There was a deafening moment of silence at the head table. Erak pushed his bench back and stared at the small, grim-faced man next to him.
‘Come back? Why should they come back? We beat them, didn’t we?’
But Halt shook his head slowly. ‘As a matter of fact,’ he said, ‘we didn’t. We simply made it too costly for them to continue – this time.’
Erak thought about what he had said and glanced at Borsa for his opinion. The hilfmann nodded, a little reluctantly.
‘I think the Ranger is right, Oberjarl,’ he admitted. ‘We couldn’t have held out much longer.’ Then he shifted his eyes to Halt’s and asked him: ‘But why should they come back?’
Halt took a sip of the rich Skandian beer before he answered. ‘Because it’s their way,’ he answered simply. ‘The Temujai don’t think in terms of this season or this year, or next year. They think of the next ten or twenty years and they have a long-term plan to dominate this part of the world. They need your ships. So they’ll be back.’
Erak considered the point, twisting one end of his moustache in his fingers. ‘Then we’ll beat them off again,’ he said.
‘Without archers?’ Halt asked quietly. ‘And without the element of surprise next time?’
Again there was a silence. Then Erak said, half hopefully, ‘You could help us train archers. You and the boy?’ But Halt shook his head immediately. And very definitely.
‘I’m not prepared to provide Skandia with such a potent weapon,’ he said. ‘Once you learned those skills, I’d never know when they might be turned against us in the future.’
Erak had to admit the logic in the Ranger’s statement. Skandia and Araluen were traditional enemies, after all. But Borsa, with his negotiator’s ear, had caught an overtone in Halt’s refusal.
‘But you do have a suggestion?’ he said keenly, and Halt almost smiled at him. He’d hoped the hilfmann would see where he was heading.
‘I was thinking,’ he said, ‘that a force of, say, three hundred trained archers might be stationed here on a regular basis. They could spend the months of spring and summer here, then be rotated back home during the winter.’
‘Araluans?’ Erak said, beginning to catch on. Halt nodded.
‘We could supply you with an archery force that way. But if it ever came to hostilities between our countries, I’d feel a lot more secure knowing you wouldn’t be turning them against us. We’d need to stipulate that in the treaty,’ he added casually.
Erak looked cautiously at his hilfmann now. The word ‘treaty’ seemed to have appeared on the table in front of them without his seeing it arriving. Borsa caught his eye and shrugged thoughtfully.
‘I’m proposing that we have a mutual defence treaty for a period of …’ Halt seemed to think and Erak suddenly had the distinct impression that he had weighed every word he was going to say well in advance of this moment. ‘… five years, let’s say. You get a viable force of archers –’
Erak decided it was time that someone else made the running. ‘And you get what?’ he asked abruptly.
Halt smiled at him. ‘We get a peace treaty that says Skandia won’t be launching any surprise attacks on our country during that period. And that, in the event that hostilities become inevitable, our archers would be allowed free passage back home.’
Erak shook his head abruptly. ‘I’ll never convince my men not to raid,’ he said indignantly. ‘I’d be thrown out on my ear if I proposed that,’ he said. But Halt held up a hand to calm him down.
‘I’m not talking about individual raids,’ he said. ‘We can cope with them. I’m saying no more massed attacks, like the one with Morgarath.’
There was another long pause while Erak considered the offer. The more he thought about it, the more attractive the idea seemed. As well as any of them, he knew how close they had come to being overwhelmed by the Temujai. Three hundred trained archers would provide a powerful defensive force to Skandia, particularly if they were deployed in the narrow passes and twisting defiles at the border. He realised, with a shock, that he was beginning to think like a tactician. Maybe he’d been spending too much time around the Ranger, he thought.
‘You have the authority to sign a treaty like that?’ he asked and, for the first time, Halt hesitated. In fact, he had no authority at all. As a member of the Rangers, he would have been empowered to sign, but he had been dismissed from the Corps when Duncan had banished him. He could brazen it out now, of course. He was reasonably sure that Crowley or Duncan himself would ratify such a treaty. But when that happened, Erak would know that he had acted falsely and he didn’t think that was a good start to any relationship.
‘I have,’ said a quiet voice from behind him and the three men looked up in some surprise. Evanlyn, slipping away from the enthusiastic toasting and tributes, had been an interested audience to their conversation for the past few minutes.
‘As Princess Royal of Araluen, I have authority to sign on my father’s behalf,’ she told them and Halt heaved an unseen sigh of relief.
‘I think it’s best if we do it that way,’ he said. ‘After all, the princess does outrank me, just a little.’
Wolfwind followed the River Semath all the way from the Narrow Sea to Castle Araluen itself.
It was an astounding sight for the locals, to see a wolfship gliding, unmolested and peaceful, past their fields and villages, so far inland. The many river forts and strongpoints, which would normally have denied such progress to a Skandian ship, now deferred to the fact that Princess Cassandra’s personal standard, a stooping Red Hawk, flew from the masthead. A message had been sent ahead of the wolfship’s progress to make sure that local commanders recognised the standard and the fact that the voyagers travelled upriver in peace.
It was also something of a novelty for Erak and his crew.
Finally, they rounded the last bend in the river and there before them were the soaring spires and turrets of Castle Araluen. Erak drew breath in wonder at the sight of it. Halt, watching him, was sure that, as well as the sheer admiration the castle inspired, Erak’s old plundering instincts were at work, estimating just how much treasure the castle could contain. He stepped close to the Oberjarl and said softly:
‘You’d never make it past the moat.’
Erak started in surprise and looked round at the Ranger. Then he grinned, a little ruefully.
‘Was it so obvious that I was thinking about it?’ he asked and Halt nodded in confirmation.
‘You wouldn’t be a Skandian if you weren’t,’ he said.
There was a landing stage jutting out into the river, bedecked with flags and bunting. And a large crowd was awaiting their arrival. At the sight of the wolfship, they began sounding horns and cheering.
‘That’s a first,’ Erak said mildly, bringing a grin to Halt’s face.
‘And there’s another,’ he said, pointing discreetly to a tall, bearded figure standing a little way back from the landing stage, surrounded by an expensively dressed retinue of knights and ladies. ‘That’s the King himself, come down to welcome you, Erak.’
‘More likely he’s here for his daughter,’ the Skandian replied. But Halt noticed that he did look a little pleased with himself.
Evanlyn had seen the tall man now and was standing in the prow of the wolfship, waving excitedly. The cheers from the shore redoubled at the sight of her and now Duncan was leading the way down the landing stage, lengthening his stride so that he was almost running, not content to stand back and preserve his royal dignity.
‘Oars!’ called Erak and the rowers raised their oars, dripping, from the water as the wolfship glided smoothly alongside the landing stage.
The Skandian crew passed mooring lines to those on shore, the two parties regarding each other with deep interest. It was the first time in memory that Araluans and Skandians had been face to face without weapons in their hands. Will, his face alight with the joy of the moment, leapt onto the wolfship’s railing as Evanlyn hurried to the entry port in the sh
ip’s waist. She and her father, their hearts too full for words, simply smiled at one another over the decreasing gap as the line handlers hauled the ship in to the landing stage. Then the wickerwork fenders bumped and groaned and the ship was fast alongside. Svengal, grinning broadly at her, unlatched the entry port in the ship’s rail and she leapt into her father’s arms, burying her face in his chest.
‘Dad!’ she cried once, her voice muffled by his shirt and by the sobs that welled up in her throat.
‘Cassie!’ he murmured – his pet name for her from when she was a toddler – and the cheering intensified. Duncan was a popular king and the people knew how much pain the loss of his daughter had caused him. Even the Skandians were grinning at the scene. Roughnecks and freebooters as they were, they had their sentimental side and they valued the bonds of family.
In the midst of all that joy and celebration, only Halt stood apart. His face was a mask of pain and misery and he remained unobtrusively by the steering oar at the stern of the ship as the others surged forward to the waist.
Duncan and Evanlyn, or Cassandra as her father knew her, stood in each other’s embrace, oblivious to those around them. Will, scanning the crowd, saw a heavily built form in the ranks behind the King: a middle-aged man who was waving enthusiastically at him, shouting his name.
‘Will! Welcome home, boy! Welcome home!’
For a moment, Will was puzzled, then he recognised Baron Arald – a man who for years had been a stern-faced figure of authority. Now here he was, waving and yelling like a schoolboy on holiday. Will dropped lightly to the planks of the landing stage and made his way through the crowds of well-wishers to the Baron. He began to make a formal bow when the Baron grabbed his hand and started pumping it enthusiastically.
‘Never mind that! Welcome home, lad! And well done! Well done! My god, I thought we’d never see you again! Wasn’t that right, Rodney?’
He spoke this last to the mail-clad knight beside him and Will recognised Sir Rodney, head of the Battleschool at Castle Redmont. He realised that the knight was anxiously scanning the faces on the deck of the wolfship.
‘Yes, yes, my lord,’ he agreed distractedly. Then he seized Will’s other arm and said urgently, ‘Will, I thought Horace was with you. Don’t tell me something’s happened to him?’
Puzzled, Will looked to where Horace was shaking hands with the Skandian crew, farewelling friends among them before he came ashore.
‘That’s him there.’ He pointed Horace out for Sir Rodney, and had the satisfaction of seeing the knight’s jaw drop in surprise.
‘My god! He’s turned into a giant!’ he gasped. Then Horace recognised his mentor and marched briskly through the crowd, coming to attention and saluting, his fist to his right breast.
‘Apprentice Horace reporting, Battlemaster. Permission to return to duty, sir?’ he said crisply.
Coming to attention himself, Rodney returned the salute.
‘Permission granted, apprentice.’
Then, formalities over, he seized the muscular apprentice in a bear hug and danced him around a few undignified steps, all the while crying:
‘Damn me, boy, but you’ve done us all proud! And when the devil did you get so tall?’
Once again, the crowd cheered with delight. Then, all at once, a silence fell over them and Will turned to see the reason. Erak Starfollower, Oberjarl of the Skandians, was stepping ashore.
Instinctively, those nearest him drew back a little. Old habits died hard. Will, not wishing to see his friend insulted, started forward impulsively, but there was one other in the crowd who was quicker off the mark. Duncan, King of Araluen, stepped forward to greet his Skandian counterpart, his hand extended in friendship.
‘Welcome to Araluen, Oberjarl,’ he said. ‘And thank you for bringing my daughter safely home.’ And with that, the two leaders shook hands.
Then the cheering started again, this time for Erak and his crew so that the Skandians looked about them with delight. And that, thought Will, was going to make it a little harder for them to raid here again in the years to come. Duncan let the cheering go on for a little while, then held up his hand for silence. He scanned the faces on the dock. Then, not seeing the one he looked for, he let his gaze switch to the wolfship.
‘Halt,’ he said softly, finally seeing him, wrapped as ever in his Ranger’s cloak and standing alone by the great steering oar. The King held out a hand and gestured to the dock.
‘Come ashore, Halt. You’re home.’
But Halt stood awkwardly, unable to mask the sadness that he felt. His voice broke as he began to speak, and he gathered himself and started again.
‘Your … your majesty, the year of banishment still has three weeks to run,’ he said at last.
A low buzz of comment ran through the crowd. Will, unable to restrain himself, reacted in total surprise.
‘Banishment? You were banished?’ he said incredulously. He looked at the King. It was unthinkable that Halt, with his unswerving loyalty to Araluen and its people, should be banished.
‘Why?’ he said. The word hung in the air. Duncan shook his head, dismissing the matter.
‘A few incautious words, that was all. He was drunk and we’ve all forgotten what he said and I forgive him so for god’s sake, man, come ashore.’
But Halt remained where he was. ‘Your majesty, nothing would make me happier. But you must uphold the law,’ he said in a low voice. Then another speaker chimed in: Lord Anthony, the King’s Chamberlain.
‘Halt is right, your majesty,’ he said. Anthony was a well-meaning man, but he tended to be a little pedantic when it came to interpreting the law. ‘After all, he did say you were the issue of an encounter between your father and a travelling hatcha-hatcha dancer.’
There was a gasp of horror from the crowd.
Duncan, smiling thinly, said through gritted teeth: ‘Thank you for reminding us all, Anthony.’
But then a peal of helpless laughter rang out and Princess Cassandra doubled over, hooting in a most un-royal fashion. Every eye turned to her and, slowly, she recovered enough to speak.
‘I’m so sorry, everyone. But if you ever knew my grandmother, you’d understand why my grandfather might have been tempted! Grandma had a face like a robber’s dog – and a temperament to match it!’
‘Cassie!’ her father said in his most disapproving tone, but she was holding her sides and laughing again and he couldn’t keep a smile from forming at his lips. Then he felt Lord Anthony’s disapproving stare on him and he recovered, nudging Cassandra until her laughter subsided into a series of choked snuffles and snorts. The laughter had been infectious, however, and it took a while for the assembled crowd to come to order. Throughout all this, Halt remained standing stiffly on the deck of the wolfship.
Duncan turned to his Chamberlain and said, in his most reasoning tone: ‘Surely, Anthony, it’s within my powers to pardon Halt for the last three weeks of his sentence?’
But Anthony frowned and shook his head. ‘It would be most irregular, your majesty,’ he said heavily. ‘Such a thing would set unfortunate precedents in law.’
‘King Duncan!’ boomed Erak, and instantly he had the attention of everyone there. He realised he’d spoken a little more forcibly than he’d intended – he was still getting the hang of these formal occasions. Now, he continued at a more moderate level.
‘Perhaps I could request that you grant this pardon – as a gesture of goodwill to seal the treaty between our two countries?’
‘Good thinking!’ muttered Duncan. He turned quickly to Lord Anthony. ‘Well?’ he said. The Chamberlain pursed his lips thoughtfully. It was never his wish to deny the King what he wanted. He merely tried to do his duty and uphold the law. Now he saw a loophole and seized upon it gratefully.
‘Such a request wouldn’t set any precedents, your majesty,’ he said. ‘And this is a very special occasion, after all.’
‘So be it!’ said Duncan quickly, and turned to face the figure on the wolfs
hip. ‘All right, Halt, you’re pardoned – so for god’s sake come ashore and let’s have a drink to celebrate!’
Halt, tears in his eyes, set foot on Araluan soil once more, after eleven months and five days of banishment. As he came ashore to the renewed cheers of the crowd, those around him saw another man dressed in a grey-green cloak, who slipped forward and pressed something into his hand.
‘You might be needing this again,’ said Crowley, Commandant of the Ranger Corps.
And when Halt looked down, he saw a thin chain in his hand, with a silver oakleaf insignia on it.
And then he knew he was really home.
Something was afoot, Will knew. After the first round of celebrations, and after Erak and his crew had set sail once more for Skandia, with the administrative details of the Araluan archery force deployment agreed for the following spring, there had been much consultation and discussion between the King and his advisers, including Halt, Crowley, Baron Arald and Sir Rodney.
During this period, Will and Horace were left pretty much at a loose end, although there was no shortage of admirers who would greet them as friends and sit spellbound as they told the story of their time in Skandia, and their fierce battle against the Temujai. But even such adulation palled after a while.
Horace, now that his adventures as the Oakleaf Knight were over, had reverted to the plain white surcoat of a warrior apprentice.
Evanlyn, of course, had reverted to her true identity as the Princess Cassandra. She was whisked away to the royal family’s apartments in one of the towers of Castle Araluen, and whenever Will saw her she was surrounded by a retinue of knights and ladies in waiting. She was also, he realised, a beautiful young woman, immaculately dressed and at ease among the young nobles and ladies who surrounded her.
Saddened, he felt the distance between them growing wider as he came to terms with the fact that his companion through so many adventures and dangers was, in reality, the highest-born woman in the kingdom, whereas he was the orphan child of a sergeant in the army and his farm girl wife. On those increasingly rare occasions when he did speak to Cassandra, he became awkward and stilted. He was tongue-tied in her presence and tended to mumble formulaic replies to her attempts at conversation.