Chapter 24

Market day in Mountshannon was well under way. There had been a few showers of rain just after dawn, when most of the stall holders had arrived to set up their shelters and lay out their goods for display. But as the morning wore on, the sun came out and set the dampened ground steaming.

Horace and Halt had watched preparations from their camp site as they breakfasted. The villagers knew that market day was a case of first in gets the best goods, so they had thronged to the market while the rain was still drifting down. Now the large meadow, formerly deserted but for their two small tents and the Outsiders' pavilion, was a thronging mass of stalls, people, performers, animals, carts and food vendors.

Tennyson and his people were taking advantage of the crowd to promote their message. A small group of them, all in the usual white robes, were singing country folk songs, with the occasional hymn of praise to Alseiass.

The singing was good and they were managing a three-part harmony, according to Horace. He commented on the fact to Halt.

The Ranger shrugged. 'Three donkeys braying is much the same as one,' he said, 'save that it's louder.' Halt was not a student of music. Horace smiled at him.

`Nonetheless, they are good. I'd go and listen to them if I were just passing by,' he admitted.

Halt eyed him. 'You would?'

Horace nodded emphatically. 'Definitely. They're good entertainers, Halt.'

Halt nodded thoughtfully. 'Insidious might be a better term,' he said. 'But this is the way they work. They worm their way into people's affection. It's all very easygoing and non-confrontational. Then they spring their trap.'

`Well, they're good trappers. And their bait is very effective,' Horace told him. Again, Halt nodded.

`I know. That's what makes them so dangerous.' He stood up, dusting off the seat of his pants. They had spread a canvas square over the wet ground outside their tents but his backside still felt a little damp. 'Come on, we'd better look at livestock. Although thank God I've seen little in the way of good animals arrive so far. Otherwise I might have to buy some.'

`We could always eat 'em,' Horace suggested cheerfully. Halt turned a baleful glance on him.

`It always gets back to eating with you, doesn't it?', he asked.

`I'm a growing boy, Halt,' the young warrior said. Halt snorted and led the way towards the market.

They strolled among the stalls and the livestock pens.

There were plenty of chickens and ducks and geese for sale. And quite a good selection of pigs. There were no cattle and only a few scrubby, ill-conditioned sheep. Horace commented on the fact.

`The animals for sale here are the ones that people raise close to the farmhouse,' Halt explained. 'Chickens, ducks and pigs all stay close by, so the farmer has no call to go out into the fields to tend them.'

`And of course,' Horace replied, understanding, 'people are staying close by their houses these days.'

`Exactly.' Halt stopped by a small pen that held three sheep. Their wool was coated and matted with mud. He nodded to the owner and stepped into the pen. He caught the nearest, held it between his knees and pried its jaws apart, peering at its teeth. The sheep struggled in protest at this treatment and eventually he released it, dusted his hands together and looked at the owner again, giving a small shake of his head. He stepped out of the pen and they moved on.

`So, what was wrong with them?' Horace asked after a few moments.

Halt turned a curious gaze on him. 'Wrong with what?'

Horace jerked his thumb back towards the small sheep pen. 'The sheep's teeth. What was the problem?'

Halt made a small moue of understanding, then shrugged. 'Haven't the faintest idea. What do I know about sheep?'

`But you..

`I looked at his teeth. That's what people seem to do when they look at animals. They look at their teeth. Then they usually shake their heads and walk off. So that's what

I did.' He paused, then continued. 'Did you want me to buy it?'

Horace raised both hands in a defensive gesture. 'Not at all. I just wondered.'

`Good.' Halt smiled sardonically. 'For a moment there I thought you might be feeling peckish.'

They stopped at a fruit stall and bought several apples. They were good. Crisp and juicy, with just a hint of tart flavour hiding behind their sweetness. The two of them crunched away as they inspected a stall full of camping gear and kitchen utensils.

`Good filleting knife,' Halt said. He asked the price of the stall owner, haggled for several minutes, made to walk out in mock disgust, then settled on a price and bought the thin-bladed knife. As they left the tent, he said to Horace, `We should fish for some trout in the streams around here. Make a nice change to the menu.' He paused and looked around the nearby stalls. 'Might as well look for some almonds if we're going to catch trout.'

`Fishing for and catching are two different matters,' Horace said and Halt eyed him sidelong.

`Are you casting aspersions on my fishing ability?'

Horace met his gaze. 'You don't strike me as the fishing type. It's a genteel sort of sport and I can't picture you sitting sedately with a fishing rod in your hands.'

`Why use a rod when you can use a bow?' Halt replied and Horace frowned at him.

`You shoot the fish?' he said. And when Halt nodded, he went on, 'That's not very sporting, is it?'

There was a good deal of hunting and fishing done around Castle Araluen, usually involving the royal family.

It was all done according to strict rules and conventions. A gentleman, Horace had been taught, only fished for trout with a rod and with a man-made lure – never live bait. He certainly didn't skewer them on the end of an arrow. At least, he thought ruefully, Halt didn't use live bait.

`I never said I was sporting,' Halt said. 'I said I catch fish. I doubt they care whether they're killed by a hook or an arrow. And they taste pretty much the same.'

Horace was about to reply when they heard a cry of alarm. Both of them stopped. Halt's hand went instinctively to the saxe knife at his belt. Horace's left hand closed over the top of his scabbard, ready to steady it if he needed to draw his sword quickly.

There was a buzz of fear from the people around them. The shout was repeated and this time they could make out where it came from – the line of trees that marked the eastern side of the market ground. Without needing to confer, they started in that direction. Already a few families were hurrying the opposite way, back to the shelter of the village.

`Sounds like it's started,' Halt said. 'Whatever "it" may be.'

They threaded their way through the stalls towards the trees. For a moment, Halt considered returning to their camp to fetch his bow. He hadn't brought it as it didn't quite match the picture of a shepherd looking for new stock in the market. Then he decided against it. He had an instinctive feeling that he wouldn't need the bow. He didn't know why he had that feeling. He just did.

They emerged from the cluster of market stalls into clear ground.

`Over there,' said Horace, pointing.

An armed man stood a few metres clear of the trees. Behind him, half hidden by the uncertain shadows among the trees, more armed men were visible. Standing between Halt and Horace's position at the edge of the market ground were three of the village's watchmen. They too were armed, but their weapons – clubs, a sickle blade mounted on a spear handle and one slightly rusty sword -seemed inadequate when viewed against the chain mail, swords, shields and maces wielded by the newcomers.

As the two Araluans watched, one of the village guards called a challenge to the man standing clear of the trees.

`That's far enough! You have no business here. Turn around and be on your way!'