The Royal Ranger: The Missing Prince

1
The sickle moon had just slipped below the western horizon when the file of mounted men emerged from the trees. There were ten of them in all and they pushed forward a few paces until they crested the ridge looking down to Castle Araluen. The rider at the center of the line held one hand in the air in the universal sign to halt, and the line of riders drew rein, watching the castle. The horses snuffled impatiently. They sensed that the massive building meant shelter and water and feed, and they were impatient for all three.
The rider to the right of the man who had signaled leaned forward attentively in his saddle, studying the open ground before them. It sloped down initially from the ridge, then began to rise again toward the castle, dotted here and there with clumps of trees and shady arbors. For the most part, the ground was open and a rider crossing it would be within full view, if anyone were watching.
And the likelihood was, someone was always watching. But now the open parkland looked deserted. Any potential watchers would be within the castle itself, and that was where the small party of armed and mail-clad riders was expected.
Most of the castle’s windows were in darkness—as would be usual at this late hour. There were beacon fires in braziers set at regular intervals along the walls, and two torches flickered at either side of the gate, which was now closed and locked against intruders.
“It all looks normal, my lord,” the rider said quietly.
The man beside him nodded. “I’d expect it to—even if it’s not.”
Both men spoke in Gallic. As they hesitated, a yellow lantern was exposed on the walls above the huge gate and drawbridge, spilling its light down the granite walls of the entryway.
“And there’s the signal,” the leader said. He turned to a rider on his other side. “Jules, make the reply.”
The man he had addressed had flint and tinder ready, and a lantern hung from his saddle bow. It took him a few moments to light a handful of tinder, then to press the resulting flame to the wick of the lantern. As the tiny flame took, he closed the front of the lantern, which was made from blue glass. He held the light high, letting the blue gleam spread out over the small group.
A few seconds later, the light on the castle walls moved slowly from left to right, then back again, repeating the action three times.
“That’s the all clear,” the leader said, nudging his spurs into the side of the horse he rode and moving forward. The line of riders followed him, dropping into two files as they went, with the leader and the first knight who had spoken at the front.
They moved at a slow trot, their horses’ hooves making little sound on the soft ground. As they reached the bottom of the first slope and began to climb toward the castle, the horses naturally slowed a little and the riders urged them on to greater speed. They heard the massive clanking of a large engine, and a slit of light showed at the top of the drawbridge, gradually growing wider as it opened.
The huge bridge thudded down by the time they were thirty meters away. The riders could see that the portcullis was still lowered, barring access to the castle yard. The lead riders urged their horses to the beginning of the drawbridge and halted.
A mail-clad man-at-arms stepped through a small gate at the side of the portcullis and crossed the bridge toward them. He was armed with a halberd and wore a long sword at his waist. His mail armor gleamed dully in the light of the beacons set either side of the drawbridge.
The leader of the group looked up at the massive dark walls towering above him. He had no doubt that he was covered by several bowmen. This being Araluen, they would be armed with longbows, not crossbows, and they would all be expert shots.
The man-at-arms stopped a few meters short of the group.
“Do you have the password?” he asked quietly.
The lead rider shifted slightly in his saddle. “Pax inter reges,” he said in the ancient tongue: “peace between kings.”
The foot soldier nodded and turned back to the castle, raising his right arm in a signal to the men at the portcullis. Slowly, the massive frame began to rise into the air, the movement accompanied by a distant clanking inside the gatehouse. When it was well clear of the bridge, the foot soldier waved the group forward.
“Go ahead,” he said.
The hooves of their horses clattered on the hardwood boards of the drawbridge as they trotted across in two files. When they reached the cobbled castle yard, the sound changed. There were armed foot soldiers on either side, watching them as they made their entry. One, who wore the insignia of a sergeant, gestured toward a door in the keep, the strongly built stone tower in the center of the castle yard. As he did so, a door opened at ground level and yellow torchlight spilled out onto the stone paving.
The new arrivals rode up to the open door and dismounted. Waiting servants took their horses and led them away to feed them and rub them down. The leader of the group pressed one fist into the small of his back. He wasn’t used to riding long distances anymore and they had been traveling for four hours.
The man who had opened the door descended the three steps to the level of the courtyard and bowed slightly from the waist. He was gray-haired and distinguished in appearance, dressed in expensive-looking clothes.
“Welcome to Castle Araluen. I’m Lord Anthony, the King’s chamberlain,” he said. His tone was neutral, neither welcoming nor aggressive. The visitor nodded acknowledgment, but said nothing. Anthony stepped to one side and gestured for the new arrivals to mount the stairs. “Please come this way.”
The leader of the group mounted the stairs, and Anthony fell into step slightly behind and beside him. The rest of the group followed.
As they came into the well-lit great hall of the keep, Anthony studied the man leading the group. He was small, a good five centimeters shorter than Anthony, and slightly built. His well-cut jerkin, in forest-green leather, couldn’t conceal his unathletic build. His shoulders were narrow and he had the beginnings of a paunch. He held himself badly, slumping and allowing his shoulders to stoop. He wore an ornate-looking sword on his left hip, with a jewel-encrusted dagger to balance it on the right.
In spite of the weapons, this was no warrior, Anthony thought. But then, he had been told as much when he had been briefed about this visit.
He cast a quick glance over the rest of the group. All but one were taller than the leader, and they were muscular and athletic-looking. They were warriors, he thought. The one exception was the same height and build as the leader and there was a strong family resemblance. Anthony realized that the leader had hesitated, not sure which way to go, and he quickly gestured toward the wide staircase leading to the upper levels of the keep.
“King Duncan’s rooms are on the second floor,” he said, and the shorter man led the way once more.
“The King apologizes for not greeting you down here, sir,” Anthony said. “His knee still troubles him and the stairs can be difficult.”
The visitor sniffed condescendingly. “He’s still crippled, is he?”
Lord Anthony raised an eyebrow at the insulting word and the superior tone. Stiff knee or not, Duncan was still very much a warrior. He could chew you up and spit you out, Anthony thought.
“He’s able to ride again, and he walks with his dogs every day,” he replied, keeping the irritation out of his voice.
“But not down stairs, obviously,” the other man said.
This time, Anthony allowed his irritation to show. He stopped, facing the visitor. “No. But if that bothers you, sir, we can always cancel this meeting.” He met the other man’s haughty gaze and held it. You pompous prat, he thought, you’re coming here to ask a favor, so you can climb down off your high horse.
They locked gazes for a few seconds, then the visitor gave way with a dismissive shrug—a typically Gallic movement, Anthony thought.
“No matter,” the visitor said. “We can walk upstairs.”
He resumed climbing the stairs. Anthony, feeling a small glow of satisfaction at the way the man had backed down, followed close behind. As they reached the top of the wide stone stairway, he gestured to the left.
“This way, please, sir.”
A set of massive wooden doors faced them. They were guarded by two men-at-arms, who seemed to be built on the same scale as the doors. At the sight of the armed men approaching, they came to a ready position, barring the way with the long halberds they held in front of them.
“I’m afraid your men will have to wait, sir,” Anthony said.
The smaller man nodded. It was only to be expected, after all.
“One of your companions can accompany you,” the chamberlain added.
The visitor pointed to one of the men following him, the one who resembled him.
“My brother, Louis, will come with me,” he said. He gestured to the others. “The rest of you will wait here.”
“No need for that, sir,” Anthony told him. “We have refreshments for them in an adjacent room.” He raised his voice and called, “Thomas!”
Another door opened farther down the corridor and a uniformed servant emerged, bowing slightly and inviting the visitors into the brightly lit room behind him.
The leader nodded and the eight warriors trooped off to the food and drink waiting for them. Anthony led the way toward the huge wooden doors. The sentries stepped aside, coming to attention as they did. Anthony knocked on the doors and a voice was heard from within.
“Come.”
Anthony opened the double doors and led the two visitors into the King’s office.
Duncan was seated behind the large table that served as his desk.
“My lord,” said Anthony, “may I present King Philippe of Gallica, and his brother, Prince Louis.”
Duncan, the King of Araluen, rose from his seat and moved round the table to greet his visitors.
“Welcome to Araluen,” Duncan said, holding out his hand.
Philippe took it and they shook hands. “Thank you for receiving us,” Philippe said.
Duncan shrugged the thanks aside. “We should always be willing to help our friends.” He nodded a greeting to the second man. “Prince Louis,” he said.
The King’s brother bowed gracefully. “Your Majesty,” Louis said, then straightened.
Duncan studied the two men. They looked travel-stained and weary.
“It’s late and you’ve traveled a long way,” he said. “You must be tired and hungry.”
Philippe made a small moue of agreement. “It has been a hard day,” he agreed.
“Your chambers are prepared for you. I’ll have food and drink sent up, and hot water for a bath if you wish. Get a good night’s sleep and we’ll talk in the morning.”
For the first time, Philippe smiled. “That would be most welcome. And we do have a great deal to discuss.”
Duncan inclined his head. “I’m sure we do,” he said.
 

2
The old farm cart was battered and in dire need of a coat of paint. The wooden axle for the right-hand wheel was dry. The grease had long since worn away and it squeaked in a regular rhythm—an annoying sound that could set a listener’s teeth on edge. It didn’t seem to bother the old farmer driving the cart. He was hunched over on the driving bench, urging on the mule between the shafts with a series of clicks of the tongue.
The mule needed urging. He was stubborn and cantankerous, like most of his kind, and the cart was heavy and fully laden with farm produce. Sheaves of wheat and barley filled the tray, along with a dozen sacks of potatoes, strings of onions and eight or nine large pumpkins. The bodies of nine plump ducks hung over the tailgate, heads down and jiggling with the movement of the cart as the solid wheels bumped and lumbered over ruts in the track. They would sell for their meat, of course, but their feathers would also be sought after as down for pillows. That double value would be reflected in the price the farmer would demand for them at market.
Behind the cart, tethered to the rear axle, trotted two half-grown sheep—a young ram and a ewe. They were the most valuable items that the farmer was taking to market. The ram would be used for breeding and the ewe already showed that her fleece was thick and heavy. As she grew older, she would provide abundant wool, season after season.
The farmer was a small man. Hunched down as he was, he appeared shriveled with age and a life of hard work. But, judging by the quality and quantity of the goods he was taking to market, the hard work had been well worthwhile. He wore a patched old farm smock and a shapeless straw hat crammed on his head. His trousers were rough homespun wool and his boots were leather—old, but well kept. At a time when most farm people could afford nothing more than wooden clogs stuffed with straw, they were evidence of his lifetime of industry and thrift—as well as the quality of his produce.
The road climbed a small hill and the cleared farmland on either side gradually gave way to dense woodland, where the deep shadows cast by the trees concealed any sign that somebody might be watching the road.
But somebody was. In fact, four somebodies were watching the cart slowly squeaking between the trees. The land at either side of the road had been cleared for eight or nine meters, then the tree line began. The farmer glanced idly at the dark shadows either side of the road, then settled back on the bench, moving around to find a comfortable position. He gave no sign that he had seen the silent watchers among the trees.
The leader of the group was a burly, bearded man about thirty years old. He was dressed in rough clothes—a jerkin and trousers of homespun—and a bearskin cloak. The bear’s mask, and its upper jaw, served as a cap for the wearer of the cloak. At first sight, it looked impressive and dangerous—a snarling face that surmounted his own bearded, dirty features. But if one looked more closely, it became apparent that the bear had not been in the best of condition when it died. One of its front fangs was broken off halfway and there were several bare patches visible where the fur had rubbed away. The sorry appearance of his cloak and cap didn’t bother the wearer. He had named himself Barton Bearkiller and had gained some notoriety in the district as the leader of a robber band, preying on the common people—farmers and residents of small villages.
Barton was seated on a low branch of a tree, watching the cart squeaking by. He looked down in annoyance as one of his men reached up and tweaked his leg.
“What?” he demanded in a rough whisper. The tweaker, whose name was Donald, grinned inanely and pointed to the cart.
“Lots of goods in that cart,” he said. And when the self-styled bear killer didn’t reply, he continued, “Should us go out and take ’um?”
“Why would we do that?” Barton demanded.
Donald shrugged expansively and rolled his eyes. “Wheat, potatties, punk’ins, ducks and sheep,” he explained, as if Barton couldn’t see it all for himself. “Us could sell a’ that for a pretty penny,” he explained.
Barton shook his head and sneered at his follower. “Why should we go to all that work?” He jerked his head toward the huddled figure of the farmer. “We’ll let him sell them all for us.”
Donald followed the direction of the gesture, nodded, then frowned. “But then,” he said, “us won’t be able to take them, will us? If he’s sold ’um, he won’t have ’um anymore.”
“No,” Barton said deliberately. “He’ll have all the money from selling them. Lovely coin that goes chink.”
Slowly, understanding dawned over Donald’s grubby, unshaven features. “And us’ll take the chink from him,” he said.
Barton nodded, exaggerating the motion. “That’s right. We’ll take it from him.”
Donald smiled, then the smile faded as he saw another problem. “When?” he asked. “When do we take it all from him?”
“This afternoon when he’s heading home from the market,” Barton told him.
Donald smiled as he saw the reasoning behind Barton’s plan. “He’ll come back here, with all the money . . .”
“And we’ll take it from him,” Barton confirmed.
Donald’s smile grew wider as he visualized the scene to be played out later in the day. “He won’t like that, he won’t,” he said, and chuckled throatily.
Barton nodded, the bearskin cap dipping as he did so. “Not one bit he won’t,” he said. “But do we care?”
Donald danced a step or two of a jig. “Not one bit we don’t.”
He looked after the cart as it disappeared round a bend in the road, so that the trees hid it from view. Faintly, the noise of the squeaking wheel carried back to them for another minute or two, then it faded away.
Barton glanced at the sun. “Might as well take it easy for a while,” he said. “It’ll be several hours before he comes back.”
He scrambled down from the branch and found a patch of long, soft grass on the far side of the tree. He lay down and stretched out, pulling the bearskin mask over his eyes to shade them. The other two members of the band—One-Eyed Jem and Walter Scar—followed suit, lying on the soft ground and relaxing. Donald watched them for a few seconds, wondering if he should do the same. But Barton’s voice stopped him.
“You keep watch,” he said gruffly. “Might be another farmer will come along.”
Donald nodded, a little disappointed. The grass grew thickly here and it looked cool and comfortable.
“Aye,” he said, “I’ll keep watch.”
It was midafternoon before the squeaking wheel heralded the return of the farm cart. The squeak was more rapid now, as the empty cart was moving faster than it had previously. The mule twitched its tail contentedly as it trotted along. It preferred the lightly laden cart to the heavier version of the morning, and now it was heading back to the comfort of its barn and a full feed bag. The farmer was still perched on the seat at the front of the cart. The tray of the cart itself was empty, save for three canvas sacks.
The cart disappeared from view as it went into a small dip in the road, and Barton gestured hurriedly to Jem and Walter.
“Across the road,” he ordered them. “Donald and I will wait here. Stay undercover until we’ve got him stopped.”
His two henchmen didn’t point out that they had done this sort of thing a dozen times in the past few weeks and didn’t need instructions. There was no point doing that with Barton. He had an uncertain temper at the best of times. Crouching low, although the cart was still hidden from sight, they scurried across the narrow track and concealed themselves among the trees. They were both armed—Jem with a homemade spear and Walter with a heavy spiked cudgel.
Barton retrieved his own cudgel from behind the tree where he had been sleeping and gestured to Donald to move back to the trees.
“Get out of sight,” he ordered. “Wait till I call you out.”
Donald nodded several times and ran in a crouch to the tree line. The sun was lower in the sky now and it cast deeper shadows among the trees. Barton watched, then nodded in grim satisfaction. Unless you were consciously looking for the ragged bandit, you wouldn’t see him.
The squeaking was louder now and he peered carefully around the tree trunk. The cart was emerging from the dip in the road and was only thirty meters away. The farmer seemed ignorant to the presence of the robber band. Barton smiled maliciously.
“So much the worse for him,” he muttered.
He was a little surprised that such a rich prize was traveling alone on this road. He and his men had been preying on farmers going to and from market for the past three weeks. Most of the farmers now took precautions, either traveling in groups or hiring armed guards to escort them. In such cases, Barton and his men allowed the famers to pass unhindered. Barton might style himself as a fearless bear killer, but he wasn’t about to risk his own neck in a confrontation with armed men. Not while there were still fools like this one who traveled alone.
Although, he thought, lone travelers were becoming fewer in number. He and his men would have to switch to a new location soon. He’d been planning to do so for several days. But now this rich prize would make the delay worthwhile.
The cart was ten meters away when Barton stepped out from behind the tree and moved to the edge of the road. He swung the cudgel several times, the big club making a menacing WHOOSH as it beat through the air.
“Stop there!” he roared, holding up his free hand in an unmistakable gesture.
The farmer hauled back on the reins and the mule stopped, swishing its tail and stomping one forefoot. It had been daydreaming about that feed bag, and now it seemed there was going to be a delay before it was strapped on. That was enough to rouse the mule’s ill temper.
Still, most things were.
“My goodness. What do we have here?” the farmer said calmly.
His choice of words and accent were not the sort of rough country speech that one might expect from a simple farmer. And that should have rung a warning bell in Barton’s mind. But he was too pleased with himself for caution. The sight of those well-filled sacks in the tray of the cart, doubtless bulging with coins, was more than enough to make him careless.
“I’m Barton the Bearkiller!” he roared, pointing to the bear’s face above his own. This was usually enough to instill terror into his victims. This time, however, the result was not quite what he expected.
The farmer leaned forward on his seat and peered at the bear’s mask with interest. “Are you telling me you killed that bear?” he asked mildly.
Barton hesitated for a second or two, puzzled by the lack of fear shown by his victim. Then he recovered, raising his weapon and shaking it above his head.
“That’s right! I killed it with one blow of this cudgel!” he snarled.
The farmer peered more closely, then scratched his ear before he spoke again. “Are you sure?”
Barton was considerably startled. This was not the way this conversation was supposed to go. “What?” he finally asked in disbelief.
The farmer gestured toward the bear’s face. “Are you sure it wasn’t already dead when you found it?” he asked. “I mean, look at it. It’s hardly in prime condition, is it? If it wasn’t already dead, it surely must have been at death’s door. You simply put it out of its misery and sent it to a better place.”
“It was . . . it . . . I . . .” Barton stammered, trying to get the words out in reply. In truth, the bear had been dead when he found it. It had lived a full life and passed away from old age. But nobody before had ever questioned his claim. Frustration and rage finally overcame him, and he found his voice once more.
“Of course I killed it!” he said. “It attacked me and I killed it. That’s why I’m known as Barton the Bearkiller.”
The farmer remained unimpressed. “Hmmm,” he said thoughtfully. “Are you sure you’re not known as Barton, the dead bear’s bottom? After all, the bear’s head is on top and you’re on the bottom. That would make more sense to me.”
This was too much for the confused robber. Nobody had ever defied him before. Nobody had ever mocked him before. It was too much for him to take. He stepped toward the cart, raising his club threateningly.
“Get down from there!” he ordered. “Toss down those sacks and get down, or I’ll knock your brains out!”
The farmer studied him quizzically, his head tilted to one side. “No. I don’t think so,” he said.
Barton let out a roar of pure rage, taking another step toward the cart, ready to swat this insolent farmer from his seat. But before he could do so, the farmer raised his hand in the air and made a circling gesture.
A second or so later, Barton felt a savage jerk as the bear’s-mask cap was torn away from his head, ending up pinned to the tree behind him by a quivering arrow.
 

3
“So, King Philippe, tell us how can we help you?”
It was the morning after the Gallican party’s midnight arrival at Castle Araluen, and Philippe and his brother were in Duncan’s office. Also present were Anthony, the chamberlain, and a tall, broad-shouldered warrior who had been introduced as Sir Horace, Duncan’s son-in-law and the commander of the Araluen army. They were seated around Duncan’s large table. A sixth man, dressed in a curious green-and-gray-mottled cloak, sat to one side as if trying to remain unobtrusive. Philippe had to turn his head to see him. He had been introduced as Gilan, the Commandant of the Araluen Rangers. As far as Philippe was concerned, this man was the key reason for their presence here, and he kept turning to watch the still figure.
“It’s my son, Giles,” Philippe said, coming straight to the point. “He’s being held hostage by one of my barons.”
Duncan inclined his head thoughtfully. This was serious news and it didn’t bode well for Gallica, a country with a notoriously unstable political history, prone to revolt and quarreling among its ruling class. Philippe had ruled over this turbulent situation for the past nine years, having seized the throne in an uprising of his own.
On the other hand, it was not entirely bad news for Araluen. When Gallica was torn by internal strife, it posed little threat to other countries. Many years past, the large and potentially powerful nation had been an aggressive and unpredictable state, threatening the peace of its neighbors and seeking to conquer new territories. But the current internal instability meant the Gallicans were too consumed by their own problems to look outside their own borders.
“How did this happen?” Duncan asked. “And who is the baron in question?”
“His name is Lassigny, Baron Joubert de Lassigny. His castle is the Chateau des Falaises. It’s a powerful fortress,” Philippe told them.
Duncan threw a quick sidelong glance at Anthony. The chamberlain nodded discreetly. He had heard of Joubert de Lassigny. It was part of his job to gather intelligence about ambitious nobles in Araluen and overseas who might pose a potential threat to the current peace.
“And you say this man kidnapped your son?” Duncan continued.
“Nothing so blatant,” Philippe said. “It was more that he took advantage of a situation as it arose. My son was hunting in Lassigny’s province when a violent storm blew up. He and his party sought shelter in the Chateau des Falaises. Unfortunately, Giles is young and didn’t appreciate that Lassigny has ambitions for greater power. By placing himself into his hands, he has given him enormous leverage to advance his own position and power.”
Anthony leaned forward. “Has Lassigny made any direct threat against your son?”
Philippe shook his head, with a bitter smile. “He’s too clever for that. If he made a direct threat, he knows I would be able to seek support from the other barons and force him to release Giles. As it is, he says that Giles has decided to remain at Chateau des Falaises indefinitely—of his own will. The other barons are prepared to accept that at face value and stay out of the argument. None of them are particularly loyal to the crown,” he said scornfully. “It’s a strong fortress and my own forces aren’t sufficient to besiege it and take it. I would need four times as many men as I have for that. And if I were to attack Lassigny, I might well create a revolt among some of the others. I know several of them are looking for any excuse to rise up against me.”
“Has Lassigny made any direct demands from you?” Horace put the question. “Has he set a price for the release of your son?”
Again, the King of Gallica shook his head. “Nothing direct. For several years now he has been agitating for the control of the province adjacent to his own. The baron who had control of that province died some years ago and Lassigny has had his eye on it ever since.”
He paused and his brother took up the narrative. “The dead baron had no heir and Lassigny has laid a claim to the land,” Louis said. “It’s a rich province and it will give him even greater power than he has now.”
“But surely, the King can appoint whomever he chooses as baron of that province?” Horace asked. He knew that would be the case in Araluen. But not, apparently, in Gallica.
“I wish it were so,” Philippe told him. “But Lassigny has a claim to the position, albeit a thin one. A hundred years ago the two provinces formed one barony. They were divided by one of my predecessors—probably because they created a powerful base that might threaten his position. There are members of the council of barons who support Lassigny’s claim. Doubtless they expect some form of reward should his claim be recognized.”
“And purely by coincidence, he has raised this claim again, just at the time that your son has fallen into his hands?” Duncan said.
Philippe turned to look at him. “Exactly. The message is unstated but perfectly clear for all that. Give him the title to the neighboring province and Giles will be allowed to return home.”
“I can see your problem,” Duncan said thoughtfully. “But I’m not sure what help we can give you. We can hardly send troops to Gallica to reinforce your authority over Lassigny. That would be too big a provocation for the other barons. You’ve said that many of them tacitly support him.”
“That’s right.”
“Then our sending troops to help you could spark a revolt among them and even a war between our two countries. I’m not prepared to risk that for something that’s essentially an internal Gallican problem.” He frowned, then continued. “I don’t want to sound unsympathetic to your needs, but I know how our barons would react if I asked for Gallican troops to help support me.” He glanced around the room at his counselors, who nodded their agreement.
“I’m not asking for troops. I’m not asking you to fight my battle for me. This is not a situation that can be resolved by force. It needs guile and subterfuge. Possibly one man.”
“One man?” Horace interposed. “Who might that be?”
Philippe spread his hands in a slightly perplexed gesture. “I have no particular man in mind,” he said. “That would be for you to decide and to recommend.”
“I don’t follow,” Duncan said. “You feel one man might be able to solve your problem, but you don’t know who he is. You’re speaking in riddles, Philippe.” There was an edge of anger in his voice. Gallicans seemed to find a perverse enjoyment in being abstruse.
Philippe recognized it and made a conciliatory gesture. “I don’t mean to be obscure,” he said. “It’s more a type of man that I think could solve this problem.” He twisted in his chair to look directly at Gilan. “One of your Rangers, perhaps.”
Gilan was unsurprised. His face remained impassive. “What do you know about our Rangers?” he asked.
Philippe shrugged. “They have a certain reputation,” he said. “A reputation for getting things done without necessarily resorting to brute force. It’s said they can achieve the impossible.”
“It’s also said that we’re wizards who practice the dark arts to achieve our ends,” Gilan said. “But neither statement is true. The simple fact is, my men are carefully selected, highly intelligent and well trained. They can fight when necessary but they use their brains first to try to avoid fighting.”
“And that’s the sort of man this situation needs,” Philippe said. “Falaise is a powerful castle. It could withstand a siege for years—even if I had the men and the support necessary to mount such a siege. But one man, using guile and subterfuge and intelligence, might be able to penetrate the castle and bring Giles out.”
Duncan cleared his throat to interrupt. He wasn’t sure he liked the way this conversation was going. The Rangers were a very special resource. They had been founded to keep the peace in Araluen and to serve the Araluen King’s needs. They were not intended to be hired out to other countries.
“One point I would like to make,” he said. “The Rangers are tasked with serving the King. They’re known as King’s Rangers, after all.”
Louis smiled unctuously. “And my brother is a king.”
Duncan’s brows drew together. Sometimes Gallicans could be altogether too glib, he thought. “He’s not their king,” he said brusquely.
Philippe responded with a typically Gallic shrug of the shoulders. “That’s true, of course. But there is a brotherhood among kings, surely? And after all, a threat to one royal family is a threat to all. If it goes unchecked in Gallica, it could encourage others here as well.”
There was a certain amount of truth in what he was saying, but Duncan wasn’t totally convinced. Events in Gallica had no real bearing on the situation in Araluen. Yet Duncan was realistic enough to know that, while his kingdom was at peace and relatively stable, there were always undercurrents of resentment and intrigue in any realm.
“Perhaps,” he allowed grudgingly. He let his gaze travel around the room, looking for some reaction from Anthony and the others. Their expressions told him they were not convinced one way or the other. “I’ll need to confer with my advisers,” he told the Gallican King. “I’ll give you my decision tonight.”
Philippe bowed gracefully, despite his seated position.
“That’s all I can ask,” he said smoothly.
•••••
After Philippe and his brother had returned to their quarters, Duncan faced his three counselors.
“Well, what do you think?” he asked. They exchanged glances. None of them seemed willing to speak first. He prompted his son-in-law. “Horace?”
The tall warrior shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “I’m not sure it’s any of our business,” he said eventually. “Much as I dislike the idea of anyone holding a hostage and giving out demands for his return, it seems to me it’s a Gallican matter—one they should resolve themselves. Morally, I disapprove of Lassigny’s actions. But practically, I’m not sure we should get involved. And it’s not as if we owe Philippe any favors.”
“Quite so,” Duncan agreed. “And Philippe has never been a particularly friendly neighbor, has he? This situation could be largely his own doing.”
“What makes you say that, my lord?” Gilan asked.
The King shrugged and gestured to his chamberlain. “You tell them, Anthony.”
Lord Anthony cleared his throat and gathered his thoughts before speaking. While the Ranger Corps was responsible for keeping the King informed of potential threats or trouble within Araluen itself, Anthony maintained a network of secret agents on the continental landmass—in Gallica, Teutlandt and Iberion particularly. They reported to him on a regular basis, keeping him up to date with events and political affairs that might impact Araluen.
“He’s a weak king,” Anthony said eventually. “He’s never been one to assert his authority over his barons. He rules by keeping them at each other’s throats and he is known to accept bribes for royal favors. Consequently, Gallica has been an unstable kingdom for years, riddled with factions and corruption. This current situation is probably largely due to his own weakness and indecisiveness. Lassigny has seen an opportunity and has seized it.”
“What do we know about Lassigny?” Horace asked.
“He could be a problem,” Anthony told him. “He’s aggressive and ambitious and quite obviously not too concerned about how he achieves his ends. He’s got a strong garrison at Falaise, and a large militia to draw on. And, as King Philippe told us, he’s got the support of some of the other barons.”
“Just how ambitious do you think he is?” Duncan asked.
Anthony paused thoughtfully as he considered the question. “I would guess he wants more than control of the two provinces. From what I’ve heard of him, I’d say that’s a means to an end.”
“What end?” Duncan asked, although he felt he knew the answer already.
“In my opinion, he wants to take the throne. He has the power and support of the other barons—doubtless bought with promises of reward if he’s successful. He’s taking a big risk holding the King’s son hostage. He has to be looking for more than just control of another province.”
“What about Philippe’s claim that an attack on one royal family is an attack on all?” Horace asked.
Anthony spread his hands, shaking his head. “He may well see it that way,” he replied. “He tends to believe that he is King by some divine right. You, sir,” he said, nodding toward Duncan, “hold your position and rank due to your own merits. The people are loyal to you because they respect you.”
Duncan allowed himself the faintest smile. “Most of them, perhaps,” he said. “But I tend to agree. Rebellion in Gallica won’t necessarily lead to the same thing happening here.” He turned to Gilan. “What do you think of sending a Ranger to help?”
The Commandant screwed up his face in an expression of distaste. “I don’t like it,” he said. “The Corps was founded to operate mainly inside Araluen—and for your benefit, sir,” he said. “I’m not too comfortable with outsiders getting to know more and more about us. We’ve tried to maintain a low profile over the years and I don’t like to see that slip away.”
Duncan nodded. “I tend to agree. I don’t like the idea of sending a Ranger to help Philippe. It’s a little too close to treating the Corps as mercenaries for hire.”
“We’ve used Rangers in the past to help the Skandians—and the Arridans,” Anthony pointed out.
“They’re friends and allies,” Duncan replied immediately. “We have treaties with them and they give back as much as they get. Philippe, on the other hand, has generally treated us with disdain. Until now, when he needs our help.”
“There is something else to consider,” Anthony said. “It’s probably in our interest to make sure Philippe retains his throne.” He paused and Duncan made a gesture for him to continue with the thought. “Philippe is a weak king and Gallica is divided and fragmented. Lassigny, on the other hand, would be a strong king. He’d unite the barons and he’d create stability within Gallica.”
“Surely that’s to the good?” Horace asked.
But Anthony shook his head. “He’s ambitious and unscrupulous,” he said. “If he gained power, he might look to expand his borders. He might have to, in fact, if he were to repay the other barons who supported him in usurping the throne.”
“You’re saying he could be a threat to Araluen?” Duncan asked.
Anthony nodded slowly. “Certainly more of a threat than Philippe poses.”
An uncomfortable silence fell over the room. At length, Duncan broke it.
“Then it might be in our interests to do as Philippe is asking.”