Hush! Hush! Don't tell the world about it. It's just for you and Abelard. Whisper it in his ear.”

Abelard stood by expectantly. He seemed to know what was going on. Halt sighed and stepped up to the horse, who moved his head round so that his ear was close to Halt's mouth once more.

“Now,” said Bob, rolling his right hand over in a “go ahead” gesture. Halt regarded him doubtfully, then, feeling a total idiot, leaned forward and whispered in Abelard's ear.

“
Permettez moi
,” he said. The horse's head jerked up slightly and he made eye contact with his would-be rider. It seemed to Halt that there was an expression of acceptance, or
understanding, in the big, dark eye next to his face. He glanced at Bob, who made a gesture for him to continue.

“Mount up,” he said. “He won't try to buck you off now.”

For the second time in five minutes, Halt swung up into the saddle. Quickly, he found his seat, settling his feet in the stirrups and bringing the reins together over Abelard's neck. The horse grunted and Halt tensed, waiting for a plunging, rearing attempt to hurl him out of the saddle. But none came. Abelard stood, solid and unmoving as a rock. Halt glanced at Bob, then at the three Rangers, who all nodded encouragement. Then Bob indicated the open gate that led into the larger field on the other side of the fence.

“Give him a run,” he said.

Halt tapped his heels gently into the horse's flank. The effect was instantaneous and Halt delighted at the easy, flowing motion of the horse as he cantered through the gate and into the field. Abelard went from a solid, unmoving stance to a light-footed gait so smooth and even that his hooves barely seemed to touch the ground. Instead, he flowed across the field like a river through its bed, responding to every slight signal that Halt sent
him through the reins or through the pressure of his thighs around the barrel-like body.

Halt urged him further, and Abelard went from a canter to a full gallop in the space of two strides. The response was amazing as he shot forward like an arrow from a bow, striding out in a full gallop that was as fast as anything Halt had ever experienced on a horse.

And yet, the rider had the distinct feeling that Abelard was holding more speed in reserve. They flew across the field, Halt's cloak streaming out behind them, matched by Abelard's long tail. Halt saw a fallen tree to their left and swung the horse toward it. Later, he tried to remember and it seemed that he had simply thought to go left and the horse had obeyed, without any physical command. But he knew that was fanciful. Abelard had sensed the minuscule shift in his position and understood instantly. He gathered himself, steadied, then leapt over the tree trunk, hitting the ground beyond with barely any impact and resuming the high-speed gallop.

They swung in a wide semicircle until they were heading back to the farmhouse, and the little group of figures waiting for them in the saddling yard. As they came closer, the slightest touch on the reins slowed Abelard to an easy trot. They rode back through the gate and Halt twitched the reins once more to stop the horse. Abelard shook his mane and whinnied in delight. He loved to run and he recognized that his new master was an expert rider, with a good, balanced seat and light hands on the reins.

The three Rangers' horses whinnied in reply and in welcome. Abelard stamped one forefoot in the dust. Crowley grinned at the expression on Halt's face—a mixture of surprise and delight.
He'd seen it many times before on apprentices when they had their first experience of the horse that was to be their constant companion.

“I guess he's one of us now,” he said.

Halt spent the rest of the day working with Abelard, learning the many signals the horse had been trained to respond to. At the end of the day, Bob gave him one last piece of advice.

“There's something else you need to learn. Abelard has a smooth, even gait when he gallops. There's a point in every stride when all four feet are off the ground. It's maybe a second or so. If you're shooting from horseback, you have to learn to aim and release in that second, so that his movement won't throw off your shot.”

Halt raised his eyebrows. “That sounds difficult.”

Bob regarded him for a moment, his head tilted to one side.

“It is difficult,” he agreed. “But that's why you're Rangers.”

K
ING
O
SWA
LD
LOOKED
UP
AS
THE
DOOR
TO
HIS
CHAMBER
was flung open, slamming back against the wall then rebounding with the violence of the movement.

He frowned. There had been no preliminary knock, no waiting for permission to enter, as might be expected of someone entering the presence of the King. Instead, Morgarath simply strode into the room, his attitude and expression showing all too clearly that he regarded this as an unwanted interruption to his day.

“You wanted to see me?” he said brusquely.

Oswald bit back an angry reply. There was no point in antagonizing the Baron of Gorlan, he knew. And in truth, he found Morgarath to be a rather intimidating figure. He seemed to dominate any room he entered, filling it with a dark energy. In part, that was because of his physical presence. He was a tall, powerful figure of a man. But there was more. There was a sense of self-assurance about him—self-assurance that bordered on arrogance. No matter whom Morgarath was speaking to, commoner or king, there was an underlying note of contempt and impatience—as was witnessed by his abrupt entrance and question.

Oswald took a deep breath. He wanted to be calm and, above all, he wanted to make sure his voice didn't tremble. It angered him that he should feel this way. He was, after all, the King of Araluen. But he couldn't help it. Morgarath created this sense of uncertainty and inadequacy.

“I'm worried about my son,” he said finally.

Morgarath allowed himself a contemptuous snort. “So you should be,” he replied. “He's killing and stealing in the northern part of the Kingdom. He's alienating the common people and he's antagonizing the Scotti with his forays across the border.”

Oswald shook his head. “It's just so unlike Duncan,” he said. “I can't believe that he would suddenly start behaving this way. He's always had a good relationship with our subjects.”

Morgarath hid a scornful smile. That was precisely why he had instigated the program of stealing and raiding being carried out by a man named Tiller who was impersonating Duncan. If Morgarath's plan were to succeed, he needed to destroy the affection that the prince's subjects felt for him. He needed the common people to hate and fear the prince.

“People change,” he said flatly.

But Oswald continued to demur. “Not Duncan,” he said. “He's a good man. Always has been.”

“Is this the same good man”—Morgarath laid sarcastic emphasis on the two words—“who tried to assassinate you only a few months ago? Or did that poison find its way into your wine by accident?”

“I've been thinking about that,” Oswald replied. “The more I do, the more I think it was a mistake. Why would Duncan want to kill me?”

“Because,” Morgarath said, speaking slowly and distinctly, as if to a not-too-bright child, “he wants you out of the way so he can be King.”

“I can't believe it,” Oswald said stubbornly. “Now I look at it, I think I acted hastily in letting you persuade me to move here to Castle Gorlan.”

Morgarath shook his head. “I can protect you here,” he said. “At Castle Araluen, you were at risk. If Duncan had made another attempt on your life, he might well have succeeded. After all, he has freedom of movement at Castle Araluen that he doesn't enjoy here. And he undoubtedly has cronies among the
castle staff who would have assisted him in another attempt. It'd be far easier for him to put a dagger in your heart there than he could manage here, with my men constantly on the alert.”

“I don't believe it,” Oswald said.

“I can produce witnesses to swear that he was behind the attempt,” Morgarath replied. In truth, he could bring witnesses to swear that the sun rose in the west if it suited his purpose.

But Oswald drew himself up and asserted himself. “Witnesses can be bribed to lie.”

Morgarath's eyes narrowed. “Are you saying that I lied, Oswald?” he challenged. The lack of any title before the King's name was an obvious pointer to his anger.

Oswald swallowed angrily. He had come this far and he wasn't going to give in. But he knew there was no future in accusing Morgarath. He was alone in Castle Gorlan. None of his retainers had been allowed to accompany him—for his own safety, Morgarath had insisted. Oswald was all too aware of the uncertainty of his position. Effectively, he was powerless here, even though he might be King. At Castle Gorlan, Morgarath's rule was absolute and Oswald knew he needed to keep the Baron's goodwill. The fact might gall him, but it was incontrovertible.

“No. Not at all. But other people, who wanted to mislead you, may well be doing so.”

Morgarath noted the King's retreat with satisfaction. Oswald's next words, however, rapidly dismissed the feeling.

“That's why I've decided I need to confront Duncan myself,” Oswald said, a note of determination creeping into his voice.

“Confront him? To what purpose?”

“I need to hear his version of events from his own lips. I know
my son. I trust him. I'm sure there's a good explanation for all this—the poison in the wine and the raiding across the border. I want to accuse him face-to-face and hear what he has to say. If he lies to me, I'll know. But I want to give him the chance to defend himself.”

Morgarath shook his head, expelling his breath in a long hiss.

Oswald continued, ignoring the man's obvious disdain for his words. “It's what I should have done in the first place,” he said heatedly. Now that things were out in the open, he was gaining in confidence. “What kind of king goes scuttling off to hide in someone else's castle when there's a hint of trouble?”

“One who wants to stay alive,” said Morgarath sarcastically. But Oswald was shaking his head and Morgarath felt anger mounting inside him. So the royal worm is turning, he thought. He'd wondered how long it would be before they reached this point.

“A king has to take chances,” Oswald said. “And he has to trust his own judgment. That's why he is king. I'm sorry, Morgarath. I mean you no offense but it's time I took charge of things
and started behaving like the King of Araluen. I appreciate your concern for me, but I can't hide behind your walls any longer.”

You pompous fool, Morgarath thought. But he assumed a winning smile as he seemed to consider the King's words. Morgarath could charm a snake out of its skin if he wished, as an old saying went.

“And exactly what do you have in mind, your majesty?”

“I want you to send to Castle Araluen for a company of my own guard, then I'll ride north with them to confront Duncan, and settle this matter once and for all.”

“So you'll simply find Duncan and say, ‘Stop all this killing and stealing. You've been a bad boy'?” Is that the plan?”

Oswald hid his anger at the obvious sarcasm. He nodded once.

“That's about it,” he said. “It's time for me to start acting like a king.”

Morgarath paced around the room for some moments. He stopped at the window, looking down on the green parkland that stretched out below the castle. It was time to stop the pretense, he realized. He turned back to Oswald, who was waiting expectantly for his answer.

“I'm afraid the time for that is long gone, Oswald,” he said.

The King took a step back, startled by the contempt in the man's voice. “What are you talking about?” he demanded.

“I'm saying your time to act like the King is long gone. Your time as King is long gone. You're going to disinherit your son in my favor. You're going to name me as your heir and as regent for the immediate future.”

“How dare you!” Oswald exploded. “What makes you think I'd agree to such a threat?”

“Several things,” Morgarath said in a silky tone. “For one, you're all alone here and I can make you do anything I want you to. And secondly, your son isn't in the border country, raiding villages and stealing cattle from the Scotti.”

Oswald felt a cold hand of fear clutching his heart. As Morgarath continued, the grip grew tighter.

“Duncan, your oh-so-noble son, is currently being held prisoner by one of my followers. And if you don't do exactly as I tell you, you'll never see him again.”