Kings of Clonmel (29 page)

“Yes, signor?” Luciano was an experienced mercenary and assassin. He could see through the false concern in Tennyson’s voice. There was usually only one reason for an employer to point out a third party to a Genovesan, he knew.

“When he leaves my tent, follow him and wait for a moment when there’s no one around.”

“And then what should I do, signor?” But Luciano already knew what Tennyson wanted, and a wolfish smile was creasing his face in anticipation.

“Then you should kill him, Luciano. Then you should kill him.”

Luciano’s smile broadened, matched by an answering smile on Tennyson’s face. The two men looked into each other’s eyes and understood each other perfectly.

“Oh, one other thing, Luciano,” Tennyson added as an afterthought. The Genovesan said nothing but arched an eyebrow questioningly.

“You’ll find a gold chain on his person. He stole it from me. Bring it back to me when the job’s done.”

“It shall be as you say, signor,” Luciano said. And Tennyson, still smiling, nodded in satisfaction.

“I know,” he replied.

FERRIS WENT WHITE. HORACE SAW THE COLOR LITERALLY DRAIN from his face, and his hand went up to his throat in an involuntary gesture of shock. After initially recoiling, the King took control of himself and stepped forward a pace, peering into the face of the grim, gray-bearded man who stood before him.

“Brother?” he said. “But you can’t . . .” He stopped, then tried to take possession of himself once more, tried to assume an air of dignified mystification. “My brother is dead. He died many years ago,” he said, the conviction in his voice growing as he spoke. He made a small sign with his right hand, and Horace heard the large doors behind them open, heard several sets of hurried footsteps on the stone flooring and knew that Sean Carrick and a small group of men-at-arms had entered the throne room.

He’d been right about the unseen observers, he thought grimly.

“Your majesty, is everything all right?” Sean Carrick asked.

Halt glanced over his shoulder at the group of armed men. He stepped a little closer to Ferris. Instinctively, the King began to back off a corresponding pace. Then he seemed to realize that, by doing so, he was giving Halt the upper hand. He stopped, watching Halt warily. Halt spoke softly so that only his brother and Horace could hear his words.

“If you’re frightened, brother, then let Sean stay. He has a right to hear me. But unless you want your men to hear what we’re about to discuss—and I don’t think you do—send them outside again, where they can see but not listen.”

Ferris looked at him, then at the armed men standing ready by the door. Halt and Horace were both unarmed, he realized, while he was wearing his sword. Sean Carrick was similarly armed, and Ferris knew his steward was a more-than-capable swordsman. That was one of the reasons Sean held the position that he did. Years of guilt and fear, long suppressed, now swam to the surface of his mind. He didn’t want his soldiers to hear whatever it was that Halt planned to say. He knew it would not show himself in any favorable light. Abruptly, he decided.

“Sean!” he called. “Dismiss the men to their posts and come stand by me.”

Carrick hesitated, and Ferris turned to look directly at him.

“Do it,” he ordered.

Carrick still hesitated another second or two, then nodded to the men. As they turned and trooped out of the room, Sean waited till the doors closed behind them, then strode forward to stand beside the King.

“Uncle,” he said, confirming Halt’s earlier suspicion, “what’s the trouble? Who is this man?”

He was looking at Halt, frowning. From the relative positions of the three men, Halt and Ferris facing each other, Horace standing a pace or two back, it was obvious now that the Araluen knight was not the leader here but the follower. And now Sean had that same sense that he’d felt before, that there was something very familiar about the smaller man.

Halt turned to face him.

“Uncle?” he said. “You’d be Caitlyn’s son, then?”

Sean nodded. “What do you know of my mother?” he asked, his tone defensive and a little belligerent. Ferris let out a deep sigh of anguish and turned away, moving to sit on a low bench beside the throne, his head in his hands.

“She was my sister,” Halt told him.“I’m your uncle too. My name is Halt.”

“No!” Sean rejected the statement vehemently. “My uncle Halt is dead. He died over twenty years ago!” He looked to the King for confirmation. But Ferris’s face remained in his hands, and he refused to look up and meet Sean’s gaze. He shook his head repeatedly from side to side, as if trying to deny the scene before him. Sean’s conviction began to waver, and he looked more closely at the small, rather stocky man in the mottled cloak.

The beard was full and covered the face. And the mustache was heavy as well. But if that shaggy mop of hair were drawn back as Ferris’s was . . .

Sean shook his head now. The features were the same. In fact, they were more defined in the stranger’s face.

A person’s features become altered by their actions over their lifetime, Sean knew. A face is a canvas where the years paint their marks. But if you could strip away the effect of the years from these two faces, remove the excesses, the joys, the pains, the triumphs and disappointments of twenty years or more, then he sensed that they would be identical.

And if you looked beyond the faces to the eyes . . .

The eyes! They were the same. Yet in one important way, they were different. Ferris, he knew, could never meet your gaze for more than a few seconds at a time. His eyes would slide away from yours uncertainly. That was why Ferris set great store by the fact that people should not gaze directly into the face of a king. But this man’s eyes were steady and unwavering. And as Sean Carrick looked into them now, he saw something else, a faint hint of sardonic humor deep behind them.

“Finished looking?” Halt asked him.

Sean stepped back. He wasn’t totally convinced, but his mind couldn’t ignore the evidence that his eyes were seeing. He turned to Ferris.

“Your majesty?” he said. “ Tell me.”

But the only response from Ferris was a deep groaning sound and an ineffectual wave of the hand. And in that moment, Sean Carrick knew. A second later, Ferris confirmed it with one word.

“Halt . . . ,” he began uncertainly, raising his eyes at last to look at his brother, “I never meant you any harm. You must believe that.”

“Ferris, you’re a lying sack of manure. You meant me a great deal of harm. You meant to kill me.”

“No! When you left, I sent men after you to find you!” Ferris protested. Halt laughed, a short, barking sound that had no humor in it.

“I’ll bet you did! With orders to finish what you’d started!”

It was too much for Sean. Nobody had ever taken such a tone with the King, and the habit of years now made him intervene. He stepped forward, interposing himself between Ferris and Halt, his eyes locked on Halt’s.

“You can’t talk to the King like that,” Sean said with some force. Halt held his gaze for several seconds before he replied quietly.

“I’m not talking to the King.” He jerked a contemptuous thumb at his brother. “He is.”

The thought was so outrageous, so directly opposed to everything that Sean had lived by for his entire adult life, that it checked him like a physical blow. Yet he realized it was true. If this was Halt, then he was the rightful King of Clonmel and Ferris was a usurper. No ceremony of coronation and consecration could change that basic fact. And as he looked into Halt’s eyes again, then tried to look at Ferris, only to have the so-called King avert his gaze, the last doubt disappeared from Sean’s mind.

“Your majesty . . . ,” he said, and began to sink to his knees before Halt. The Ranger quickly stopped him, stepping closer to seize his forearm and draw him back to his feet. Ferris made a choking sound in his throat. Significantly, Sean thought, he made no protest about Sean’s demonstration of fealty to Halt.

“Very kind of you,” Halt said, “but we don’t have time for that nonsense. I’m really not interested in being King. I prefer to work for a living. Now, Ferris, we need to talk.”

Ferris looked wildly about the room, as if seeking some form of escape. He knew that he was about to face retribution for his crimes. So he was quite startled when Halt continued, in a bad-tempered tone.

“Oh, for God’s sake, man! I’m not here to steal your throne! I’m here to help you keep it!”

“Keep it?” Ferris, said, bewildered. Events were moving too fast for him. “Keep it from whom?”

“Let’s sit down, shall we?” Halt saw several low benches to one side, and he picked one up and brought it close to the throne, gesturing for Horace and Sean to do likewise. Ferris stood watching them, uncertain what to do next, plucking nervously at the hem of his satin sleeve.

“You hop up on your throne,” Halt told him.“I’m sure you’ll enjoy that.” He glanced at Sean. “I don’t suppose there’s any chance we could get some coffee sent in, is there?” he asked.

Sean looked doubtful.“We don’t drink coffee here. The King”—he corrected himself—“Uncle Ferris doesn’t like it.”

“Might have known,” Halt said, scowling. He looked at Horace and curled his lip in distaste. Horace couldn’t help grinning. Halt seemed more antagonized by the fact that his brother didn’t like coffee than by the fact that he had stolen the throne from him.

“Well, never mind,” Halt continued. “We’ll just get this over as quickly as we can. Now, Ferris, you’ve heard of a group called the Outsiders, I take it?”

“Yes. . . .” Ferris was taken aback. He hadn’t expected this turn in the conversation. “ They’re some kind of religion. Harmless, I would have said.”

“Harmless, my eye. They’re a cult, not a religion. And you’re going to have to take a stand against them. They’re on their way here, and they plan to seize power in Clonmel.”

“Seize power? That’s ridiculous! What makes you say that?” Ferris was openly skeptical of the idea. Halt gazed steadily at him. Sean noted that the King averted his eyes after a few seconds, as ever.

“I’ve heard their leader speak. And I’ve heard him whipping people up—inciting them to rebellion.”

“Nonsense!” Ferris seemed sure of himself now, back on secure ground. “Tennyson is a simple preacher, that’s all. He wishes me no harm.”

“Tennyson?” Halt said, seizing on the name, and the familiarity in Ferris’s voice when he mentioned it. “You know him?” A light of understanding dawned in his eyes. “You’ve been in contact with him . . .”

Ferris was about to answer, then hesitated. Halt pressed him further.

“Haven’t you?”

“We have . . . communicated. He sent a delegate to see me, to reassure me.”

“When?” The question burst from Sean’s lips before he could stop it. As the King’s steward, he was supposed to be aware of any and all delegations who came to see Ferris. This was the first time he had heard of any approach from this Tennyson. Ferris looked at him, trying to retain his dignity and authority.

“It didn’t concern you, Sean. It was a confidential visit.”

He realized how flimsy the excuse sounded as it hung in the air of the throne room. A long and ugly silence stretched out.

“Have you come to some arrangement with him?” Halt asked. But Ferris didn’t answer the question directly.

“Halt, the man has done wonders. There have been outlaws and brigands terrorizing the countryside, and I’ve been powerless to stop them.”

“You tend to be powerless when you refuse to do anything,” Halt said contemptuously. “The truth is, you’ve sat here and twiddled your thumbs while outlaws have been killing and robbing your people, haven’t you?” He didn’t wait for an answer but turned quickly to Sean. “Has he done anything? Sent troops out to hunt these outlaws down? Garrisoned any of the larger towns and villages? Has he even made a statement promising to act and denouncing the outlaws’ actions?”

Sean looked at the King, then back at Halt.

“No,” he said. “I offered to take a patrol out and . . .” He stopped, feeling awkward. Somehow it seemed disloyal to say that he had wanted to do something but the King had refused his request. But the truth was that the King had done nothing, tried nothing. Slowly, Sean shook his head. Halt sighed and his shoulders slumped. He looked at Ferris with contempt. The King tried to explain himself.

“Don’t you see? That’s why I agreed to see Tennyson’s messenger. He can stop the outlaws. He can bring an end to the lawlessness!”

“Because he controls them!” Halt came to his feet so violently that the bench he was seated on crashed over behind him. “Surely you can grasp that, you almighty fool?”

“He . . . controls them?” Ferris’s face creased in a puzzled frown.

“Of course! They do his bidding. Then he pretends to chase them off and claims to be the only person in the country with the power to do so. I’ve heard him preaching sedition against you, Ferris! ‘Can the King protect you?’ he asks. And the answer is a resounding
No!
from those he speaks to. ‘Can anyone protect you?’ he asks, and they fall over themselves to tell him that he is their only hope. Not you. Not the rule of law in this country. Him! Ferris, he is planning to seize power in Clonmel. Just as he has done in the other five kingdoms.”

“No! He said I’d be safe. I’d remain as King! He said—” Ferris stopped, realizing he’d said too much. He was used to the contempt in Halt’s eyes. Now he saw it in the eyes of the two younger men as well.

“You’d remain as King,” Horace said. “You’d be his puppet on the throne. And all the while, he’d bleed your people dry.”

“ They’re not his people,” Halt corrected him. “He doesn’t deserve them. And they certainly don’t deserve him. Get up, Ferris. Get up and face me.”

Reluctantly, the King stood so that he was facing his brother.

“There’s one way to stop Tennyson and put an end to his depraved cult. A figure of authority has to stand up against him and denounce him. He’s successful because nobody is ever willing to act or speak against him. Or if they do, they’re quickly removed and murdered. But he couldn’t do that to you.”