Pine was obviously the most common building material available in Skandia. A long, wide road led up to the gateway in the stockade from the main quay.
Gazing at the town across the glass-smooth water of the harbor, Will thought that, in another time and under other conditions, he would probably find the neatly ordered houses, with the massive, snow-covered mountains towering behind them, to be quite beautiful.
Right now, however, he could see nothing to recommend their new home to him. As the two young people watched, light snow began to drift down around them.
"I should think it's going to be cold here," Will said quietly.
He felt Evanlyn's chilled hand creep into his. He squeezed it gently, hoping to give her a sense of encouragement. A sense that was totally foreign to the way he himself was feeling at the moment.
18
"I TOLD YOU THAT SYMBOL ON YOUR SHIELD WOULD MAKE traveling easier," Halt remarked to Horace. They sat at ease in their saddles, Halt with one leg cocked up over the pommel, as they watched the Gallic knight who had been barring passage to a crossroads ahead of them set his spurs to his horse and gallop away toward the safety of a nearby town. Horace glanced down at the green oakleaf device that Halt had painted on his formerly plain shield.
"You know," he said, with a hint of disapproval in his tone, "I'm not actually entitled to any coat of arms until I have been formally knighted." Horace's training under Sir Rodney had been quite strict and he felt sometimes that Halt didn't pay enough notice to the etiquette of chivalrous behavior. The bearded Ranger glanced sidelong at him and shrugged.
"For that matter," he remarked, "you're not entitled to contest any of these knights until you've been properly knighted either. But I haven't noticed that stopping you."
Since their first encounter at the bridge, the two travelers had been stopped on half a dozen occasions by freebooting knights guarding crossroads, bridges and narrow valleys. All of them had been dispatched with almost contemptuous ease by the muscular young apprentice. Halt was highly impressed by the young man's skill and natural ability. One after another, Horace had sent the roadside guardians toppling from their saddles, at first with a few deftly placed strokes from his sword and, more recently, as he had captured a good, stout lance with a balance and a feel that he liked, in a thundering charge that unseated his opponent and sent him flying meters behind his galloping horse. By now, the two travelers had amassed a considerable store of armor and weapons, which they carried strapped to the saddles of the horses they had captured. At the next sizable town they came to, Halt planned to sell horses, arms and armor.
For all his admiration of Horace's skill, and despite the fact that he felt a grim satisfaction at seeing the bullying vultures put out of business, Halt resented the continual delays they caused in his and Horace's journey. Even without them, he and Horace would be hard put to reach the distant border with Skandia before the first winter blizzards made it impassable.
Accordingly, five nights previously, as they camped in the half-ruined barn of a deserted farm property, he had rummaged through the piles of old rusting tools and rotting sacks until he unearthed a small pot of green paint and an old, dried-out brush. Using these, he had sketched a green oakleaf design onto Horace's shield. The result had been as he expected. The reputation of Sir Horace of the Order of the Oakleaf had gone before them. Now, more often than not, as the brigand knights had seen them approaching, they had turned and fled at the sight of the device on Horace's shield.
"I can't say I'm sorry to see him go," Horace remarked, gently nudging Kicker forward toward the now-deserted crossroads. "My shoulder's not totally healed yet."
His previous opponent had been considerably more skillful than the general run of highway warriors. Undaunted by the oakleaf device on the shield, and obviously not bothered by Horace's reputation, he had joined combat eagerly. The fight had lasted several minutes, and during the course of their combat, a blow from his mace had glanced off the top rim of Horace's shield and deflected onto his upper arm.
Fortunately, the shield had taken a good deal of the force of the blow, or Horace's arm would, in all likelihood, have been broken. As it was, there was severe bruising and his arm and shoulder were still not as free moving as he would have liked.
Barely half a second after the mace had done its damage, Horace's backhanded sword stroke had clanged sickeningly into the front of the other man's helmet, leaving a severe dent and sending the knight sprawling unconscious and heavily concussed on the forest floor.
Now he was relieved that he hadn't had to fight since.
"We'll spend a night in town," Halt said. "We may be able to get some herbs and I'll make a poultice for that arm of yours." He'd noticed the boy was favoring the arm. Even though Horace hadn't complained, it was obviously causing him considerable pain.
"I'd like that," Horace said. "A night in a real bed would be a pleasant change after sleeping on the ground for so long."
Halt snorted derisively. "Battleschool evidently isn't what it used to be," he replied. "It's a fine thing when an old man like me can sleep comfortably in the open while a young boy gets all stiff and rheumatic over it."
Horace shrugged. "Be that as it may," he replied, "I'll still be glad to sleep in a bed tonight."
Actually, Halt felt the same way. But he wasn't going to let Horace know that.
"Perhaps we should hurry," he said, "and get you into a nice comfortable bed before your joints seize up altogether."
And he urged Abelard into a slow canter. Behind him, Tug instantly increased his own pace to match. Horace, caught by surprise, and hampered by the captured horses he was leading, was a little slower to keep up.
The string of battlehorses, laden with armor and weapons, raised quite a bit of interest in the town as they rode through the streets.
Horace noticed again how people scurried to clear the way in front of his battlehorse as he rode. He noticed the furtive glances cast his way and more than once he heard the phrase Chevalier du Chene whispered as he passed people by. He glanced curiously at Halt.
"What's that they're saying about chains?" he asked. Halt gestured toward the oakleaf symbol on the shield hanging at Horace's saddlebow.
"Not chain," he told the young warrior, "They're saying chene.
That's their word for 'oak.' They're talking about you: the knight of the oak. Apparently your fame has spread."
Horace frowned. He wasn't sure if he was pleased about that or not.
"Let's hope it doesn't cause any trouble," he said uncertainly.
Halt merely shrugged.
"In a small town like this? It's hardly likely. More the opposite, I'd expect."
For it was a small town, barely more than a village, in fact. The single main street was narrow, with hardly room for their two horses to move abreast. People on foot had to press back out of the way, stepping into the side streets to let the horsemen pass-then remaining in that position as the small string of battlehorses clopped quietly along behind them.
The street itself was unpaved, a mere dusty track that would quickly turn to thick gluey mud in the event of any rain. The houses were small, mostly single-story affairs, which seemed to have been built on something less than the normal scale.
"Keep your eyes open for an inn," Halt said quietly.
Traveling with a notorious companion was a novel experience for Halt. In Araluen, he was accustomed to the suspicion and sometimes fear that greeted the appearance of a member of the Ranger Corps. The mottled cloaks with their deep cowls were a familiar sight to people in the kingdom. Here in Gallica, he was quite pleased to notice, the Ranger uniform, along with the distinctive weaponry of longbow and double knives, seemed to evoke little or no interest.