The Kings of Clonmel

Chapter 16

Halt and Horace reined in at the outskirts of Craikennis. There was a makeshift palisade here as well, obviously a recent construction. Outside the barrier, in front of the entrance, a canvas shelter was set by the roadside, with three armed men inside, sheltering from the chill of the night. There was a large iron triangle hanging from a pole, with a hammer hanging beside it. In the event of an attack, one of the men would sound the alarm by clanging the triangle with the hammer, Horace thought.

One of the sentries emerged from the shelter now, took a burning torch from a bracket and advanced on them, holding the light high to see their faces. Halt obligingly shrugged the cowl back from his head so the light could play upon his features.

`Who are you and what do you want?' the man demanded roughly. Horace grimaced. Clonmel wasn't the friendliest country he'd ever been to, he thought. Then again, there was little wonder, in the light of what they'd seen as they travelled through the countryside.

`We're travellers,' Halt told him. 'On the way to Dun Kilty to buy sheep at the markets there.'

`Do shepherds usually go armed?' the man asked, taking in Halt's longbow and the sword that hung at Horace's waist. Halt gave him a thin smile.

`They do if they plan to get their sheep home in one piece,' he said. 'Or are you not aware how things are these days?'

The man nodded morosely. 'I am that,' he replied. The stranger was right. There was little of law and order in Clonmel these past weeks. The smaller man might well be a shepherd, he thought. He was a nondescript-looking character. The taller of the two had a different feel to him. He was doubtless an armed guard, hired by the shepherd to help safeguard his flock on the return journey.

`We're looking for a meal and a fire to warm us and then we'll be on our way. We're told there's an inn here in Craikennis?'

The watchman nodded, satisfied that the two men offered no real threat to the security of the village. He glanced out into the darkness, making sure they had no companions lurking in the shadows. But there was no sign of movement on the road. He stepped back.

`Very well. But don't cause any trouble. You'll have us and a dozen others to reckon with if you do.'

`You'll see no trouble from us, friend,' Halt told him. `Where do we find this inn of yours?'

The sentry pointed down the single main street of the village.

`The Green Harper, it's called. Just fifty metres that way.'

He stepped out of the road to let them pass and they rode on into Craikennis village.

The Green Harper stood at the midpoint of the main street. The village itself was a substantial establishment, with fifty or sixty houses grouped around the central street and a network of lanes and lesser streets that ran off it. They were all single-storey, of mud brick and thatched roof construction. They looked smaller than the houses Halt and Horace were used to – lower. Horace guessed that if he were to enter one, he would have to stoop to avoid the door lintel. The inn was the largest building in the village, as would be expected. It was also the only two-storey building, with narrow dormer windows in the upper storey suggesting that there might be three or four bedrooms provided for guests.

The Green Harper's identifying sign swung, creaking noisily in the wind that gusted down the main street of the village. It was a weathered board showing the faded remnants of a dwarf-like figure dressed all in green, plucking the strings of a small harp. As Horace studied the sign, he noted that the face was twisted in a rather unpleasant leer.

`Not a friendly type, is he?' he said.

Halt looked at the sign. 'He's a laechonnachie,' he replied and, sensing Horace's inquiring look, he added, `A Little Person.'

`I can see that,' Horace said but Halt shook his head.

`The Little People are the subject of a great deal of superstition in this country. They're enchanted figures, faerie folk if you like. Good people to avoid. They have a nasty sense of humour and they tend to be spiteful.'

There was a burst of noise from the inn as a score of voices rose in song, joining in the chorus to one of Will's numbers. He had ridden into Craikennis an hour ahead of Horace and Halt. Apparently, from the noise and the burst of applause they now heard, he had been roundly welcomed by the locals.

`Sounds as if he's bringing down the house,' Horace observed.

Halt glanced up at the building, noticing the way none of the walls were true and the upper storey seemed to lean and teeter over the narrow main street of the village.

`That wouldn't take a lot of doing,' he muttered. 'Come on. Let's get inside while it's still standing.'

He led the way to the tethering rail outside the inn. There was one other animal tethered there, a disinterested pony harnessed to a small cart. Aside from the driver, there were seats for two passengers, set either side of the cart and facing outwards.

`Quaint,' Horace said, as he tethered Kicker to the rail. Halt, of course, merely dropped Abelard's rein over the rail. There was no need to tether a Ranger horse.

Horace glanced around. 'Where's Tug, do you think?'

Halt jerked a thumb at a side alley leading to the rear of the inn. 'I imagine,he'll be nice and warm in a stall in the stables,' he said. `If Will's taken a room, he wouldn't leave Tug out in the street.'

`True enough,' Horace said. 'Let's get on with it, Halt, I'm famished.'

`Are you ever not famished?' Halt asked, but Horace was already heading for the inn. He led the way to the door but before he could push it open, Halt stopped him with ahand on his arm. Horace looked at him enquiringly and the Ranger explained.

`Wait until Will's started again and we'll slip in while everyone's attention is on him. Remember, keep your ears open and your mouth shut. I'll do the talking.'

Horace nodded agreement. He'd noticed during the day that Halt's accent, which usually showed only the slightest trace of a Hibernian brogue, had been thickening and broadening whenever he spoke. Halt was obviously working to recapture the accent of his youth.

`No need to let everyone know we're foreigners,' he had said when Horace had commented on the fact.

They paused now, hearing Will's voice raised in song, and the rippling accompaniment of his mandola. Then the noise redoubled as the entire room joined in on the chorus. Halt nodded to Horace.

`Let's go,' he said.

They slipped into the room, hesitating briefly as the wave of heat from the open fire and thirty or forty bodies hit them. Will stood in a well-lit space by the fireplace, leading the company in song – not that they needed much encouragement, Halt thought wryly. Hibernians loved music and singing and Will had a good repertoire of jigs and reels. As the two Araluans paused in the doorway, two of the spectators in front of Will, a man and a woman, leapt to their feet and began dancing and heel-and-toeing in time to his driving rhythm. The rest of the room roared encouragement, clapping in time to urge the dancers on. Halt and Horace exchanged a glance, then Halt nodded his head towards a table at the rear of the room. They moved to it. Will, of course, ignored their entry. Only one or two of the people in the room seemed to notice them. The rest were totally engrossed in the music and the dancing.

But the innkeeper noticed the two new arrivals – it was his business to notice such things, after all. Before too long, a serving girl made her way through the customers to their table. Halt ordered coffee, and lamb stew for them both, and she nodded, sliding away with the skill of long practice through the packed customers.

Will crashed out the final chord of the song and the two dancers slumped, exhausted, onto their benches. At Halt's suggestion, he had discarded the distinctive mottled Ranger's cloak when he left their camp, wearing a long, thick woollen outer coat instead. By the same token, he had left his bow and quiver behind, and unclipped his throwing knife and sheath from the double scabbard arrangement at his belt, leaving the larger saxe knife in a single scabbard. The throwing knife had gone into a sheath sewn inside his jerkin, under the left arm. Some years earlier, Will had experimented with a sheath sewn into the back collar of his jerkin, with near disastrous results.

Halt, of course, wore his normal Ranger's outfit and carried his bow. There was nothing significant about that in a countryside where everyone seemed primed for trouble. The mottled appearance of the cloak might be a little unusual but, even so, he had the appearance of a woodsman or farmer. Horace wore a plain leather jacket over his leggings and boots, with his sword and dagger in a belt round his waist. He wore a cloak, of course, to keep out the biting cold of the wind. But unlike Halt's, it had no cowl. Instead, he wore a close-fitting wool cap, pulled down over his ears. He wore no armour or insignia ofany kind. To outward appearances, he was a simple man at arms.

As a result of these varied costumes, there was nothing to connect the two newcomers to the foreign minstrel who had arrived earlier in the evening. And with Halt's carefully renewed Hibernian accent, they didn't even appear to be foreign.

Their food arrived, and the coffee, and they fell to eating with a will. Horace was particularly willing but, over the years he had known the young warrior, Halt had become more or less accustomed to the younger man's prodigious appetite. Horace spooned the savoury lamb and potato stew into his mouth, using the thick slice of bread that came with it to mop up the juice. Finishing his own bread, Horace noticed the half slice remaining in front of Halt and reached for it.

`You going to eat that?'

`Yes. Hands off.'

Horace was about to protest but a warning shake of Halt's head stopped him. He realised that Halt, while maintaining the appearance of eating his meal, was eavesdropping on the other diners. With the music halted temporarily while Will took a break, a babble of conversation had broken out around the room.

There were three men seated at the next table. Villagers, by the look of them. Probably tradesmen, Horace thought. He could see them while Halt, with his back to them, was much closer and in a better position to hear what they were saying. Not that it was too difficult to do that. With the level of background noise in the hot, smoky room, they had to raise their voices to be heard.

`A bad business is what I've heard tell,' a bald man was saying. From the flour that coated the front of his shirt, Horace guessed he was either the local miller or baker. He caught another warning head shake from Halt and realised that he was staring at the next table. Hastily, he looked down at his plate, just as Halt slid the crust of bread across the table towards him. Smiling, he took it and began to make a show of wiping the remains of his meal from the plate with it.

`Four killed, so I've heard. A terrible thing. My wife's brother was there just three days gone. Happen he'd been there yesterday, he could be among the dead now.'

Halt pretended to take a sip at his coffee. He was tempted to turn and ask the locals for more information. But so far, he and Horace had gone virtually unnoticed in the room. The locals might be willing to discuss this freely among their companions. With strangers it might be a different matter altogether.

`What think you about these religious folk at Mountshannon?' asked another of the men. Horace took a quick glance at him. He was a few years younger than the bald-headed miller/baker. Possibly a merchant of some kind. Not a warrior, Horace thought.

The man's two companions snorted derisively.

`Religious quacks is more like it!' said the third, the one who hadn't so far spoken. The bald man was quick to agree.

`Aye! Claiming to be able to keep Mountshannon safe. Funny how religious folks like that say their god will protect them – right up until someone hits them with a club.'

`Still,' said the merchant, seeming unconvinced by their scorn, 'the fact remains that Mountshannon has beenuntouched so far. While at Duffy's Ford there's four dead and the rest scattered God knows where in fear.'

`There are over a hundred people at Mountshannon,' the bald man explained to him. 'Duffy's Ford is no more than three or four houses. Barely a dozen folk to begin with. It's the bigger villages that have less to fear. Like Mountshannon.'

`And Craikennis,' put in the one who'd agreed with him about religious quacks.

`Aye,' said the bald man,' I'll warrant we're safe enough here. Dennis and his watchmen do a good job keeping an eye on strangers to the village.'

As he said the words, he glanced up and became aware for the first time of Halt and Horace at the next table. He muttered a guarded warning to his companions and both of them turned to glance at the strangers behind them. Then they leaned forward over their own table and continued their conversation in lowered tones, inaudible against the buzz of a dozen other conversations in the room. Halt raised his eyebrows at Horace, who essayed a slight shrug. He had no doubt that they'd hear no more from them now.

A few minutes later, there was a stir of interest in the room as Will struck up the opening chords of a new song. People turned from their conversations and settled back in their seats to listen. When the serving girl came to collect their platters and see if they needed a refill on their coffee, Halt shook his head and dropped a handful of coins on the table to pay for their meal. He jerked his head at Horace.

`Time to go,' he said.

They rose and threaded their way to the door. The bald man looked up after them briefly. Then, deciding there was nothing threatening about the two strangers, he turned his attention back to the music.

Outside, the cold wind cut into them again as they retrieved their horses and mounted.

Horace shivered briefly, huddling down into the warmth of his cloak.

`We should have taken a room ourselves,' he said. 'It's damned cold out here.'

Halt shook his head. 'This way, we'll be forgotten within half an hour. If we'd stayed, more people would have noticed us. More people would be asking questions about us. You'll soon warm up back by our camp fire.'

Horace smiled at his grim-faced companion.

`Is it such a bad thing to be noticed, Halt?'

The Ranger nodded emphatically. 'It is to me.'

They rode past the sentry station, nodding to the men who were on duty. This time, none of them felt the need to come out into the wind, away from the fire they had burning in a steel grate inside the shelter. As Halt had predicted, within an hour, their presence in Craikennis had been forgotten.