Once again, the two riders had to submit to an examination when they approached the town. There was no barricade here but a small stream ran past the village, at right angles to the road, and a guard post had been established at the bridge that crossed it. As in Craikennis, it was a simple canvas pavilion with a couple of chairs and beds inside and a charcoal-burning brazier for warmth at night. It was manned by two members of the town watch, both armed with heavy clubs and with long daggers in their belts. They stepped out onto the road now, eyeing the new arrivals suspiciously. As before, Halt had tossed the cowl back from his face.

`What's your business in Mountshannon?' the taller of the two men asked. Horace eyed them critically. They were both big men, probably reasonably competent fighters, he thought. But, from the self-conscious way they handled their weapons, it was obvious to him that fighting wasn't their principal business. They weren't warriors.

`I'm looking to buy sheep,' Halt said. 'A ram and a pair of ewes. I need to replace my breeding stock. You'll have a market here, no doubt?'

The man nodded. 'Saturday,' he said. 'You're a day early.'

Halt shrugged. 'We've come from Ballygannon,' he said, naming an area that was well in the south, where the Outsiders had been active for some time. 'Better a day early than a day late.'

The watchman frowned thoughtfully at the name. He'd heard rumours of what had been going on in the south. Everyone had. But Halt was the first person he'd seen in some weeks who had actually been through the troubled area.

`How are things in Ballygannon?' he asked.

Halt eyed him bleakly. 'As I said, I need to replenish my breeding stock. They didn't all drop dead of old age at the same moment.'

The watchman nodded understanding. 'Aye, we've heard dark tales of doings in the south.' He looked now at Horace. Like the man in Craikennis, he could see the broad-shouldered young man didn't have the look of a farmer or woodsman. Besides, there was a long sword at his hip and a round buckler strapped at the back of his saddle. 'And who's this?' he asked.

`My nephew Michael. He's a good boy,' Halt told him. The other man spoke now for the first time. 'And would you be a farmer too, Michael?' he asked.

Horace gave him a cold look. 'A soldier,' he said briefly. `And what's a soldier going to do at the markets?' the second man asked.

Halt hurried to answer. Horace's accent was foreign and he didn't want the youth saying more than the odd word.

`I'm here to make sure I get the sheep home,' he said. `Michael is here to make sure I get home.'

The watchman considered them for a few moments. It made sense, he thought. 'And he looks like the boyo who could do it,' he said, a faint smile thawing his features a little.

Horace said nothing. He simply met the man's gaze and nodded once. Strong, silent type, he thought.

The two watchmen seemed satisfied. They both drew back to the side of the road, waving Halt and Horace into the town.

`Ride in,' said the one who had spoken first. 'There's an inn in the main street or, if you've a mind to save a few pennies, you can pitch camp in the market ground at the far end of the village. Stay out of trouble while you're here.' He added the last statement almost as an afterthought. It was something all watchmen felt the need to say, Horace realised. He probably would have said it if they were two eighty-year-old dodderers hobbling along on walking sticks.

Halt touched a finger to his forehead in a informal salute and urged Abelard forward. Then he stopped, as if the thought had only just occurred to him, calling to the two men as they headed back to their pavilion.

`One thing,' he said and they turned back to face him. `I've heard talk along the road of a man called Tennyson -some kind of priest?'

The watchmen exchanged sceptical glances. 'Yes,' said the leader, 'he's some kind of priest, all right.' There was a hint of sarcasm in his tone.

`Is he…?' Halt began but the second man answered the question before he could ask it.

`He's here. He and his followers are at the market ground too. Chances are you'll hear him preaching this afternoon if you've a mind.'

`Chances are,' his companion put in with now unmasked sarcasm, 'you'll hear him preaching every afternoon.'

Halt maintained a noncommittal expression, appearing to think over their words. 'Perhaps we'll listen in.' He looked at Horace. `It'll break the monotony, Michael.'

`Break your eardrums more like,' said the 'second watchman. 'You'd do better to spend your time at the inn, you ask me.'

`Maybe,' Halt agreed. 'But we'll give the man a hearing at any rate.'

He nodded to them again and urged Abelard on. Horace, who had been waiting a few metres down the track, fell in beside him.

Chapter 20

While there was still some light left, Will returned to Tug and retraced his steps down the trail, looking or a place to set up his own camp. Two hundred metres back from the spot where they had stopped, he sighted a small glade a short distance from the side of the path. A large tree had fallen here, some years ago judging by the moss that covered its trunk. As it came down, it had taken several of its smaller neighbours with it, clearing an open space. It was an ideal spot. Not far off the path and almost unnoticeable. If Will hadn't actually been looking for a camp site, he would have ridden straight past. Most casual travellers would do the same, he reasoned.

He led Tug through the trees and waist-high undergrowth that marked the edge of the trail and looked around, assessing the spot. The trail was almost invisible from here, which meant that the clearing would be the same for someone on the trail. There was an open space some five metres by four – more than enough for his camp site.

Not that it would be much of a camp, he thought. There'd be no tent and no fire. But there was thick grass for Tug to graze on and Will's real purpose was to find a spot where Tug would be out of sight.

He watered the horse again and made the 'free' hand signal, which told Tug he could graze if he wished to. The little horse moved around the clearing, nose to the ground, assessing the quality of the local fodder. Apparently finding it to his liking, he began to rip bunches of the thick green grass from the ground, chewing it with that grinding noise that horses make.

`Sorry I can't unsaddle you,' Will said. 'We may have to move out in a hurry.'

Tug glanced up at him, ears pricked, eyes alight with intelligence.

No matter.

The horse knew from long experience that Will would never neglect his comfort, unless there was a good reason to do so. Will sat, his back against the fallen tree trunk and his knees drawn up. He'd need to get back to his vantage point soon, he thought. He wanted to see when the guards were changed. He hoped that whoever relieved the man he'd selected would stay in the same spot. There was no reason why he shouldn't, he thought, but you never knew.

As the last light was fading, Will stood. Tug raised his head instantly, ears up, ready to move forward for Will to mount him. But Will shook his head.

`Stay here,' he said. Then added the one-word command: 'Silent.'

Tug understood the command; it was one of many that the little horse had been taught when he had been trainedby Old Bob, the Ranger Corps' horse trainer. 'Silent'