John Flanagan: The Royal Ranger

“No! You’re making this up!” Wheeler cried.

The Ranger was unrelenting. “But the Courier didn’t think she was unimportant, did she? She went back into the burning building to save her. She shoved the girl out through an upper-floor window, then the roof collapsed and she was killed. Surely you remember now?”

“I don’t know any Wyvern Inn! I’ve never been in Anselm Fief. You’ve got the wrong—”

Suddenly, with a speed that belied his bulk, the wagoner was on his feet and whirling to his right to face the Ranger. As he began the movement, his right hand snatched the dagger from his belt and he swung it in a backhanded strike.

But, fast as he was, the Ranger was even faster. He had been expecting some sudden, defiant movement like this as the desperation had been mounting in Wheeler’s voice. He took a swift half step backwards and the saxe came up to block the wagoner’s dagger. The blades rang together with a rasping clang, then the Ranger countered the wagoner’s move with his own. Pivoting on his right heel, he deflected the dagger even further with his saxe and followed the movement with an open-palmed strike with his left hand, hitting Wheeler on the ridge of his jawline.

The wagoner grunted in shock and staggered back. His feet tangled in the bench he’d been sitting on and he stumbled, crashing over to hit the edge of the table, then falling with a thud to the ground.

The wagoner lay there, unmoving. An ominous dark stain began to spread across the turf.

“What’s going on here?” The steward moved from behind the serving table, with his two assistants in tow. He looked at the Ranger, who met his gaze steadily. Then the Ranger shrugged, gesturing towards the still figure on the ground. The steward tore his gaze away, knelt and reached to turn the heavy figure over.

The wagoner’s eyes were wide open. The shock of what had happened was frozen on his face. His own dagger was buried deep in his chest.

“He fell on his knife. He’s dead,” the steward said. He looked up at the Ranger, but saw neither guilt nor regret in his dark eyes.

“What a shame,” said Will Treaty. Then, gathering his cloak around him, he turned and strode from the tent.

The first streaks of light were staining the eastern sky. In the parkland surrounding Castle Araluen, birds began singing to herald the coming day—at first in ones or twos, but gradually swelling into a general, joyous chorus. Occasionally, one could be seen flitting between the well-spaced trees, in search of food.

The large castle drawbridge was currently raised. That was a matter of course. It was raised every night at nine o’clock, even though Araluen had been at peace for some years now. Those in command of the castle knew that the peace could be shattered without warning. As King Duncan had said some years previously, “No one ever died from being too careful.”

There was a small wooden footbridge in place across the moat—little more than a pair of planks with rope hand rails. It could be quickly withdrawn in the event of an attack. At its outer end, a pair of sentries stood watch. There were more lookouts on the castle walls, of course. Multiple pairs of eyes scanned the well-tended parkland that stretched for several hundred metres on all sides of the castle, and the thickly wooded forest beyond.

As the two sentries watched, one of them nudged his companion.

“Here she comes,” he said.

A slim figure had emerged from the trees and was striding up the gently sloping grassed field to the castle. The newcomer was dressed in a thigh-length leather hunting vest, belted at the waist and worn over a long-sleeved, thick woollen shirt and wool breeches. The breeches were tucked into knee-high boots of soft, untanned leather.

There was nothing about the figure to indicate that it was a girl. The sentry’s knowledge arose from the fact that this was a regular occurrence. The fifteen-year-old girl often sneaked away from the castle to hunt in the forest, much to the fury of her parents. The castle sentries found this amusing. She was a popular figure among them, bright and cheerful and always ready to share the proceeds of a successful hunt. As a result, they turned a blind eye to her comings and goings, although they didn’t advertise the fact. Her mother, after all, was the Princess Regent Cassandra, and no low-ranking soldier would risk her ill favour, or that of her husband, Sir Horace, the premier knight of the Kingdom.

As Maddie—or, to give her her formal title, Princess Madelyn of Araluen—came closer, she recognised the men on post. They were two of her favourites and her face lit up with a smile.

“Morning, Len. Morning, Gordon. I see you’ve had a quiet night.”

The sentry called Gordon smiled back at her. “That was until a fierce warrior maiden burst out of the forest just now and threatened the castle, your highness,” he said.

She frowned at him. “What have we said about this your highness business? It’s all a bit too formal for five o’clock in the morning.”

The sentry nodded and corrected himself. “Sorry, Princess.”

He glanced back up at the walls of the castle. One of the sentries there waved in acknowledgement of the fact that they had recognised the princess as well. “I assume your parents don’t know you’ve been out hunting?”

Maddie wrinkled her nose. “I didn’t want to bother them,” she said innocently. Gordon raised an eyebrow and grinned conspiratorially. “I’m perfectly safe, as you can see.”

The sentry called Len shrugged uncertainly. “The forest can be dangerous, Princess. You never know.”

Her grin widened. “Not too dangerous for a fierce warrior maiden, surely? And I’m not defenceless, you know. I’ve got my saxe and my sling.”

She touched the long double leather thong that was hanging loosely around her neck. Then, as mention of the sling reminded her of something, she delved into the laden game bag slung over her shoulder.

“By the way, I got a hare and a couple of wood pigeons. Can you use them?”

The sentries exchanged a quick glance. They knew that if Maddie suddenly produced fresh-killed game in the castle, questions would be asked as to how she had obtained it. On the other hand, the addition of some fresh meat would be a welcome change to the soldiers’ table.

Gordon hesitated. “The pigeons are all right, Princess. But the hare? If my wife’s found cooking that up, folks might think I’d been poaching.”

Only the King, his family, or senior officials and warriors had the right to take game such as hares in the environs of the castle. Rangers, of course, hunted wherever they chose, with a fine disregard for such matters. Ordinary people were allowed to hunt smaller animals such as rabbits, pigeons and duck. But a hare was a different matter. A peasant or soldier could be fined for taking one.

Maddie made a dismissive gesture. “If anyone asks, say I gave it to you. I’ll back you up.”

“I wouldn’t want to get you into trouble.” Gordon hesitated still, his hand halfway out for the hare.

Maddie laughed carelessly. “Wouldn’t be the first time. Probably wouldn’t be the last. Take it. And you take the pigeons, Len.”

The sentries finally gave in, taking the game and chorusing their thanks. Maddie brushed their gratitude aside.

“Think nothing of it. I don’t want to throw them away and see good food go to waste. And you’re saving me a lot of explanations.”

The guards stowed the animals in the small sentry box that gave them shelter in bad weather. Maddie waved to them and stepped lightly across the footbridge, letting herself into the small wicket beside the main castle gate. The two sentries smiled at each other. This was one of the perks of being assigned to the outside sentry post.