`Someone's having a good time,' he said to Tug. `Wonder if it's Halt?'

Halt's no singer, the horse replied.

He followed the noise to the end of the village. It seemed that the entire population was gathered on a large meadow outside the protective barricade, where a marketplace had been set up. But the stalls and livestock pens were deserted now and, a sizeable crowd was gathered in front of a large white pavilion set in the south-west corner of the meadow.

He reined Tug in, staying in the shadow of a house while he surveyed the scene before him. In the adjacent corner, he made out the two low tents that Horace and Halt had pitched. But he could see no sign of his friends there.

He turned his attention back to the large pavilion. It was surrounded by a noisy mass of celebrating villagers. Food was roasting over several open fires and a cask of ale had been perched on a table and broached. By the looks of things, most of the villagers had taken their share.

In the centre of the throng he could see a smaller group of white-robed figures. The large, heavily built man with shoulder-length grey hair must be Tennyson, he thought. He was the centre of attention, with a constant stream of villagers coming up to him, touching his arm, pattinghim on the back and offering him choice cuts from the roasting meat.

`Something's happened,' Will said to himself. Then he made out Halt and Horace standing at the back of the crowd. As he saw them, the bearded Ranger glanced round and made eye contact. Will saw him nudge Horace, then point unobtrusively to the two small tents some fifty metres away. Will nodded and urged Tug forward in a walk. He headed around the far side of the market stalls to lessen the probability that he'd be noticed. But he sensed nobody was looking his way in any event. Tennyson and his people were the focus of all attention.

He reached the camp site, unsaddled Tug and rubbed him down thoroughly. The little horse had put in a hard day and he deserved some attention. Then he foraged in his pack and found an apple. Tug crunched it blissfully, his eyes closed as he concentrated on the flavour and the spurting juice of the apple. Will slapped his neck affectionately. Tug was nosing round his pockets, searching for a second apple, when Halt and Horace made their way back to the camp site. In response to the persistent nudging from the little horse's blunt nose, Will unstrapped his pack and found another apple for him.

`You spoil that horse,' Halt said.

Will glanced round at him. 'You spoil yours.'

Halt considered the thought, then nodded. 'That's true,' he admitted.

`Welcome back,' Horace said, deciding not to join this discussion of how a horse should be treated. He knew that when Rangers started talking about their horses, it could take a lot to shut them up.

Will stretched himself, imagining he could hear the tendons cracking and groaning in his stiff arms and legs. It had been a long ride and he was thirsty. He grunted in satisfaction as he relaxed his muscles and looked meaningfully at the coffee pot, upside down beside the fire.

`I'll make it,' Horace said. He filled the pot from a canteen hanging in a nearby tree, then blew on the embers of the fire to get the flames going again. He added a handful of kindling until the fire was burning brightly, then shoved the pot into the hot coals beside the flames.

Will settled himself onto the soft ground by the fireplace. There was a convenient log for him to rest his back against and he sighed in contentment. He nodded towards the noisy gathering some hundred metres away.

`I take it that's our friend Tennyson?'

Halt nodded. 'He's quite a local hero.'

Will raised an eyebrow. 'A hero, you say?' He sensed the irony in Halt's tone.

Horace, readying a handful of ground coffee beans from a small linen sack, glanced up from his work. 'Saved the village of Mountshannon from a terrible fate, did Tennyson,' he put in.

Will looked from Horace to Halt, a question in his eyes.

`Bandits tried to attack the village a few hours ago,' the Ranger explained. 'A force of armed men came out of those woods there, threatening all sorts of dire consequences if the villagers put up any resistance. And our friend Tennyson just calmly strolled up and told them to be off. And off they went.'

`Not before his followers sang at them,' Horace reminded him.

Halt nodded. 'That's true. A couple of verses and the bandits were staggering around, hands over their ears.'

`The singing was that bad?' Will asked, straight-faced. He had a pretty good idea what had happened earlier in the day. Now Driscoll's cryptic comment about a holy man began to make sense.

`The singing was very good, so Horace tells me. But the sheer force of Tennyson's personality, and the power of his god Alseiass, was enough to see off a force of eighty men.'

`Thirty,'Will said and his friends looked at him inquisitively. 'There were only thirty. They were led by a man called Driscoll.'

`Well, we only saw about thirty,' Horace said. 'But he claimed to have another fifty men hidden in the woods. After all, why would you attack a large village like this with only thirty men?'

`He was never going to attack,' Will said. Halt leaned forward curiously.

`You know this?' he said. 'Or are you assuming it?'

`I know it. I eavesdropped outside their leader's tent last night. The plan wasn't to attack Mountshannon. They referred to "putting on a show" here. But then one of them said they'd do more than that at Craikennis, because "there'd be no holy man to send them packing".'

`Which Tennyson did here,' Halt said, seeing the connection.

`Exactly. But tomorrow at Craikennis, there will be eighty of them. They're joining up with a further fifty men and this time they won't be pretending. They'll tear the place apart.'

His expression darkened as his mind went back to the scene at Duffy's Ford. He knew how pitiless these raiders could be.

Halt scratched his beard thoughtfully. 'So the fake attack here was simply an opportunity for Tennyson to demonstrate his power.'

`And his ability to protect the village,' Horace put in. `Remember what he was saying yesterday? "Who can protect you?" This was obviously intended to make his point – only Alseiass, by virtue of Tennyson.'

`Exactly,' Halt said, his eyes narrowing. 'Craikennis will demonstrate what happens if Tennyson isn't around. Bandits attack Mountshannon and Tennyson chases them off. A day later, bandits attack Craikennis and there's no sign of Tennyson. It's obvious what the result will be.'

`The villagers will be massacred,' Will said quietly. `Craikennis will be Duffy's Ford all over again, but ten times worse.'

`That's the way I read it,' Halt said. 'It'll be an object lesson for the people of Clonmel. With Tennyson on your side, you're safe. Without him, you're dead.' He turned to Horace. 'It's the big event I said he needed.'

Horace studied his friends' grim faces.

`We're going to have to do something,' he said. He felt his anger rising at the thought of the helpless villagers attacked by vicious bandits. When he had been knighted, Horace had sworn an oath to protect the weak and the helpless.

Halt nodded agreement. 'Saddle up. We'll leave the tents here so it'll look as if we're coming back. I don't want Tennyson wondering why we've suddenly left. We have to get to Craikennis tonight and warn them. That way, they can organise their defences.'

`What about us?' Will asked. 'Are we going to take a hand in this?'

Halt looked at his two young friends. Will's face was grim and determined. Horace was flushed with anger and indignation. The grey-bearded Ranger nodded.

`Yes,' he said. 'I rather think we are.'