He looked distastefully at the scroll and shoved it to one side.
“They teach protocol, Sir Montague,” Alyss replied, very evenly. “And it requires that you examine and acknowledge my credentials before we proceed.”
“Yes, yes, yes,” Montague said, waving a dismissive hand at the scroll. “Take it as read. Take it as read. Now, girl, what brings you here?”
Halt interjected quietly, “The correct form of address, Sir Montague, is ‘Lady Alyss.’”
Montague looked at Halt in genuine surprise, as if he considered him some lower form of life who lacked the ability of speech.
“Is that so, forester?” he said. “And what might your name be?”
Alyss went to speak, but a warning glance from Halt stopped her. He replied, still in the same quiet tone: “Some people call me Arratay, Sir Montague. It’s Gallican,” he added mildly.
Montague raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. “Gallican, you say? How exotic! Well, Master Arratay, perhaps you could leave the talking to me and young Alyss here, would that suit you?”
Halt shrugged and Montague took the movement for assent.
“Wonderful.” Then, dismissing Halt, he turned his attention back to Alyss. “So, sweetheart, what do you have for me? A letter perhaps? Some self-important note from Fat Baron Arald, I’ll be bound?”
There were two small spots of color in Alyss’s cheeks, the only outward sign of the anger that was building up inside her at the man’s offhanded manner. She produced Nigel’s heavy linen envelope from the satchel she wore at her side and offered it across the desk.
“I have an official legal position, prepared under Baron Arald’s seal. He requests that you study it.”
Montague made no move to take the letter.
“Set it down. I’ll look at it when I have time.”
“The Baron requests that you look at it now, sir. And give me your answer.”
Montague rolled his eyes to heaven and took the envelope. “Oh, very well, if it will make you happy.” He sliced the envelope and took out the sheet of parchment inside it, skimming through it, muttering to himself, “Yes…yes…seen it…heard it before…nonsense…rubbish…nonsense.”
He set the page down and pushed it away from him, shaking his head wearily.
“When will you people learn? You can send me all the letters you like. The fact remains, Cobram is an independent hold, owing no allegiance to Redmont Fief. The treaty makes that very clear.”
“I’m instructed to draw your attention to Items Three and Five in the letter, sir. And paragraph nine as well. They make it quite clear that the wording of the treaty is faulty and your claim to independence is totally spurious,” Alyss replied. And now, for the first time, Montague shed the air of world-weariness that he’d assumed. He stood angrily.
“Spurious!” he shouted. “Spurious? Who the devil are you, a little girl in a grown-up’s dress, to come in here insulting me and saying my claim is spurious? How dare you?”
Alyss stood her ground, unmoved by his sudden anger.
“I repeat, sir, you are requested to read those items,” she said quietly. Instead, Montague threw the letter down on the desk between them.
“And I refuse!” he shouted. Then his eyes narrowed. “I know who’s behind this. I see the hand of that sour-faced shrew Lady Pauline here!”
Now Alyss’s own anger flared. “You will speak respectfully of Lady Pauline, sir!” she warned him. But Montague was too angry to stop.
“I’ll speak of her, all right! I’ll tell you this. She’s a woman meddling in a man’s world, where she has no place. She should have found a husband years ago and raised a brood of squalling babies. Surely there’s a deaf and half-blind man somewhere who would have taken her.”
“Sir!” said Alyss, her own voice rising. “You are going too far!”
“Is that right, sweetheart?” Montague replied sarcastically. “Well, let me give you some advice. Get away from that shrill, pinch-faced witch while you still have time. Find a husband and learn to cook. That’s all women are good for, girl. Cooking and raising the babies!”
Halt stepped forward before Alyss could reply. “The correct form of address,” he repeated quietly, “is not ‘girl’ or ‘sweetheart.’ It is ‘Lady Alyss.’ You will show respect for the laurel branch that this Courier wears. And you will show respect for Lady Pauline as well.”
For a moment, Montague was too startled to reply. First a girl, now a common forester had told him how to behave!
“Oh, is that so?” he raged. “I’ll show you respect!” He picked up the letter and tore it in half. Then he did the same to the scroll bearing Alyss’s credentials. “There’s my respect! Now get out!”
Very carefully, Halt set his longbow to one side, leaning it against a chair. Alyss raised a warning hand.
“Halt, don’t get into trouble on my behalf,” she said. But Halt looked at her and shook his head.
“Lady Alyss, this…fop…has insulted you, your Baron, your mentor and the Diplomatic Corps as a whole. He has shown absolute disregard for the laurel branch you wear. And by destroying your credentials, he has committed a crime that warrants a jail term.”
Alyss considered his words for a second or two. Then she nodded. Montague had been more than rude to her. His behavior was totally beyond acceptance.
“You’re right,” she said. “Carry on.”
But Montague had heard nothing after the word “Halt.” The entire kingdom knew the legendary Ranger’s reputation and the Keeper of Cobram paled now and stepped back as the grim-faced figure came toward him.
“But…you said…you said your name was…” He struggled to remember it. Halt smiled at him. It was the smile of a wolf.
“Arratay? Yes, well, more correctly, Arretez. It’s Gallican for ‘Halt.’ My pronunciation has never been good.”
His hand shot forward and locked in the scarlet-and-gold collar of the other man’s doublet. The satin tore momentarily, then Halt gained a firmer grip and dragged the struggling knight across the table toward him.
Montague was taller and heavier than Halt. But Halt’s hands, arms, shoulders and back were conditioned by years of drawing the massive longbow, with its pull weight of sixty kilos. The thousands of arrows he had shot, over and over again, had turned his muscles into steel cord. Montague was dragged off his feet, hoisted across his own desk.
“The question is,” said Halt, glancing at Alyss, “what should we do with him?” She hesitated, then that wonderful smile spread over her face.
“I wonder,” she said. “Does this castle have a moat?”
A group of servants were busy emptying the privy buckets into the moat when they were startled by a sudden drawn-out cry. They looked up in time to see a scarlet-and-gold-clad figure sail out of a first-story window, turn over once and then land with an enormous splash in the dark, rancid waters. They shrugged and went back to work.
“I suppose I’ll be in trouble again now,” Halt said as they were riding home. Alyss glanced at him. He didn’t look very repentant.
“I doubt it,” she said. “Once people hear my report, I should think they’ll say Montague got off lightly. After all, phrases like ‘Fat Baron Arald’ and ‘sour-faced shrew’ won’t exactly endear him to Baron Arald or Lady Pauline. And he did sign an acceptance of the letter in the end. As the official courier on this mission, I thank you for your service.”
He bowed slightly from the saddle. “It’s been a pleasure working with you,” he said, and they rode in companionable silence for awhile.
“I suppose you’ll be leaving with the army soon?” she said after a few minutes, and when Halt nodded, she continued: “I’ll miss you. How will I ever carry out diplomatic missions without someone to throw unpleasant nobles out the window?”
“I’ll miss you too.” Halt smiled. And he realized that he meant it. He enjoyed being around young people—enjoyed their energy, their freshness, their idealism. “You’re a good influence on a jade
d, old, bad-tempered Ranger.”
“You’ll soon have Will back to keep you busy,” she said. “You really miss him, don’t you?”
The Ranger nodded. “More than I realized,” he said. Alyss urged her horse close beside his and leaned over to kiss him on the cheek.
“That’s for Will when you see him.” A ghost of a smile touched Halt’s face.
“You’ll understand if I don’t pass it on in person?” he said. Alyss smiled and leaned over to kiss him again.
“And that’s for you, you jaded, bad-tempered old Ranger.”
A little surprised by her own impulsiveness, she urged her horse ahead of him. Halt touched one hand to his cheek and looked after the slim blond figure.
If I were twenty years younger… he began.
Then he sighed and had to be honest with himself. Make that thirty years, he thought.
13
IF SHE HADN’T SPOKEN, THEY WOULD HAVE TAKEN HER FOR A boy. It was the soft voice that gave her away. She stood at the edge of the campsite, a slender figure with blond hair cut short—to a boy’s length—dressed in a ragged tunic, breeches and soft leather boots, bound up to the knee. A stained and torn sheepskin vest seemed to be her only protection against the cold mountain nights, for she wore no cloak and carried no blankets. Just a small bandanna tied into a bundle, which, presumably, contained all her belongings.
“Where the devil did you spring from?” Gilan asked, turning to face her. He sheathed his saxe knife as he did so and allowed Carney to fall gratefully to his knees, exhausted.
The girl, who Will could now see was around his own age and, underneath a liberal coating of dirt, remarkably pretty, gestured vaguely.
“Oh…” She paused uncertainly, trying to gather her thoughts, and Will realized she was close to the point of exhaustion. “I’ve been hiding out in the hills for several weeks now,” she said finally. Will had to admit she looked as if she had been.
“Do you have a name?” asked Gilan, not unkindly. He too could see the girl was worn-out.
She hesitated. She appeared uncertain as to whether to give them her name or not.
“Evanlyn Wheeler, from Greenfield Fief,” she said. Greenfield was a small coastal fief in Araluen. “We were here visiting friends…” She stopped and looked away from Gilan. She seemed to be thinking for a second, before she amended the statement. “Rather, my mistress was visiting friends, when the Wargals attacked.”
“Wargals!” Will said, the word jerked from him, and she turned a level pair of brilliant green eyes upon him. As he looked into them, he realized she was more than pretty. Much, much more. She was beautiful. The strawberry blond hair and green eyes were complemented by a small, straight nose and a full mouth that Will thought would look quite delightful if she were smiling. But right now, a smile was a long way from the girl’s thoughts. She gave a sad little lift of her shoulders as she answered him.
“Where did you think all the people have gone?” she asked him. “Wargals have been attacking towns and villages throughout this part of Celtica for weeks now. The Celts couldn’t stand against them. They were driven out of their homes. Most of them escaped to the Southwest Peninsula. But some were captured. I don’t know what’s happened to them.”
Gilan and the two boys exchanged looks. Deep down, they’d all been expecting to hear something of the kind. Now it was out in the open.
“I thought I saw Morgarath’s hand behind all this,” Gilan said softly, and the girl nodded, tears forming in her eyes. One of them slid down her cheek, tracking its way through the grime there. She put a hand to her eyes, and her shoulders began to shake. Quickly, Gilan stepped forward and caught her just before she fell. He lowered her gently to the ground, leaning her against one of the rocks that the boys had positioned around the fireplace. His voice was gentle and compassionate now.
“It’s all right,” he said to her. “You’re safe now. Just rest here and we’ll get you something hot to eat and drink.” He glanced quickly at Horace. “Get a fire going, please, Horace. Just a small one. We’re fairly sheltered here and I think we can risk it. And Will,” he added, raising his voice so that it carried clearly, “if that bandit makes another move to get away, would you mind shooting him through the leg?”
Carney, who had taken the opportunity created by Evanlyn’s surprising appearance to begin crawling quietly away toward the surrounding rocks, now froze where he was. Gilan threw an angry glare at him, then revised his orders.
“On second thoughts, you do the fire, Will. Horace, tie those two up.”
The two boys moved quickly to the tasks he had set them. Satisfied that everything was in hand, Gilan now removed his own cloak and wrapped it around the girl. She had covered her face with both hands and her shoulders were still shaking, although she made no noise. He put his arms around her and murmured gently, reassuring her once more that she was safe.
Gradually, her silent, racking sobs diminished and her breathing became more regular. Will, engaged in heating a pot of water for a hot drink, looked at her in some surprise as he realized that she’d fallen asleep. Gilan motioned for silence and said quietly:
“She’s obviously been under a great strain. It’s best to let her sleep. You might prepare one of those excellent stews that Halt taught you to make.”
In his pack, Will carried a selection of dried ingredients that, when blended together in boiling water and simmered, resulted in delicious stews. They could be augmented by any fresh meat and vegetables that the travelers picked up along the way, but even without them, they made a far tastier meal than the cold rations the three had been eating that day.
He set a large bowl of water over the fire and soon had a delicious beef stew simmering and filling the cold evening air with its scent. At the same time, he produced their dwindling supply of coffee and set the enamel pot full of water in the hot embers to the side of the main fire. As the water bubbled and hissed to boiling, he lifted the lid of the pot with a forked stick and tossed in a handful of grounds. Soon the aromatic scent of fresh coffee mingled with the stew and their mouths began to water. Around the same time, the savory smells must have penetrated Evanlyn’s consciousness. Her nose twitched delicately, then those startling green eyes flicked open. For a second or two, there was alarm in them as she tried to remember where she was. Then she caught sight of Gilan’s reassuring face and she relaxed a little.
“Something smells awfully good,” she said and he grinned at her.
“Perhaps you could try a bowlful and then tell us what’s been going on in these parts.” He made a sign to Will to heap an enamel bowl full of the stew. It was Will’s own bowl, as they didn’t have any spare eating utensils. His stomach growled as he realized he’d have to wait until Evanlyn had finished eating before he could. Horace and Gilan, of course, simply helped themselves.
Evanlyn began wolfing down the savory stew with an enthusiasm that showed she hadn’t eaten in days. Gilan and Horace also set to quite happily. A whining voice came from the far rock wall where Horace had tied the two bandits, sitting them back to back.
“Can we have something to eat, sir?” asked Carney. Gilan barely paused between mouthfuls and threw a disdainful glance at them.
“Of course not,” he said, and went back to enjoying his dinner.
Evanlyn seemed to realize that, aside from the bandits, only Will wasn’t eating. She glanced down at the plate and spoon she was holding, looked at the identical implements being used by Gilan and Horace, and seemed to realize what had happened.
“Oh,” she said, looking apologetically at Will, “would you like to…?” She offered the enamel plate to him. Will was tempted to share it with her, but realized that she must be nearly starving. In spite of her offer, he could see that she was hoping he’d refuse. He decided that there was a difference between being hungry, which he was, and starving, which she was, and shook his head, smiling at her.
“You go ahead,” he said. “I’ll eat when you’ve finished.”
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He was a little disappointed when she didn’t insist, but went back to wolfing down great spoonfuls of the stew, pausing occasionally for a deep draft of hot, freshly brewed coffee. As she ate, it seemed that a little color returned to her cheeks. She cleaned the plate and looked wistfully at the stewpot still hanging over the fire. Will took the hint and ladled out another healthy dollop of stew and she set to once again, hardly pausing to breathe. This time, when the plate was empty, she smiled shyly and handed it back to him.
“Thanks,” she said simply, and he ducked his head awkwardly.
“’Sall right,” he mumbled, filling the plate again for himself. “I suppose you were pretty hungry.”
“I was,” she agreed. “I don’t think I’ve eaten properly in a week.”
Gilan hitched himself into a more comfortable position by the small fire they kept burning. “Why not?” he asked. “I would have thought there was plenty of food left in the houses. You could have taken some of that.”
She shook her head, her eyes showing the fear that had gripped her for the previous few weeks. “I didn’t want to risk it,” she said. “I didn’t know if there’d be more of Morgarath’s patrols around, so I didn’t dare go into any of the towns. I found a few vegetables and the odd piece of cheese in some of the farmhouses, but precious little else.”
“I think it’s time you told us what you know about events here,” Gilan told her, and she nodded agreement.
“Not that I know too much. As I said, I was here with my mistress, visiting…friends.” Again, there was just the slightest hesitation in her words. Gilan frowned slightly, noticing it.
“Your mistress is a noble lady, I take it? A knight’s wife, or perhaps a lord’s wife?”
Evanlyn nodded. “She is daughter to…Lord and Lady Caramorn of Greenfield Fief,” she said quickly. But again there was that fleeting hesitation. Gilan pursed his lips thoughtfully.