The Rebel Prince (19 page)

Mary nodded in understanding. She thought for a moment. ‘I heard once,’ she said, ‘that you were studying to be a physician?’

Razi nodded tiredly.

‘How interesting,’ said Mary. ‘I assume you know of Padua? It is my favourite city, you know. My family lived there for three years when I was a child.’

Razi’s face opened in surprise. Mary smiled, and soon they were involved in a soft discussion that made Wynter’s heart ache with gratitude and fondness. Her eyes met Hallvor’s. The healer winked in maternal conspiracy and turned back to her work.

‘Lass.’ Christopher plucked at her sleeve and gestured her away from the fire. ‘Talk to me.’

They rounded the corner and came to a halt in the passage between the Midland tent and the large army supply tent beside it. The camp was fully awake now, men scurrying about, the air heavy with camp-fire smoke and dust. The sun was bright but brittle, and the shadows between the tents were cold. Wynter shivered, hugging her elbows and peering out at the soldiers coming and going on the main thoroughfare. Christopher handed her a warm sorrel-cake and she ate it absently.

‘Have some tea,’ he said.

She shook her head, sucking the bitter grit of the cake from her teeth and gazing up the hill to Alberon’s tent. ‘I need to go talk to the Prince,’ she said. ‘Now is a good time, while Razi is distracted.’

‘What are you going to talk to him about?’

Christopher’s tone of voice made her glance at him. His narrow face was hard and wary.

‘I want to find out about my father’s machines,’ she said. ‘I want to understand Albi’s plans for them.’

‘Razi
told
you his plans for them. He
told
you that they won’t work.’

Wynter held Christopher’s eye. There was a moment of silence between them.

‘I want to make up my own mind about that,’ she said.

Christopher shook his head in sad disbelief. ‘Surely you ain’t going to side against our lad?’

‘Christopher.’ She put her hand on his forearm, but at the look on her face he twisted his arm and pulled it gently from her grip. ‘Chris, this has nothing to do with how I feel about Razi. This has to do with bigger things. Surely you can see that?’

He remained silent, his face set, and Wynter sighed. ‘The world is not simple, Christopher,’ she said, ‘and I am going to talk to the Prince.’ She went to move away and Christopher put his hand on her elbow. She paused, not looking at him.

‘I’ll walk with you,’ he said.

There was smoke coming from the ventilation holes at the top of the Haun yurts. The first in line was quiet and lifeless, just like yesterday, but Christopher murmured that there were at least three Haun in there. Wynter smiled wryly – he must have been sniffing about in the night, getting the lay of the land. Her heart once again swelled with warm pride; her man was the best kind of sly.

They walked slowly, side-by-side, their eyes on the Haun crouched outside the second yurt. One of them was the young man of the day before, and with him was his companion and another older man. The two senior Haun were occupied with boiling something over the fire. The young man seemed in the process of changing his clothes. He had already removed his many layers of colourful jackets and vests, and as Christopher and Wynter came level with him he was just untying his undershirt. Wynter politely glanced away as he slipped free of the garment, but her eyes snapped immediately back at the sight of his scars. Christopher almost stopped walking in shock, but they both recovered themselves in time and simply slowed their pace, their eyes uncontrollably drawn to the young man’s back.

The scars were old, puckered and stretched with time. Their shapes had distorted as the young man’s body had grown from what must have been that of a very small child at the time of his injury, to his present age of perhaps twenty or so. His stocky body was firm and closely muscled, as if he had worked hard all his life, but his strong back was marred with a row of ugly puncture wounds, starting just above the waist of his trousers at his left hip and continuing up to his right shoulder. Four in all, they were deep, evil-looking holes, as if a cruel giant had held him down as a child and neatly drilled his back with a sharpened stick.

The man put on his clean shirt, and as he tied the stays his eyes lifted to meet Wynter’s. She immediately averted her gaze and passed on by.

‘Good Frith,’ whispered Christopher, ‘how did he survive that?’

‘Excuse me!’

The cultured voice stopped their progress, and they turned to find the young man advancing on them. He drew on a jacket as he came, his focus on Wynter, his black eyes and his broad-featured face politely unreadable. He looked Wynter up and down as he came to a halt, his attention particularly drawn to her hair. When he spoke, she was impressed by the smooth courtliness of his manner and his remarkable Southlandast, only very faintly tinged with an accent.

‘Lady Green-eyes,’ he said, ‘I am struck by the colour of your hair. It is magnificent.’

Wynter blushed. Christopher snorted softly in disgust.

The young man smiled and made a motion with his hand. ‘And those unique eyes,’ he said. ‘Like translucent jade. How unforgettable.’

His face was as blandly polite as before, but there was something in this man’s voice that Wynter did not like, and she felt herself grow tense.

At her side, Christopher huffed. ‘Ain’t you a poetic wee thing?’ he said.

The Haun’s eyes flickered his way, then back to Wynter. ‘Unique eyes,’ he repeated softly. ‘Even among your own kind, I would say. Defining.’

Wynter’s heart had begun to beat a little quicker, and she raised her chin, a suspicion growing.

‘Am I to take it that you knew my father?’ she asked. ‘Is this what you are implying?’

The man grinned suddenly and it reminded Wynter of the little orange cat that, a lifetime ago now, had led her through the passages at home. Like this man, its grin had been filled with hatred, and its disdain for her had been so deep that it had never even offered her its name.

‘The Protector Lady Moorehawke,’ said the Haun. ‘Of course.’

At her name, the older Haun suddenly rose to their feet, their faces wary, and their dark eyes hopped tensely between Wynter and the young man.

‘How
is
your father?’ he whispered, leaning in. ‘Nice and comfortable, I am sure. Lauded as the warrior who rid the Southlands of the Haun threat. What do they call him? A hero like himself must have some wonderfully descriptive name. Moorehawke the Great, perhaps? Moorehawke the Undefeated? What about Moorehawke the Bloody? What about Moorehawke the Butcherer of Children?’

Without thinking, Wynter slapped the man’s face, and his head rocked sharply back. His friends rushed to his side, gabbling, and drew him away. He grinned as he went, his hand to his cheek, his eyes on Wynter. Christopher glowered after him, but Wynter turned away to hide her unexpected tears, trembling with shock and distress.

Next thing she knew, she was stumbling along, guided by Christopher’s firm hand on her elbow. ‘But what did he mean?’ she said. ‘What did he mean?’ She went to turn back, but Christopher tightened his grip and kept her moving forward, heading for the slope and Alberon’s tent. After another moment of mindlessly following, Wynter dug her heels in and jerked to a halt.

‘I must know!’ she cried.

Christopher held tight to her elbow and pulled her close, staring into her eyes. ‘It was a war, Iseult,’ he whispered. ‘Things
happen
during a war. That lad was on the losing side. He ain’t likely to write a sonnet lauding the winners’ good character now, is he?’

‘But he’s talking about my
father
! It’s not true! I can’t believe it!’

‘Lorcan was a
soldier
, lass! What did you think he did in battle? Throw buns at the enemy?’

‘Why would a
child
have been in battle, Christopher?’

He frowned at her in sympathetic confusion, and Wynter knew that he would never understand. Christopher came from a world where the inquisition threw babies onto their mothers’ execution pyres. He had been adopted by a race for whom the word ‘soldier’ meant only death and torment and pain. He was looking at her now across the chasm of their differences, and she had no doubt that he was thinking,
Why
would a child
not
have been in battle?

‘Iseult,’ he said gently, ‘whatever your questions may be, that man is not the one to give you your answers. He’s too full of hate.’ Christopher smiled at her and pushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear. ‘You don’t want to see your poor da through that fellow’s eyes, do you, lass?’

A cough behind them startled Wynter, and she realised with a jolt that she was standing in the main thoroughfare of the camp gazing into Christopher’s face as he murmured to her and stroked her hair. She stepped sharply backwards. The passing soldiers seemed to slide knowing glances at each other. The Combermen, lounging beneath their awning, seemed to eye her with leering contempt. At the head of the slope, Anthony was watching from the shadow of the Prince’s tent.

Her face burning, Wynter turned to face the man who had coughed.

‘Presbyter,’ she croaked, ‘how fare you?’

The priest was eyeing her with alarm.
Are you mad?
his face said.
Have you no sense?
His gaze flickered to the grip that Christopher had on Wynter’s arm, then up to meet the young man’s eyes. Christopher lifted his chin in defiance, and to Wynter’s surprise the priest’s face filled with pained sympathy.

‘Don’t be an arrogant fool, boy,’ he whispered. ‘You have nothing to give her but despair.’

At his gentle tone, Christopher’s defiance seemed to melt from him and, frowning uncertainly, he let Wynter go. The priest nodded. Up above them, Anthony turned and disappeared into Alberon’s tent.

‘I must tend my Lady Mary,’ said the priest and, bowing, he left them.

‘I . . .’ said Wynter, staring after him. ‘I must go talk to the Prince.’ Christopher nodded and made to accompany her up the slope. Wynter stayed him with a hand on his arm. ‘I must talk to him alone, Christopher.’

Christopher’s cheeks flared red and he stepped back, his face stiff with embarrassment. ‘Of course,’ he said.

‘He will not speak to me with you there,’ she explained softly.

He nodded, his eyes averted.

‘Will you wait for me?’

He nodded again. His determined silence was what made up her mind. After all Christopher’s quiet gestures of love – the sending of the
scóns
, the courtly bow, his gentle acceptance of her way of life – how could Wynter ever deny her feelings for him? How could she ever have considered denying them?

‘Chris?’

He glanced at her. When she stretched up to kiss him, he drew back in alarm, his eyes darting to the hill. ‘Don’t, lass,’ he said.

Wynter gripped his tunic at the chest and tugged him near. ‘You listen to me, Freeman Garron. I am telling you now, I
love
you.’

Christopher shook his head, doubt and concern visible in his clear grey eyes. ‘You don’t have to say that,’ he whispered.

‘I
love
you,’ she insisted, her face very close to his. ‘To court I shall always be the Protector Lady Wynter Moorehawke. To Razi and Alberon I shall always be Wyn – Razi’s baby, Albi’s little sis. These things are what I am, Christopher, and I am proud of them. But I am also your Iseult. You are the only man to whom I shall ever be thus, and I shall never let that go. We shall find our place,’ she promised. ‘I’m not yet certain
how
we shall find it, or where it will be, but wherever it is, we shall be together, Christopher; and whatever we are doing, it will not involve me sitting in a tent waiting for my menfolk to change the world.’

Christopher grinned at that, his wicked, lopsided grin, and, in clear view of the scandalised camp, Wynter kissed him, full and slow on the mouth. His hand found its way to her waist, and he made that delicious
mmmm
sound in his throat that always weakened her knees.

‘Wait for me here?’ she whispered.

He nodded, smiling, and with one last solemn kiss Wynter parted from him and made her way up the hill to Alberon’s tent.