Chapter 2

"We can't stay here, my lord." David was pacing up and down, running his hands through his short, brsitly hair. The other five soldiers has retired to their respective rooms. Crowley was lounging on one bed with his arm around Pauline, and Duncan on the other with his daughter on his lap.

"Bob please," Crowley hissed, stressing the name. "Remember where we are."

David glanced around. "Sorry...John." He scratched his cheek and stopped his pacing, to Crowley's relief. "I just can't get used to... you know...even after all these years."

Duncan smiled at him. "Me either," he confessed. "Bob." He had to grin at the last part. Crowley vented a frustrated sigh.

"Walls have ears," he reminded them. "No 'my lords', no discussing how you can't get used to your cover names. We're travellers. There'll be enough interest in us as it is." He had to resist the temptation to get up and peek out the door, to make sure no one was eavesdropping. The hibernian with the dark eyes that had watched them eat dinner had unsettled him.

Pauline stroked the top of his hand to calm him and he let his shoulders to relax. "But you're right," he added. "We can't stay here. We should head inland."

"I think," Pauline said softly, "that we can afford to stay a few days." The men turned to her, ready to explain why they had to move on, even though patronizing her in the past had led to dire consequences. But she nodded towards the princess, cuddled in her father's arms, head lolled against his chest and breathing deeply. "For Evanlyn's sake. What do you say, Christopher?"

Duncan stroked his daughters hair. He became alert when he realised the three of them were waiting and realised it was him that had been adressed. "Ah yes. I think a few days for Cass- Evanlyn to rest would be appreciated." He and Pauline exchanged an understanding smile.

Crowley buried his face in his hands despairngly. "We really need to work on these undercover names," he murmured to himself. Pauline jogged him with her elbow.

"Walls have ears," she reminded him and when he looked up and saw the twinkle in her eye, he knew she was gently teasing him. It caused a slight flush to his cheeks. He cleared his throat.

"Fine, we'll stay for short time. I'd like to have a look around these hills anyway, to try and find a managable route. We'll book our rooms for a week; no more." Crowley stopped himself. After all, he wasn't the king. He wasn't in charge here, even if the others had deferred to him so far, particularly in the woods. With a guilty smile, he added, "if you all agree, that is."

Cassandra shifted and stirred. She mumbled a string of nonsense and nuzzled her face deeper into her father's embrace. Duncan loosened his hold to let her reposition herself before wrapping his arms around her again. "A week it is," he agreed.

David bit his lip. He paced another few paces, realised that he had started again, and stopped himself. Soft breaths from the princess floated like feathers, gentle and fluttering and peaceful. In contrast, David's cheeks were taunt and he shifted his jaw, crinkles forming at the corners of his eyes.

"Bob," Crowley said quietly. "Relax. It's only a week." He forced a grin. Then he huffed and the grin became more genuine. He scratched his cheek and laughed, the tension draining from him. "We can't run forever," he reminded them. "If he finds us here in the week, well, maybe it's down to fate. In the meantime, I'm for bed. My lady?"

He rocked onto his feet and held out his hands for Pauline. She took them and allowed him to tug her off the matress. A shadow of the past crept upon them, just a flicker, of back when her hair cascaded down her back, smile bright and ambitious, her crisp couriers uniform glowing in the firelight. Before the war. Now she wore wool, green and brown in case they needed to fade away, and her hair was trimmed for convenience. But he saw her as she had been, and he felt strangely closerto her, as if they shared a secret of past days.

"I suppose so," David conceded. "Alright. I'll inform the men." He started to bow to the king, stopped himself, and gave a rueful smile.

"We'll head off to our room too," Pauline said. "Sleep well, Christopher, Bob, Evanlyn." A pause. Duncan and David both twitched and hastily bidded them goodnight. The codenames were a new thing. Or rather, these specific codenames were new. They'd been switching names around over the years, to throw off any potential stalkers. Crowley admitted that he'd become paranoid. Pauline often accused him of it. He suspected she was winding him up; it was doubtful that she meant to be critical when his awareness had saved them on so many occassions.

David retreated to speak to the soldiers. Crowley entwined his fingers with Pauline's and led her to the room they shared. It was sparse. There was a double bed, a wadrobe, a fireplace with three chairs. Pauline lit the fire and hummed a favourite tune to herself as she watched the flames. For a long time, Crowley stared out the window at the docks settling down for the night, and listened to the rush of the ocean against the coast. He thought with a sense of unease that the hibernian who had watched them through dinner had eyes just as dark and mysterious as the sea under the stars.

He slept that night and dreamt of being watched, watched, watched.

….

Creepers sagged from the trees, a giant web of snakes. They snagged on cloth, pulling, sucking, tearing, and frustration only made it worse. They had to be unpicked like undoing the seams, thread by thread. Abelard was accustomed to it. The shaggy horse stood in place while Halt freed them. He cut away a path with his saxe. Then they trekked on. It was slow progress. Later on, it opened out, and then he urged Abelard into a canter. They weaved between the trees.

Up and crevaces and the valleys, away from the salt. They rode to the high ridges, where the wind stirred without a warning. Halt drew the hood of his coat over his head, suppressing a shiver. Abelard had to tread carefully. There were potholes and cliffs that didn't forgive. It was easy to think in this open land, he could let his guard down. No, he could see the horizen, but the tussocky grass hid the traps that lay closer.

He rode along the crest of the ridge. A hawk spiralled beneath him, in the great gulp of air between the hilltops and the forest and the sea. The coastal town was a cluster of freckles on the rocks, and there was the lighthouse seperated off, and those tiny movements were people. Halt turned away from the edge, deeper in to the hills, towards Dun Kilty. He wouldn't go so far, of course. Instead he transgressed down into a valley. The grass became richer as he descended the slope, and daisies were the currency of nature.

The trees had been cleared from this valley. A dozen gravestones were aged and faded. Except one that was newer, and was a distance from the others. Halt reined in. Abelard tossed his head and snuffled. The hibernian patted his neck to soothe him and to let him know he'd seen the disturbance in the valley.

The ranger was mounted on a shaggy horse, similar to Abelard, which came as no surprise as Abelard was bred from a line of ranger horses and had been a gift from Pritchard. What was of more surprise, though perhaps it shouldn't have been, was that the ranger kept his horse still in front of the newest grave, his head bowed, seated in silence. A daisy bouquet had all too obviously been swiftly gathered and tossed in front of the grave.

For the first time in years, Halt was at a loss for what to do. He was torn between finding out why the ranger took such an interest in that particular grave, though he harboured a suspician, and fading away. His curiosity had not been quenched the night before: he'd overheard nothing that wasn't normal travellor talk.

In any event, the decision was made for him. The ranger glanced around. Underneath the shadow of his cowl, he grinned. It seemed strange to be cheerful in a graveyard. Maybe the ranger realised that too, because he sobered up almost immediately. Nevertheless, he had a smile in his voice when he said hello.

"Hello," Halt replied. He was surprised by how stiff and unwelcoming he sounded. Had it really been so long since he'd met a new, friendly face? It must have been; he didn't know what to say next. As it happened, he didn't need to. The ranger did it all for him.

"My name's John. I'm new here: a trader from Araluen. I think I saw you yesterday."

"Yes," Halt said shortly. "I was there." He realised the ranger was watching him expectantly. He couldn't figure out why. Then he remembered his manners- it brought him back to his days at court when his father rapped his knuckles if he was too antisocial and sullen while the barons spoke. "I'm caled Hugh."

"How do you do, Hugh," the ranger, John, if that was really his name, said. He giggled to himself. "It rymed," he observed. Halt raised an eyebrow. The ranger flushed. "Is this the town's local graveyard?" He asked it hurridly and must have realised as soon as it left his mouth what a dumb question it was. The crimson in his cheeks deepened. If he thought the cowl would hide it, he was sadly mistaken.

"What brings a trader to the graveyard?" Halt inquired. John hesitated a moment.

"I have- had- a friend here. A good friend." He glanced at the gravestone. "You've lived here long? You knew him?"

Halt made a pretence of reading the grave. As if he didn't know exaclty what it said. "Pritchard? Yes, I knew him." The ranger watched him keenly. "Everyone did. He was from Araluen."

"That's right," the ranger nodded. "And was he happy here?" He scratched his chin and cast a bothered glance at the bouquet. "I didn't see much of him after he moved, see, so I thought if there was a chance to, in a manner of speaking, catch up with an old friend then..." he trailed off.

"He was happy. He didn't speak much about Araluen." It was true. Pritchard had told him little about his life over the sea, apart from how he'd been framed for treason and banished from the country. "He was mysterious."

"I've heard that there's more than one mystery around here. There's a resident warlock, apparently." The ranger's eyes were sharp. He'd talked around, done his homework, Halt thought. "What do you think about that?"

Halt would be damned if he let 'John' have the advantage. He cast his gaze around the daisies and answered airily. "Oh, you know. People will always believe the unbelievable." He felt the piercing gaze wash over them, was sure it roamed over his longbow and his shaggy horse. It might have been paranoia, but he felt almost certain that Pritchard must have told another ranger about him, even though he promised he wouldn't. And he'd be damned if he let said ranger have the advantage. "You should know about that," he added casually, "since you're a ranger."

John flinched. It wasn't a small, subtle flinch. It was one that was impossible not to notice. His shoulders shuddered, his eyes flashed wide, his mouth dropped. He tensed in the saddle, looking at a complete loss. Hibernians weren't supposed to know what a ranger was. Halt couldn't help a breif amusement. He almost smiled. Almost. The ranger was comical, and evidently it was important that he keep his identity a secret. It would be too. Halt was now sure this was no pompous noble. This was a ranger of old. And that type of ranger weren't supposed to exist anymore, they'd probably be killed or banished like Pritchard.

Curiosity and sardonic humour won over his good sense. He had to say something more before he rode off. Halt cocked his head and adopted a mock surprised look. "Is something the matter?" he asked as the ranger recovered his dignity. Then he tacked on the name to the end of his sentence. "Crowley?"

If he'd flinched before, he came close to having a seizure now. It was all the answer Halt needed. This was the ranger that Pritchard had told him about. The other apprentice, who'd been trained before Pritchard was chased out of the country. John my foot, he thought, that'd teach the ranger to lie.

He tugged on the reins and wheeled Abelard away. Behind him, he heard hoofbeats and Abelard burst into a gallop up the hill. The ranger was hot on his heels. If it was a pursuit he wanted, it was a pursuit he was going to get. The valleys were as familiar to him as the lines on his hand; the potholes: his chapped and worn nails; the hills: his knuckles; and the faint veins were streams and rivers.

Abelard knew the country too. Even though he'd been cautious earlier, he knew the horse could handle it. They slowed over the ridges, but they were still close to a gallop and they flew over the flaky ground. Halt tossed a glance over his shoulder. The ranger's horse picked his way over the rocks carefully. He flagged behind. The ranger knew it too. Under his cowl, Crowley was fuming.

Halt led him over Harley Hill and into the thickest part of the forest. Here, even Abelard had to falter to a trot. The creepers reached for him and he had to pause to cut them away. The blackberry bushes and mossy trunks and brambles obscured a view a metre away. He could only tell that the ranger was still following him by listening to the hooftbeats. And an exclamation at the thicket.

It was a game of cat and mouse. Except the mouse was wily and cunning, it knew where the cheese was, it knew all the nooks and crannies, and it was enjoying taunting the cat. That and Halt wanted to know where he stood against a ranger. It had been years since his training, and he'd never met a ranger other than Pritchard. So far he was resolutely unimpressed. If they were all as expressive and easy to draw in as this one, it was no wonder the corps had gone to custard.

He wasn't about to lead the ranger to Warlock Cottage. Nor was he about to stick around and let himself be interrogated. Crowley seemed nice enough in their brief exchange. But it could be a facade. Pritchard had certainly had a spine of steel and was dead set on his ways. Halt didn't want to be questioned about how he could possibly know who Crowley was. He started to think his actions may not have been clever. With luck, the ranger would return to town and pass it off as Warlock's knowledge.

The trees started to throw him off pace. It was harder than he'd anticipated to keep track of how close Crowley was by just listening. Halt turned Abelard west and started up into the thinner forest towards Old Man Rock. This up on the ridge tops again, and he paused to let Abelard have a breather when he reached the top. He swept his gaze around, not pausing to admire the scenic view. He could see the hill that hosted Warlock Cottage, lower and still in the treeline. He didn't have a fire going, so there was no plume of smoke to give away its location.

Crowley broke free of the trees. Abelard was enjoying this game. He reared up on his hindlegs and swivelled around before setting off again.

"Halt!" Crowley called out. Halt's heart leapt to his throat and a lightening jolt shot through his body. He wondered where he'd gone wrong, where he'd lost his advantage. Then he realised the ranger was not calling out his name, was in fact calling for him to stop, and his confidence came back in leaps and bounds.

This carried on for a few hours. Halt and Abelard delighted in riding through the wild, and the extra twist of having to avoid someone added to this. It wasn't hard to avoid the ranger at that, and Halt wasn't worried. He started to test himself a bit more, lay a few false trails here and there. Around lunchtime, he paused for a bit to eat on a ridgetop, scrutionising the treeline so that he'd know when Crowley caught up to him. At the river, it was nerve wracking as the sound of flowing water obscured the hoofbeats. He let Abelard drink a little then carried on.

After a while, he began to tire of the game. He began to wonder if the ranger would ever give up the pursuit. The shadows were lengthening, and he was about ready to head home. Until Crowley returned to the town, he couldn't do anything about that. Halt frowned to himself. At this rate, he might still be out here come nightfall. He realised the ranger might never give up- he might have too much to lose. After all, Crowley didn't know Halt well at all. He didn't know that Halt wouldn't give his identity away to the shipmasters, was just acting on impulse and curiosity really, and that if Halt had not been so bored he might not have bothered giving away that he knew the ranger's real name.

Halt reined Abelard in and cocked his head, listening. The hoofbeats were behind him. He was about to move on, but he hesitated, listened some more, and sure enough the hoofbeats were fading. Before long, he could not hear them at all. He and Abelard trotted up to the next hilltop, where he had a view and watched from there for half an hour. When he had neither seen nor heard from the ranger, he knew Crowley had given up.

"Good work, boy," Halt said, smoothing his thumbs over Abelard's soft muzzle. "We've bested a ranger." Strange. He didn't feel proud. Just a tad disappointed. "Shall we head back?"

Abelard butted his shoulder. He took it as a yes and mounted up again. They rode back down the hill and through the forest. Halt's sharp eyes made out a tear of fabric. He plucked it off the twig and studied it. Could have been the ranger's. Probably it was.

There was a certain part of the forest that was more than familiar. It was homely. He saw the branches that twisted into a loop over an old poachers track. Abelard stepped through it, and Halt had to duck down. They emerged into the small clearing, a clear patch of ground with a two metre radius in front of his cottage. The tangle of vines crept in from the forest, his front garden.

He stopped short. On the porch was the ranger, with a map spread in front of him, making quick shorthand notes. Crowley paused and glanced up. "Rough terrain out there," he observed with a nod at the forest. "Thanks for showing me around." He made another quick note on the map. Somehow, he managed to make the scrawl of the quill seem smug. And his grin was even worse.