The Tournament at Gorlan (18 page)

“T
ELL
US
WHAT
YOU
FOUND
A
T
C
ASTLE
G
ORLAN
, P
AUL
INE
,” Arald said. Then, turning to the Rangers in explanation, he added, “Pauline went undercover to the castle a week ago, disguised as a traveling noblewoman.”

“A rather ditzy one, it must be said,” she added, smiling. “I find men tend to feel no threat from a twittering blonde—and because they're not on their guard, you can learn a lot from them.”

Both Halt and Crowley regarded her with new admiration. It would take a lot of courage to penetrate Morgarath's lair in disguise. Pauline and the Baron seemed to think there was nothing special about it.

“It was obvious that someone important was being kept prisoner in the castle—in the top floor of the eastern tower. I didn't see who it was, but I saw food being taken in, and servants came and went. And the tower is heavily guarded. I'd say that indicates a high-ranking prisoner. But a prisoner, nonetheless. I assume it's the King but I have no definite proof.”

“Of course, Morgarath maintains that he's protecting the King after that failed assassination attempt,” Crowley said. “That would explain the high level of security.”

Pauline nodded. “That's true. It's a clever ploy. And I believe Duncan was the one behind the attempt on the King's life.”

Halt shook his head. “No!” he said abruptly and, as Pauline turned her dazzling smile on him, he found he was once more lost for words. “I, er . . . I mean . . . well, that is . . . ,” he stumbled. Once more, Crowley came to the rescue, and once more, Halt glared at him.

“We've discovered that Prince Duncan is also being held prisoner by Morgarath,” Crowley said.

Pauline's eyebrows registered her surprise. “At Gorlan? I saw
no sign of him.”

But Crowley shook his head. “At Castle Wildriver. There's an impostor moving through the north, leading raids across the border, throwing his weight around in border villages and generally destroying Duncan's reputation.”

“Halt and Crowley plan to rescue Duncan, capture the impostor and confront Morgarath with them both at the tournament,” Arald explained.

Pauline inclined her head slightly to study the two cloaked men. “That's taking on quite a lot.”

Halt went to speak, found he couldn't and cleared his throat instead.

Crowley glanced at him with amused surprise, then replied. “We have help, mistress. There will be twelve of us, I hope, all former Rangers. And we're hoping for support from those barons who are loyal to the King and who are willing to side with Baron Arald.”

“With so many of the barons present at the tournament, along with their retainers and knights, Morgarath will hardly be ready to use force,” the Baron said. “Of course, he'll have all his knights and men-at-arms present—it's his home ground, after all. But I doubt he'll be confident enough to try to do anything by force of arms. He'll have no confirmed idea yet as to how many of the others will stand by him—particularly if Duncan appears unexpectedly on the scene.”

Pauline nodded and steepled her fingers together, thinking over what Arald had said. “Yes. I agree. He'll avoid direct confrontation as long as he can. It's not his style. He prefers subterfuge and deception wherever possible.”

“What I need you to do, Pauline, is find out how many of the
barons will be prepared to take our side,” Arald said. “Send out your agents. Use your contacts. Get on the road yourself. I hope that the majority of the barons will be loyal to the King and to Duncan, but I want an idea of who won't be.”

“It's a lot to do in the time we have left,” Pauline said.

The Baron nodded. “I understand. Do what you can. Any information you can get will be valuable.”

“Invaluable,” Crowley amended, and she smiled at him. Once again, Halt felt a surge of anger at his friend.

There was a tap at the door and Arald looked toward it. “Come in,” he said.

The door opened to admit a broad-shouldered man in a Ranger cloak. He carried a bow and there was a quiver slung around his back. On his belt, a heavy battleax was thrust through an iron ring, opposite the double scabbard that all Rangers wore. He wasn't the typical Ranger, Halt thought. He was taller and more heavily built than most. Perhaps that explained his predilection for the battleax.

Arald smiled a welcome. “Ah, Farrel. Come on in. Here are two of your confreres.” He indicated Halt and Crowley and the
newcomer eyed them critically.

Crowley held out his hand in greeting. “Crowley,” he said.

Farrel took his hand, nodding recognition. “I remember you,” he said. Then he jerked his head toward Halt. “Don't know him.”

“He's Halt, and he's from Hibernia. Old Pritchard trained him in Ranger skills. He's not officially a Ranger yet, but he's already annoyed Morgarath considerably.”

Farrel's face registered interest at that. “Is that so? What did he do?”

“Well, for a start, he fought off half a dozen of Morgarath's men who were attacking me,” Crowley said.

Farrel nodded approval. “That's a good start.”

Halt shrugged. “That was after Morgarath had the hide to offer me a job,” he said.

“What did you say to that?” Arald put in.

Halt turned to him to answer. “I told him where he could put it,” he said, then instantly flushed as he remembered Pauline was in the room. He turned to her. “My pardon, Mistress DuLacy. I didn't—”

She waved his apology aside. She was already laughing. “I imagine that angered him more than beating up his soldiers,” she said.

Halt nodded. “I think you're right.”

Farrel had been regarding the newcomers and his eyes narrowed in thought. “Are you the two who are going round recruiting Rangers who've been dismissed?”

Crowley nodded. “That's right. There are ten of us now. Eleven if you'll join us.”

“Count on it,” Farrel said. He glanced at Arald for
confirmation and the Baron nodded.

“And twelve once we speak to Truscott, from Eisel Fief,” Halt added.

But Farrel shook his head. “Truscott is dead,” he said sadly. “He resisted the attempt to have him discredited and dismissed. He was found murdered in his bed.”

Crowley's shoulders slumped in disappointment. “A pity,” he said. “He was a good man.”

“He was a very good man,” Farrel agreed.

Then Crowley squared his shoulders once more. “Still, eleven Rangers is a good start.”

Farrel nodded. “Or, in Morgarath's case, we might be a good finish.”

A
T
A
RALD
'
S
INV
ITATION
,
THEY
FETCHED
THE
OTHER
MEMBERS
of their party and dined in the castle that night. The Baron's chef was a smooth-faced young man named Chubb.

“He's an artist in the kitchen,” the Baron averred, patting his own belly. “Gives me a lot of trouble keeping the weight down.”

It was apparent that Chubb had the same problem. Obviously, he spent a lot of time sampling his own wares. The other Rangers all chorused their approval of the magnificent feast he set out before them. The central piece was a splendid turkey pie, with golden-brown, glazed pastry concealing a savory mix of turkey mince, spices and vegetables.

The Baron's wife, a beautiful red-haired woman introduced as Lady Sandra—“Never mind the lady, just call me Sandra,” she said—joined them for the meal. She was a charming and gracious host and the Rangers were all captivated by her. Farrel was present as well, and was introduced to his new comrades. Most of them knew him already, of course, if not personally, then by reputation. Farrel was known as a fierce, highly skilled warrior, an adept with the battleax in addition to his Ranger training, and they all felt they were lucky to have him along as part of their band.

When he first arrived, Halt scanned the dining room for a sight of Mistress Pauline. But the beautiful Courier was nowhere to be seen.

Arald saw Halt's quick look around the room, and the flash of disappointment, almost instantly masked, and guessed the reason. “Pauline is getting ready for her mission,” he explained quietly to the young Hibernian. “She'll be sending out letters to her agents and informants and planning her own itinerary.”

“Of course.” Halt nodded, showing no sign of his
disappointment. He had hoped to make a better showing in front of the beautiful, graceful woman. He felt he had left her with the impression that he was a bumbling, tongue-tied clod. Now, he thought gloomily, she would retain that picture of him.

For once he would have liked to talk about his past, and impress her with the fact that he was the son of the royal family of Clonmel, and an heir to the throne. That would have dazzled her, he thought. Then, sadly, he realized that it wouldn't have impressed her in the slightest. A woman like Pauline would judge a man on his own merits, not his parents. He realized that Jurgen was asking Arald a question and turned to listen.

“Will you be defending your title at the tournament, my lord?” Jurgen asked.

Arald ate a large chunk of pie and wiped his greasy fingers on his bright yellow doublet. His wife raised her eyes to heaven. For five years, she had been trying to break him of that habit.

“I suppose so,” he said, spraying pastry crumbs across the table. “Have to give Morgarath a chance to win it back, won't I?”

Halt regarded him with interest. Arald was a little overweight, as he had noticed. But he was also burly and broad shouldered, and there were muscles underneath that doublet.

“You defeated Morgarath in single combat?” he asked. He knew that Morgarath was regarded as one of the most accomplished knights, if not the most accomplished, in Araluen. But this smiling, good-humored, slightly chubby young baron had defeated him.

Arald shrugged diffidently. “Good luck more than skill,” he said. “I got lucky and he tended to underestimate me. Never a good idea to underestimate an opponent, even if he's me.” He laughed aloud.

Halt glanced around and saw Lady Sandra watching her husband shrewdly. She didn't join in the laughter and, from her expression, Halt guessed that Arald was making light of his own abilities. In his experience, people who attributed their success to luck often had a lot to do with making their own luck.

The dinner broke up around ten o'clock. Crowley apologized to the Baron for the early finish to the night. “We want to be on the road just after dawn, my lord,” he said.

Arald nodded his understanding. “I've never known a Ranger to sleep in much past sunrise.”

The others all chorused their thanks as they trooped out of the dining room—making much of the fact that Chubb's banquet was a welcome change after Halt's and Crowley's rough camp cooking—although in truth, they all enjoyed the meals that their two comrades served up each night.

“I'll see you at Gorlan on the third day of next month,” Arald told Halt and Crowley as they bade him good night. He gripped both their hands firmly and looked deep into their eyes. Theirs was a dangerous undertaking, but he saw no sign that either of them would flinch from it.

Chubb hurried up to them as they were about to go, with a white cloth bundled around a large section of turkey pie. “It'll be fine to eat cold on the road for your lunch tomorrow,” he said and they took it gratefully.

Arald watched the two men descend the stairs, their soft boots making virtually no sound on the flagstones. Then, as they went through the high doorway and out into the castle yard, he returned to the dining hall, where he had a flagon of good wine to finish and where Sandra was waiting for him.

“They're a good group of men,” she said and he glanced
keenly at her. He respected her opinion in such matters—always had, he realized.

“You think so?”

She nodded. “Well trained. Loyal. Expert archers. Eleven men like that will make a group to be reckoned with.”

“They are Rangers, after all,” he said. “Real Rangers, not like the pretenders that Morgarath has been palming off on fiefs for the past few years. I'm particularly impressed with their leaders—Crowley and Halt,” he added.

Sandra took a sip of her wine. “Crowley is their leader, isn't he?”

Arald acknowledged the statement. “He's been elected as their leader. But the others look up to Halt just as much as to him. They'll obey Crowley. But Halt is the sort of man you follow instinctively.”

“Even you?” She smiled, but he took the question seriously.

“Yes, given the right circumstances, I'd follow him. He's a natural leader.”

The door flew open and Pauline DuLacy rushed into the room, slightly flushed and a little out of breath after running up two flights of stairs. She looked quickly around the dining room, saw the empty chairs pushed back from the table and the servants clearing away the remains of the meal, and her face fell.

“They're gone?” she asked.

“A few minutes ago,” Arald told her.

She looked around, as if wondering whether there might be time to catch up to them, then realized that she hadn't seen them crossing the castle yard as she ran toward the keep. They'd be well ahead of her on the way to their camp in the forest, she thought.

“Oh . . . I wanted to say good-bye to Halt,” she said, then added
quickly, “and to Crowley as well, of course. Halt and Crowley.”

The Baron and his lady exchanged a knowing look. So that's the way the wind blows, thought Arald. Over the years, he'd seen at least a dozen bold young knights try to impress the beautiful Courier. She had politely fended them all off. But now this bearded, beetle-browed Hibernian seemed to have sparked her interest. He wondered if he should mention the fact that Halt had been looking for her, then decided that, if he did so, his wife might hit him with the wooden serving ladle that lay close to her right hand.

“Of course,” he said, hiding his smile. He noted with relief that Sandra moved her hand away from the heavy ladle. “But we'll see them all at the tournament.” She nodded, a little distractedly, he thought.

“Yes. Of course,” she said. “Well, I'd best get back to my office. I still have a few orders to send out with tomorrow's post.”

She gave a perfunctory curtsy and exited, closing the door behind her rather abruptly, so the room echoed with the noise of it.

“Well, well,” Sandra said. “Pauline and the Hibernian. Who would ever have thought?”

Arald smiled. “I saw it coming,” he said smugly, patting his stomach with both hands in a contented way.

His wife looked at him, eyebrows raised in disbelief. “Of course you did, dear,” she said.

He wondered when she had become so sarcastic.

Half an hour after daybreak, the Rangers were on the road again. This time, as Halt had suggested, they broke into three groups, leaving a gap of ten minutes between them, to avoid
raising the curiosity of anyone who saw them.

Halt and Crowley rode together at the head of the first group. After some minutes of companionable silence, Crowley glanced sideways at his friend and said in an overly casual tone:

“That Mistress DuLacy is quite a woman.”

Halt looked quickly at him and grunted something that Crowley took to be agreement.

Hiding his grin with some difficulty, the red-haired man continued, in the same overly casual voice. “I thought that when this is all over, I might call upon her.” He stared straight ahead, but when Halt said nothing, he stole a glance at his friend.

Halt wore a stricken expression. The thought of his friend Crowley—witty, urbane and totally at ease with women—paying court to the stunning young Courier was too much for him to bear. Had it been any other man, he might have offered to fight him. But Crowley was a friend—more than a friend, in truth. Halt had come to think of him as a brother. In fact, he held him in a higher regard than his real brother, who had tried to murder him to gain access to the throne.

“Good thinking,” he managed to croak. “Wish you both
well.”

Crowley looked at him again, startled by the break in his voice. Halt wore a miserable expression that tore at Crowley's heart. He leaned over and seized Halt's forearm.

“My friend,” he said sincerely, “I was joking! That's all.”

Halt shook his head doggedly. “No. Really. Why would I care if you . . . saw her,” he said, his voice thick with emotion.

Crowley shook his arm. “Do you think I'd do that? I can see how much she means to you, Halt. And I rather think,” he added thoughtfully, “that she returns the feelings.”

Halt looked at him quickly, suspicious that Crowley, ever the trickster, was joking now. But Crowley met his gaze steadily, and nodded.

“Did she . . . say anything about me?” Halt asked. His spirits fell when Crowley shook his head. Then rose again with his answer.

“No. Not in so many words. But it was pretty obvious that she was interested in you. Didn't you see the way she looked at you when you told Arald about Morgarath offering you a job?”

Halt shook his head. “No. I didn't notice.” All he could remember was that he had inadvertently used a rather crude expression in front of her. He flushed now as he thought of it.

“Well, take my word for it,” Crowley said, “she was pretty impressed. And amused. And that's always a good thing with women.”

Halt rode on, facing forward, his mind racing.

“And trust me,” said Crowley, who had kissed two women in his entire life—and one of them his mother—“I
know
about women.”

Halt felt a warm glow suffuse his breast at his friend's words.
“Yes,” he said happily. “I should think you do.”

The conversation about Pauline was interrupted as they rounded a bend in the road. Crowley reined in Cropper, Halt matching the action with Abelard.

“Does that person look familiar?” Crowley asked.

Halt leaned forward to peer more intently at a figure sitting on the side of the road, leaning back against a tree. He was wearing a cloak like theirs, but with the cowl pushed back to reveal his white hair and beard. A gray horse was cropping the long roadside grass a few meters away from him. It wasn't tethered or hobbled, which marked it as a Ranger-trained horse.

There was something very familiar about the seated figure. For a moment, they stared at him. Then recognition dawned. “Pritchard!” they both said at once and, clapping their heels to their horses' flanks, set off at a gallop to greet him.