`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.

Chapter 17

The following morning, Halt and Horace were sitting around their camp fire when Abelard gave a snort of welcome. A few seconds later, Will and Tug rode into the clearing where they had made their camp. He glanced at the two small tents, barely a metre in height and two metres long. It had rained during the night and the canvas sides were beaded with moisture.

`Sleep nice and warm, did we?' he grinned.

Halt grunted at him. 'At least we weren't eaten to death by bedbugs.'

Will's grin faded just a little.

`Yes, I'll have to admit the Green Harper could do with a thorough spring cleaning. I do seem to have had one or two little visitors.' He scratched idly at an itchy spot on his side as he said the words. Halt looked down at the fire, hiding a satisfied smile.

Will dismounted, unsaddled Tug and set him loose to graze. He joined the others by the small fire, where a coffee pot sat in the coals to one side.

`Still,' he continued, 'they do a good breakfast at the Harper. Bacon, sausages, mushrooms and fresh bread. Just the thing to set you up on a cold morning.'

There was a low groan from the point where Horace sat, poking idly at the coals with a dead stick. Will wasn't entirely sure if the groan had come from Horace or from his stomach. Breakfast at the camp had been a frugal matter of flat, slightly stale bread, toasted over the fire and eaten with a ration of dried meat.

`Hard rations build character,' Halt said philosophically. Horace looked mournfully at him. Already the vast helping of lamb stew he'd eaten the previous evening was nothing but a dim memory.

`They also build hunger,' he said. Will waited a few seconds more, then relented and tossed a substantial bundle wrapped in a napkin down beside Horace.

`Fortunately, the kitchen girl saw fit to give me some food for my journey,' he said. 'Seems she's a music lover.'

Horace eagerly unwrapped the bundle, to reveal a pile of still-warm food inside.

He transferred a large portion to his plate, which was standing by the fire, and reached for his fork. He paused as he saw Halt moving to join him and take his own share of the bacon and sausages, ripping off a chunk of fresh, soft bread to go with it.

`I thought you said hard rations build character?' Will said, managing to stay straight-faced. Halt looked up at him with some dignity.

`I have character,' he said. 'I have character to spare. It's young people like you two who need their characters built.'

`I'll build mine tomorrow,' Horace said through a mouthful of food. 'This is excellent, Will! When I have grandchildren, I'll name them all after you!'

Will smiled at his friend and took a seat by the fireplace, pouring himself a cup of coffee. He added honey and drank appreciatively.