‘Is there anything I should say to him before I get off?’
Bob laughed aloud. ‘No, youngster. Once said and young Tug here will remember – as long as it’s you who’s riding him.’ Relieved, Will climbed down. He stood beside the pony and Tug shoved him affectionately with his head. Will glanced at the apple barrel.
‘Could I give him another?’ he asked.
Halt nodded. ‘Just one more,’ he said. ‘But don’t go making a habit of it. He’ll be too fat to run if you feed him all the time.’
Tug snorted loudly. Apparently he and Halt were at odds over how many apples a pony should have in a day.
Will spent the rest of the day getting tips on riding technique from Old Bob, and learning how to look after and repair Tug’s saddle and harness, as well as the finer points of caring for the little horse.
He brushed and curried the shaggy coat until it shone and Tug seemed to appreciate his efforts. Finally, worn out, his arms aching with the effort, he had slumped to a seat on a hay bale. Which, of course, had to be the exact moment when Halt walked into the stable.
‘Come along,’ he said. ‘No time to be lolling around doing nothing. We’d best get moving if we’re to be home before dark.’
And, so saying, he tossed a saddle across the back of his horse. Will didn’t bother to protest that he hadn’t been ‘lolling around’, as the Ranger put it. For a start, he knew it would be no use. And secondly, he was excited by the fact that they would be riding back to Halt’s little cottage by the edge of the forest. It seemed that the two horses were to become a permanent part of their establishment. He realised now that Halt’s horse had obviously been so before and that the Ranger had only been waiting until Will had shown his ability to ride and to bond with Tug before reclaiming him from his temporary home in Old Bob’s stable.
The horses whinnied to each other from time to time as they trotted back through the dim green forest, for all the world as if they were carrying on their own conversation. Will was bursting with questions he wanted to ask. But, by now, he was wary of chattering too much in the Ranger’s presence.
Finally, he could contain himself no longer.
‘Halt?’ he said, experimentally.
The Ranger grunted. Will took that as a sign that he could continue speaking.
‘What’s your horse’s name?’ the boy asked.
Halt looked down at him. His horse was slightly larger than Tug, although nowhere near the size of the giant battlehorses kept in the Baron’s stable.
‘I believe it’s Abelard,’ he said.
‘Abelard?’ Will repeated. ‘What kind of name is that?’
‘It’s Gallic,’ said the Ranger, obviously putting an end to the conversation.
They rode a few kilometres further in silence. The sun was lowering over the trees now and their shadows were long and distorted on the ground in front of them. Will studied Tug’s shadow. The pony seemed to have enormously long legs and a ridiculously short body. He wanted to call Halt’s attention to it but thought that such a frivolous observation would not impress the Ranger. Instead, he summoned the courage to ask another question that had been occupying his thoughts for some days.
‘Halt?’ he said again.
The Ranger sighed briefly.
‘What now?’ he asked. His tone definitely did not encourage further conversation. However, Will pressed on.
‘Remember you told me how a Ranger was responsible for Morgarath’s defeat?’
‘Mmmm,’ Halt grunted.
‘Well, I was just wondering, what was the Ranger’s name?’ the boy asked.
‘Names aren’t important.’ Halt said. ‘I really can’t remember.’
‘Was it you?’ Will continued, sure that it was. Halt turned that level, unsmiling gaze on him again.
‘I said, names aren’t important,’ he repeated. There was a silence between them for some seconds, then the Ranger said: ‘Do you know what is important?’
Will shook his head.
‘Supper is important!’ said the Ranger. ‘And we’ll be late for it if we don’t hurry.’
He clapped his heels into Abelard’s side and the horse shot away like an arrow from Halt’s own bow, leaving Will and Tug far behind in a matter of seconds.
Will touched Tug’s sides with his own heels and the little pony raced off in pursuit of his bigger friend.
‘Come on, Tug!’ Will urged. ‘Let’s show them how a real Ranger horse can run.’
Will rode Tug slowly through the crowded fairground that had been set up outside the castle walls. All the villagers and inhabitants of the castle itself seemed to be out and he had to ride carefully to ensure that Tug didn’t step on somebody’s foot.
It was Harvest Day, the day when all the crops had been gathered and stored for the winter months ahead. After a hard month of harvesting, the Baron traditionally allowed his people a holiday. Every year, at this time, the travelling fair came to the castle and set up its booths and stalls. There were fire-eaters and jugglers, singers and storytellers. There were stalls where you could attempt to win prizes by throwing soft leather balls at pyramids made from bottle-shaped pieces of wood or by throwing hoops over squares. Will sometimes thought that the squares were perhaps just a little larger than the hoops that one was given to throw and he had never actually seen anyone win one of the prizes. But it was all fun and the Baron paid for it from his own purse.
Right now, however, Will was not concerned with the fair and its attractions. There would be time later in the day for that. At the moment, he was on his way to meet his former wardmates.
By tradition, all the Craftmasters gave their apprentices the day off on Harvest Day, even though they had taken no part in the actual harvest themselves. Will had been wondering for weeks whether or not Halt would conform to the practice. The Ranger seemed to take no notice of tradition and had his own way of doing things. But, two nights before, his anxiety had been settled. Halt had gruffly told him that he could have the holiday, adding that he would probably forget everything that he had learned in the past three months.
Those three months had been a time of constant practice with his bow and the knives that Halt had given him. Three months of stalking through the fields outside the castle, moving from one scant patch of cover to the next, trying to make his way unobserved by Halt’s eagle eyes. Three months of riding and caring for Tug, of forming a special bond of friendship with the little pony.
That, he thought, had been the most enjoyable part of it all.
Now, he was ready for a holiday and ready to enjoy himself a little. Even the thought that Horace would be there couldn’t dim the pleasure. Maybe, he thought, a few months’ hard training in Battleschool had changed Horace’s aggressive manner a little.
It was Jenny who had arranged the meeting for the holiday, encouraging the others to join her with the promise of a batch of fresh mince pies that she would bring from the kitchen. She was already one of Master Chubb’s prize pupils and he boasted of her artistry to anyone who would listen – giving suitable emphasis to the vital role his training had played in developing her skill, of course.
Will’s stomach grumbled with pleasure at the thought of those pies. He was starving, since he had intentionally gone without breakfast so as to leave room for them. Jenny’s pies were already a byword in Castle Redmont.
He had arrived at the meeting point early, so he dismounted and led Tug into the shade of an apple tree. The little pony craned his head and looked wistfully at the apples on the branches, well out of his reach. Will grinned at him and scrambled quickly up the tree, picking an apple and handing it to the pony.
‘That’s all you get,’ he said. ‘You know what Halt says about eating too much.’
Tug shook his head impatiently. That was still a matter of disagreement between him and the Ranger. Will looked around. There was no sign of the others so he sat down in the shade of the tree, leaning his back against the knobby trunk to wait.
‘W
hy, it’s young Will, isn’t it?’ said a deep voice close behind him.
Will scrambled hastily to his feet and touched his forehead in a polite salute. It was Baron Arald himself, seated astride his giant battlehorse and accompanied by several of his senior knights.
‘Yes, sir,’ said Will nervously. He wasn’t used to being addressed by the Baron. ‘A happy Harvest Day to you, sir.’
The Baron nodded in acknowledgement and leaned forward, slouching comfortably in his saddle. Will had to crane his neck to look up at him.
‘I must say, young man, you look quite the part there,’ the Baron said. ‘I hardly saw you in that grey Ranger cloak. Has Halt been teaching you all his tricks already?’
Will glanced down at the grey and green mottled cloak that he was wearing. Halt had given it to him some weeks ago. He’d shown Will how the grey and green mottling broke up the shape of the wearer and helped him blend into the landscape. It was one of the reasons, he’d said, why Rangers could move unseen with such ease.
‘It’s the cloak, sir,’ Will said. ‘Halt calls it camouflage.’ The Baron nodded, obviously familiar with the term, which had been a new concept to Will.
‘Just make sure you don’t use it to steal more cakes,’ he said with mock severity and Will shook his head hurriedly.
‘Oh no, sir!’ he said immediately. ‘Halt told me that if I did anything like that he’d tan the skin off my backsi–’ He stopped awkwardly. He wasn’t sure if ‘backside’ was the sort of word you used in the presence of someone as exalted as a Baron.
The Baron nodded again, trying not to let a wide grin break through.
‘I’m sure he did,’ he said. ‘And how are you getting on with Halt, Will? Are you enjoying learning to be a Ranger?’
Will paused. To be honest, he hadn’t had time to think if he was enjoying himself or not. His days were too busy learning new skills, practising with bow and knives and working with Tug. This was the first time in three months he’d had a moment to actually think about it.
‘I suppose so,’ he said hesitantly, ‘Only …’ His voice trailed off and the Baron looked at him more closely.
‘Only what?’ he prompted.
Will shifted from one foot to the other, wishing that his mouth didn’t continually get him into these situations by talking too much. Words had a way of emerging before he’d really had time to consider whether he wanted to say them or not.
‘Only … Halt never smiles at all,’ he went on awkwardly. ‘He’s always so serious about things.’
He had the impression that the Baron was suppressing another grin.
‘Well,’ said Baron Arald, ‘being a Ranger is a serious business, you know. I’m sure Halt has impressed that on you.’
‘All the time,’ Will said ruefully and, this time, the Baron couldn’t help smiling.
‘Just pay attention to what he tells you, youngster,’ he said. ‘You’re learning a very important job there.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Will was a little surprised to realise that he did agree with the Baron. Baron Arald reached forward to gather up his reins. On an impulse, before the nobleman could ride away, Will stepped forward.
‘Excuse me, sir,’ he said hesitantly and the Baron turned back to him.
‘Yes, Will?’ he asked.
Will shuffled his feet again, then went on. ‘Sir, remember when our armies fought Morgarath?’
Baron Arald’s cheerful face was clouded by a thoughtful frown. ‘I’ll not forget that in a hurry, boy,’ he said. ‘What about it?’
‘Sir, Halt tells me that a Ranger showed the cavalry a secret way across the Slipsunder, so they were able to attack the enemy’s rear …’
‘That’s true,’ said Arald.
‘I’ve been wondering, sir, what was the Ranger’s name?’ Will finished, feeling himself flush with his boldness.
‘Didn’t Halt tell you?’ the Baron asked. Will shrugged his shoulders.
‘He said names weren’t important. He said supper was important, but not names.’
‘But you think names are important, in spite of what your master has told you?’ said the Baron, seeming to frown again. Will gulped and went on.
‘I think it was Halt himself, sir,’ he said. ‘And I wondered why he hadn’t been decorated or honoured for his skill.’
The Baron thought for a moment, then spoke again.
‘Well, you’re right, Will,’ he said. ‘It was Halt. And I wanted to honour him for it but he wouldn’t allow me. He said that wasn’t the Rangers’ way.’
‘But …’ Will began in a perplexed tone but the Baron’s upraised hand stopped him from speaking any further.
‘You Rangers have your own ways, Will, as I’m sure you’re learning. Sometimes other people don’t understand them. Just listen to Halt and do as he does and I’m sure you’ll have an honourable life ahead of you.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Will saluted again as the Baron slapped his reins lightly on his horse’s neck and turned him away towards the fairground.
‘Now enough of this,’ said the Baron. ‘We can’t chatter all day. I’m off to the fair. Maybe this year I’ll get a hoop over one of those damned squares!’
The Baron started to ride away. Then a thought seemed to strike him and he reined in for a second.
‘Will,’ he called back.
‘Yes, sir?’
‘Don’t tell Halt that I told you he led the cavalry. I don’t want him angry at me.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Will with a grin. As the Baron rode off, he settled back down to wait for his friends.
Jenny, Alyss and George arrived shortly after. As she had promised, Jenny was carrying a batch of fresh pies wrapped in a red cloth. She laid them carefully on the ground under the apple tree as the others crowded round. Even Alyss, usually so poised and dignified, seemed anxious to get her hands on one of Jenny’s masterpieces.
‘Come on!’ George said. ‘I’m starving!’
Jenny shook her head. ‘We should wait for Horace,’ she said, looking round for him but not seeing him in the passing crowds of people.
‘Oh, come on,’ George pleaded, ‘I’ve been slaving over a hot petition to the Baron all morning!’
Alyss rolled her eyes to heaven. ‘Perhaps we should start,’ she said. ‘Otherwise he’ll begin a legal argument and we’ll be here all day. We can always put a couple aside for Horace.’
Will grinned. George was a different kettle of fish now to the shy, stammering boy at the Choosing. Scribeschool obviously had caused him to bloom. Jenny served out two pies each, setting two aside for Horace.
‘Let’s get started then,’ she said. The others eagerly tucked in and soon began to chorus their praise for the pies. Jenny’s reputation was well founded.
‘This,’ said George, standing above them and spreading his arms wide as he addressed an imaginary court, ‘cannot be described as a mere pie, your honour. To describe this as a pie would be a gross miscarriage of justice, the like of which this court has never seen before!’
Will turned to Alyss. ‘How long has he been like this?’ he asked.
She smiled. ‘They all get this way with a few months’ legal training. These days, the main problem with George is getting him to shut up.’
‘Oh, sit down, George,’ said Jenny, blushing at his praise but delighted none the less. ‘You are a complete idiot.’
‘Perhaps, my fair miss. But it is the sheer magic of these works of art that has turned my brain. These are not pies, these are symphonies!’ He raised his remaining half pie to the others in a mock toast.
‘I give you … Miss Jenny’s symphony of pies!’
Alyss and Will, grinning at each other and at George, raised their own pies in response, and echoed the toast. Then all four apprentices burst out laughing.
It was a pity that Horace chose that precise moment to arrive. Alone among them, he was miserable in his new situation. The work was hard and unremitting and the discipline was unwavering. He had expected that, of cour
se, and under normal circumstances he could have handled it. But being the focus for Bryn, Alda and Jerome’s spite was making his life a nightmare – literally. The three second year cadets would rouse him from his bed at all hours of the night, dragging him out to perform the most humiliating and exhausting tasks.
The lack of sleep and the worry of never knowing when they might appear to torment him further was causing him to fall behind in his classroom work. His roommates, sensing that if they showed any sympathy for him they might become targets along with him, had cast him adrift, so that he felt totally alone in his misery. The one thing he had always aspired to was rapidly becoming ashes in his mouth. He hated Battleschool but he could see no way out of his predicament without embarrassing and humiliating himself even further.
Now, on the one day when he could escape from the restrictions and the tensions of Battleschool, he arrived to find his former wardmates already busy at their feast and he was angry and hurt that they hadn’t bothered to wait for him. He had no idea that Jenny had set some of the pies aside for him. He assumed that she had divided them up already and that hurt more than anything. Of all of his former wardmates, she was the one he felt closest to. Jenny was always cheerful, always friendly, always willing to listen to another’s troubles. He realised that he had been looking forward to seeing her again today and now he felt that she had let him down.
He was predisposed to think badly of the others. Alyss had always seemed to hold herself aloof from him, as if he weren’t good enough for her, and Will had spent his time playing tricks on him then running away and climbing into that immense tree where Horace couldn’t follow. At least, that was how Horace saw things in his current vulnerable state. He conveniently forgot the times he had cuffed Will over the ear, or held him in a headlock until the smaller boy was forced to cry ‘Yield!’.
As for George, Horace had never taken much notice of him. The thin boy was studious and devoted to his books and Horace had always considered him a pallid, uninteresting person. Now here he was performing for them while they laughed and ate the pies and left nothing for him and suddenly he hated them all.