`Probably,' Horace had replied, distracted by his task. `But we only need you for today.'
Which was not a comforting thought for Halt.
Also aiding their deception was the fact that Ferris, over the years, had made it clear that he did not want his subjects looking directly into his face. Most people, even many of those in the castle, had never had a chance to study the King's features in detail. They had an overall impression of him and that impression was matched by the way Halt looked, talked and moved.
Preceded by two of the throne room guards, the party marched out of the keep tower into the courtyard. Abelard and Kicker were standing close by the doorway. Kicker's reins were fastened to a tethering ring. Abelard, of course, simply stood where he was until he was wanted.
He looked up as the party emerged and nickered a soft hello to his master, who was dressed in an unfamiliar green cloak and had dirt plastered on his face. Halt glanced at him, brow furrowed, and silently mouthed the words 'shutup'. Abelard shook his mane, which was as close as a horse could come to shrugging, and turned away.
`My horse recognised me,' Halt said accusingly out of the side of his mouth to Horace.
Horace glanced at the small shaggy horse, standing beside his own massive battlehorse.
`Mine didn't,' he replied. 'So that's a fifty-fifty result.'
I think I'd like better odds than that,' Halt replied.
Horace suppressed a grin. 'Don't worry. He can probably smell you.'
`I can smell myself,' Halt replied acerbically. 'I smell of tea and soot.'
Horace thought it was wiser not to reply to that.
The small group marched down the ramp to the town itself As they approached, Halt was conscious of the fact that, while people drew back from their path and lowered their heads or curtseyed as their King passed, there was no sign of cheering or waving. Ferris, now unconscious and bound and gagged in the wardrobe of the robing room, had done little to endear himself to his subjects.
They made their way into the town proper and the way continued to clear for them – whether' out of respect or because of the armed men who flanked them, Halt couldn't tell. He suspected it was a combination of the two. They turned down a side street and at the end of it he could make out an open space. The buzz of hundreds of voices carried to them. They were approaching the market ground, where Tennyson was already addressing a large crowd.
`They've started without us,' he said.
`They may have started,' Horace replied, 'but we'll finish it.'
Chapter 37
Will stood towards the back of the crowd in the marketplace. Tennyson's followers had been hard at work for some hours, preparing for the time when he would address the assembled crowd. A raised platform had been constructed and, to one side, there was a cooking fire surmounted, by a large spit. Two of the Outsiders, stripped to the waist and glistening with sweat, were turning the spit, which suspended a sheep's carcass above the fire. As the spit turned, fat from the beast dripped down onto the glowing coals of the fire, causing flames to leap and splutter and fragrant smoke to drift around the market ground.
Will hadn't eaten and the smell of the roasting meat set his stomach growling. From time to time, the Outsider in charge carved choice pieces from the outside of the meat. Another tore pieces of flat country bread to use as plates and the meat and bread were distributed to the waiting crowd. A cask of wine and another of ale had been broached and the townsfolk were invited to bring theirmugs and tankards forward to be filled up. The atmosphere was a jovial one, almost like a holiday. The food and wine were good and it was a pleasant break in the day-to-day humdrum life of the town. The market ground buzzed with conversation and goodwill.
Then Tennyson began to speak. At first he was cheerful and welcoming, beginning with a series of amusing anecdotes – often at his own expense – that set the crowd chuckling. He was a good performer, Will thought. He spoke of the happy times he and his followers spent as they moved through the countryside, caring for each other and worshipping their god. A choir of a dozen Outsiders filed onto the platform with him and, at his signal, they launched into song.
They sang popular country songs that had their audience tapping their feet and swaying in time until, at Tennyson's urging, the townsfolk joined in the chorus. Then the choir sang a simple hymn of joy to Alseiass. It had an easy and catchy chorus that the crowd could join in – and did. Then the choir moved off stage and, as more wine circulated, Tennyson's mood became less cheerful.
He was a skilful orator. He did it by degrees, first becoming wistful as he described the evil that had seemed to spread over Clonmel in recent months – a dark cloud that was so diametrically opposed to the simple, cheerful life espoused by Alseiass and his followers. His tone darkened into indignation, then anger as he described horrors like the massacre at Duffy's Ford, and others that had gone before. The details were unfamiliar to most in the crowd, but there had been rumours of evil-doing at half a dozen towns and villages through the south of the
Kingdom. The place names were familiar and since rumour is by nature imprecise, Tennyson was able to embellish and exaggerate events, painting a picture of bleak horror while he assumed an air of righteous indignation at the suffering of the people of Clonmel.
Will sensed the change in the crowd's mood. There was fear stalking among them, unseen and as yet unrecognised, as Tennyson pointed out how the killings, the attacks, the burnings, were gradually tracing a path north, towards Dun Kilty itself. The uneasiness grew as the level in the wine mugs fell. And as Tennyson detailed atrocity after atrocity, his white-robed followers began to echo his words. Then members of his newly converted group would step forward and attest to the truth of what he spoke.
`The prophet Tennyson has the right of it!' a new convert would cry. 'I was at Carramoss,' (or Dell or Clunkilly or Rorkes Creek or whatever the site he had mentioned might be) 'and I saw these things for myself!'
`There's evil stalking this land,' Tennyson said, reaching the heart of his address. 'Evil in the form of the dark spirit Balsennis! He's a depraved spirit who preys on the simple folk of this land and brings his dark hordes to plague and murder them! We've seen his hand before, haven't we, my people?'
He addressed this last question to the solid cadre of followers behind him and their voices chorused confirmation of the fact. Then Tennyson continued, his voice rising in intensity and volume.
`He must be stopped! His evil followers must be crushed and defeated! And who will do that for you? Who will protect you from his attacks? Who will face thebandits, criminals, murderers and outlaws who flock to his banner? Who will turn them back in confusion and defeat?'
The crowd muttered restlessly. There was no answer that they knew to his question.
`Who has the power to stand against Balsennis and protect you from his dark and evil,ways?'
Once more, Tennyson allowed the muttering and uncertainty to work its way through the crowd. Then he stepped forward and his deep, sonorous voice went up yet again in volume.
`Will your King do it?'
Silence. An awkward, nervous silence as the crowd looked at each other, then looked hurriedly away. This close to Castle Dun Kilty, no one was willing to make the first step towards denouncing the King. Yet, in their hearts, they all knew that the answer to the question was no. Tennyson's voice rose out of the silence again.
`Has your King -' the contempt in his voice was all too obvious as he said the word 'king' '- done anything to alleviate the suffering of his people? Has het'