Will contemplated whether there was any point in telling this oaf that he played a mandola, not a lute. He decided against it.

`Tennyson wants my… instrument?'

The man scowled at him. 'Isn't that what I said? No more music and hand in your lute! Clear?'

Will hesitated, thinking about the order and what it meant, and the man spoke, this time even louder and more abruptly.

`Clear?'

`Yes, of course. No more music. Hand in my… lute. I understand.'

Gerard or Killeen nodded in a satisfied manner. 'Good. Make sure you do.'

He turned on his heel and swaggered away, his huge frame visible over the tents for some distance. Will sat on his rolled pack and looked at the mandola in its boiled-leather, shaped case. It was a beautiful instrument, made by Araluen's master luthier, Gilet, and given to him as apresent by a grateful Lord Orman of Castle Macindaw. If he handed it in to Tennyson, he had no doubt that he'd never see it again.

Besides, he thought, he'd learned as much as he could about Tennyson's plans. The prophet was heading directly for Dun Kilty, cutting short his original scheme to gather an increasing number of followers in a triumphal progression through the countryside. Not that he needed any more. He had hundreds of them already.

Then there was the matter of the three new arrivals -the crossbowmen. It might be timely for Halt to hear about them. Will was sure that his old mentor would know who they were – or at least, where they came from and what their purpose would be.

All in all, Will decided, it was time for him to leave the followers of Alseiass.

He clicked his tongue and Tug trotted briskly to him, all thoughts of grazing forgotten. Quickly, Will saddled the horse, strapping his pack, mandola case and camping gear to the ties provided for them. Then he took a long oilskin-wrapped bundle that remained on the ground and opened it to reveal his longbow and quiver. He strung the longbow, slipped the strap of the quiver over his shoulder and mounted Tug.

He rode quickly through the outskirts of the camp, not making any attempt at concealment. That would only attract suspicion, he knew. As the tent lines began to thin out, he increased the pace to a trot, stopping briefly when one of the outer ring of pickets stepped into his path, his hand raised.

`Just a moment! Where do you think you're going?'

`I'm leaving,' Will said. The man was standing on his right side and Will slipped his right boot out of the stirrup.

`Nobody leaves,' the sentry said. 'Get back into camp now.'

He had a spear. So far, he had kept the haft grounded but now he began to raise it, to bar Will's way.

`No. I have to go,' Will said in a pleasant tone. 'You see my poor old aunty on my mother's side sent me a letter and said..

A little pressure from his left knee had told Tug to shuffle closer to the man as he was talking. He could remember Halt's teaching: ff you're planning to surprise someone, keep talking to him right up until you do it. He could see the annoyance on the sentry's face as he rambled on about his aunty on his mother's side. The man was drawing breath to cut him off and order him back into camp when Will shot his booted right foot forward, straightening his knee and slamming the sole of the boot hard into the man's face.

In the same instant the man stumbled and went down, Will urged Tug into a gallop. By the time the dazed sentry had regained his feet and found the spear that had gone spinning out of his hand, Will and Tug had been swallowed by the early evening gloom. There was only the sound of fast-receding hoof beats to mark the fact that they had been there.

Chapter 34

Halt and Horace returned to the courtyard, where Kicker and Abelard waited patiently. Halt was silent as they mounted and rode out of the castle, deep in thought. Horace was hardly surprised.

Halt at the best of times was taciturn and today he had a lot to occupy his mind. Horace tried to imagine what it must have been like for his unofficial mentor – for he too had learned a great deal from Halt and continued to do so – to face his treacherous brother after his long absence. A wry grin touched his mouth as he considered the other side of the coin. Presumably it had been a disturbing experience for Halt. But it must have been ten times worse for Ferris, he thought, and the King's behaviour had borne that out. The thought of the King brought a question to his lips and he asked it abruptly, without any preamble.

`Do you trust him, Halt?'

The Ranger looked up at him and his answer told Horace that he had been thinking along the same lines.

`Ferris? Not as far as I could kick him. And I'd enjoy seeing how far that might be,' he added, with a hint of bitterness in his voice. 'But I trust Sean. He'll keep Ferris in line. And he'll make sure he keeps his word.'

`He's a good man,' Horace agreed. 'But can he really do that? After all, Ferris is the King. Surely he can do as he likes?'

But Halt shook his head. `It's not that easy, even for a king. Especially for this one,' he added. 'Ferris knows he needs Sean. He relies on him. You don't think any of those castle guards care a fig about what Ferris wants, do you? Didn't you notice that when Ferris dismissed them, none of them moved until Sean gave them the nod? If Ferris tries to cheat us or trick us, he'll alienate Sean. And right now, he needs him.'

`I suppose so,' Horace agreed. Halt invariably knew more about this sort of thing than he did. Horace, like most soldiers, hated politics, and avoided it as much as he could. Rangers, as he'd noted on more than one occasion, seemed at home with the secret dealing, scheming and subterfuge that seemed to go with ruling a country. If Halt was satisfied, Horace thought, that was good enough for him. He had more pressing matters to engage his attention.

Like lunch.

`What do we do now?' he asked after a few more minutes of silence. Halt looked up, snapped out of his reverie by the question.

`I suppose we find a comfortable inn,' he said. Horace nodded, then a thought struck him.

`What about Will? How will he know where to find us?' `He'll manage,' Halt said confidently. Then he stretched his stiff back and shoulder muscles. 'Let's find that inn. I don't know about you but I could do with a few hours' sleep.'

Horace nodded agreement. 'Yes, a good meal and then a few hours in a soft bed would do wonders.'

`I think I'll skip the meal,' said Halt.

Horace looked at him, horrified. How anyone could contemplate such a thing was beyond him.

They found a suitable inn at the base of the hill that led up to Dun Kilty castle. The inn was a two-storey building – as most inns were – but this was more substantial than most. The tap room and bar were large and the ceilings a little higher than normal, avoiding the cramped feeling that Horace had experienced in the Mountshannon and Craikennis inns. He could stand erect under the ceiling beams in this building and he gave a small sigh of relief when he realised the fact. More than once since they'd been travelling in Hibernia, he'd managed to crack his head on low ceiling beams.

The guest rooms were on the second floor. They were large and airy, with glass-paned windows that opened wide to let the breeze in and allowed a view of the high street in either direction. If you craned out, as Horace did; you could even catch a glimpse of the castle, high on the hill above them.

The sheets on the beds were clean and the blankets had been well aired. Too often in his long career, Halt had been forced to stay in establishments where the sheets bore ample evidence of those who had gone before him. He looked around the room with approval, tested the mattress with his hands and the approval grew.