Page 41 of The King's Man 3

“Cael?”

“Hmm?”

“You heard all that, right?”

Um . . . “Uh huh.”

“Your part is to help Olyncollect the herbs.”

There seems to be some overbearingness in his tone, like he’s afraid I’ll take things into my own hands and get into trouble. I immediately trot behind him and start massaging his shoulders.

“A ‘yes’ will do.”

We gather what gear we need, and when the sun sets, Olyn and I head to the meadows and hide behind some trees. Quin quietly ‘borrows’ a dinghy and rows along the canal bordering the field.

The redcloaks have pitched a tent at a clearing next to the canal and are cooking fish over a fire. “I’ll take first shift, you take second,” one of them says. “Use the whistle to signal any trespassers.”

“Those farmers were scared out of their leggings. Doubtful they’ll try again.”

As they eat, Quin drifts into view on the moonlit waters. He stops rowing and calls to them in a crackling, old voice. “There’ll be trouble tonight.”

The men leap to their feet and rush to the edge of the canal, drawing swords.

Quin clasps his hands together and bows his head, humming, in the way travelling readers do.

The redcloaks glance at one another and back at the old man in the boat. “What are you talking about?”

“I sense disaster.”

One shifts from foot to foot. “F-Fortune tellers are only right half the time.”

“Yeah. Yeah, only . . . half the time.”

Quin bows again and picks up his oar. The redcloak flinches, tugging his companion’s sleeve. “What if he’s... like the Old Man on a Boat?”

Their eyes widen. “Wait. Wait.”

Quin sets his oar down again.

“What advice do you have for us?”

Quin takes a pouch of herbs we took from my box, and tosses it to them.

“What is this?” the redcloak who caught it asks.

“To cleanse the air of sick spirits.”

“S-spirits?”

“Of those who died unnecessary deaths. Sprinkle over the fire and breathe in the cleansing smoke.”

“I d-don’t believe in spirits.”

Quin bows again. “Be at peace.” He picks up his oars and dips them into the water, but while the redcloaks do seem shaky, they’re not quite convinced.

The one holding the pouch tosses it into the grass. “H-he’s a quack. Some old fool. That’s all. Let’s finish our fish.”

Despite chattering teeth, the other redcloak nods and resumes his seat on the fireside log.

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