`You talk of trial by combat, you cowardly fake!' He didn't seem to be shouting but his voice carried to all sides of the crowd. 'Trial by combat is single combat!'

Will decided it was time to join in again and make sure the crowd supported Horace. At the moment, he realised, they were ready to agree to anything.

`He's right!' he shouted. 'Single combat!'

And he felt a huge surge of relief when those around him took up the cry.

`Single combat! Single combat!' As he'd hoped, they didn't care about what was fair, but they wanted a show and they knew single combat would last longer than a one-sided competition of one on two.

Again, Horace's voice rang out over the square. His eyes were locked on Tennyson's.

`I'll fight both your mountains of blubber!' he said. `One at a time. One after the other. I'll defeat them and then I'll fight you, if you've the courage!'

And he shoved Tennyson hard in the chest, sending the white-robed man staggering back a pace. Behind Horace, the two islander giants started forward to their leader's defence. But they'd barely moved when Horace spun to face them. His sword seemed to leap into his hand of its own volition, and stopped with its gleaming point at the throat of the nearest of the two, stopping them both in their tracks.

There was a gasp of admiration at his blinding speed. Most of those present didn't even see him move. One moment he was facing Tennyson. The next his sword was threatening the two immense islanders. Instantly, Will saw there was another way to enlist the crowd's support.

`Two fights!' he yelled. 'Two fights instead of one!'

And they took up the cry. Now they had a chance of seeing twice as much bloodshed. And to this baying, half-drunk rabble, that meant twice the entertainment.

Tennyson, his face red with anger, glared at the crowd. He seemed about to demur but the shouting intensified, drowning him out.

`Two fights! Let's see two fights! Two fights! Two fights! Two fights!'

It became a rhythmic, insistent chant, one that brooked no argument. Tennyson understood mobs and as he listened to that repetitive, mindless chant, he knew he had no way of changing their mind.

He raised his hands and the chant died away. The mob watched him expectantly.

`Very well!' he agreed. 'Two fights!'

And the mob roared in exultation, taking up the chant again. Halt looked at Horace, a question in his eyes. Horace nodded confidently.

`Not a problem… your majesty.' He grinned as he added the last two words.

Chapter 38

The crowd continued to yell its approval and Tennyson stepped closer to Halt. As he did so, Horace went to move to the side of the counterfeit King, with Sean half a second behind him. But Halt, unperturbed, held up a hand to stop them.

`Something on your mind, priest?' he asked.

For a moment, a frown touched Tennyson's face. There was something vaguely familiar about the King, he thought. But he couldn't place it. He discarded the momentary distraction and his cold anger returned.

`We had an agreement, Ferris,' he said in a low tone.

Halt raised an eyebrow. 'Ferris?' he said. 'Is that the way you address a king? I think you mean "your majesty".'

`You won't be King when I'm finished with you. People do not break agreements with me. I'll destroy your Sunrise Warrior and then I'll have you dragged from the throne, screaming like a frightened girl.'

Tennyson was confused and furious. All his intelligence, gathered by spies in the months preceding his march on Dun Kilty, had led him to expect a vacillating, uncertain, weak character. This hard-eyed King came as a surprise; he faced Tennyson's threats with no sign of fear or weakness.

`Brave talk, Tennyson, especially from a man who will be doing none of the fighting. And, I assume, none of the dragging. Now let me tell you something: scum like you don't make agreements with kings. You do their bidding. And you don't make threats to them, either. I'll ruin your plan and I'll destroy your filthy cult as well. And then I'll take a horsewhip to your fat, quivering hide and driveyou out of this country. And unlike you, my friend, I will do it personally!'

In the past two years, since he had begun his campaign to destabilise the island of Hibernia, nobody had dared to threaten Tennyson. Nobody had spoken to him with such an air of confident contempt. Now, looking into those dark eyes before him, he felt a slight tremor of fear. He saw no sign of doubt there. No sign that this was a man who could be cowed. Rather, he saw a promise that the King would carry out the threat he had just made. In a flickering moment of uncertainty, Tennyson wondered if he might not be wiser to withdraw from Clonmel and settle for his position of dominance in the other five kingdoms. But he sensed that the man before him wouldn't be content with that. They were both committed now and the situation would be resolved in trial by combat. He looked at his two massively built retainers, then at the muscular young warrior standing a pace behind the King. Surely no man could stand against both Killeen and Gerard, he thought.

But the young man looked supremely unworried by the prospect.

Horace, meeting Tennyson's eyes, smiled at him. Tennyson was struck by a feeling that he had seen him before as well. But at their previous encounter, he had paid little attention to Horace, who had been dusty, travel stained and roughly dressed as a hired guard. Now, resplendent in chain mail and the surcoat of the Sunrise Warrior, he was an entirely different character.

`The combat will take place in three days' time,' Halt announced, speaking so that the entire assembly could hear him. He had no need to ask Horace if that timing suited him. Horace was always ready, he knew.

Tennyson tore his glance away from Horace and regarded Halt once more.

`Agreed,' he said.

The crowd broke out in cheers once more. A public trial by combat would mean a holiday – with the added attraction of the opportunity to see at least one man killed.

Halt glanced at Sean, who gestured to the escort to form around him. Then they marched off the platform and, shoving through the cheering, jostling crowd, they headed up the hill back to the castle. As they made their way, they became aware of a chant spreading through the town.

`Hail Ferris! Long live the King! Hail Ferris! Long live the King!'

Horace grinned sidelong at Sean.

`So that's the way to win the crowd's loyalty. Throw them a few violent deaths.'

`At least,' Sean replied, 'there's no way Ferris can go back on it now. The mob would tear him to pieces if he did.'

They made their way back to the castle and into the throne room. As their escort took up positions outside the throne room, Sean ordered one of them to fetch hot water, soap and towels. Then he followed Halt and Horace into the large inner room.

Halt crossed quickly to the small robing annexe. Gesturing for Sean and Horace to remain outside, he pulled the heavy curtain aside and entered. As he did, he could hear faint, muffled thuds coming from the large wardrobe where Ferris was concealed. Opening the door, he dragged his bound and gagged brother out of the wardrobe by his collar, leaving him sprawled on the floor. Ferris, red faced and with eyes bulging, was trying to shout abuse at his brother. But the gag was a good one and the only sound was a series of muffled, unintelligible grunts. Halt, who had worn the saxe knife under his brocade cloak, produced the heavy, gleaming blade now and held it before Ferris's nose.

`Two choices, brother. I either cut your gag and ropes, or I cut your throat. You choose.'