The Rebel Prince (30 page)

‘How was he?’ she whispered again.

‘I thought it was because of his
father
,’ cried Oliver. ‘Though they never got on, sometimes it happens that way: a son mourns for what he never had – I had thought he was grief-stricken on account of the late King’s death.’

‘He was in a bad way?’ asked Christopher softly.

‘Jon was drunk for almost two months,’ said Oliver. He glanced defensively at Christopher. ‘Not falling down, you understand, but just . . . he did not stop drinking for . . .’ He trailed off and shook his head again. ‘My God.’

‘Neither the Lord Razi nor the Prince seem aware of this, Sir Oliver. I believe it may aid reconciliation between all parties if these things were made clear.’

‘Might help them understand their da a little better, all right,’ murmured Christopher.

‘It will be a delicate business,’ said Wynter, ‘approaching sons with such a secret. Particularly one their father never wanted them to share. We will need to be very gentle.’

Oliver looked at her kindly. ‘Wyn,’ he said, ‘Lorcan was a most wonderful man. Whatever the circumstances of this terrible . . . this terrible act, I should not like you to think that he—’

Wynter snapped a hand up, cutting him off. ‘I do not need
you
to defend my father, Sir Knight.’

Oliver drew himself up and blinked to silence.

‘You may talk to the Prince,’ she said harshly. ‘I shall talk to my Lord Razi. Between us we will get this done and that will be the end of it. We can all return to the palace, no more to speak of this, and life will simply continue on.’

Oliver stepped back, his face set, and bowed. ‘I shall do my best, Protector Lady. Please God, by tonight the lord and the Prince will be in communication once again.’

He turned away.

Christopher squeezed Wynter’s hand and she shut her eyes.
Please, love
, she thought,
don’t say anything.
She did not think she could bear him trying to defend her father. She did not think she could bear questions. To have to open her mouth and articulate all the terrible things she now suspected Lorcan of having done was beyond her power. But, to her great relief, Christopher did not speak. He just maintained a patient, waiting silence, and Wynter loved him for it. She loved him more for every minute he was alive.

‘Gérard was listening,’ he whispered.

She snapped her eyes open to see the dark-skinned Wolf step from the shadow of a tent and hurry to catch up with Oliver. He swerved around in front of the striding knight and bowed smoothly. Oliver kept walking and Gérard walked backwards, keeping pace.

‘You aim to reconcile the Prince and the Pretender, sir? ’ asked Gérard. ‘Would that be wise? I fear the Prince would be livid with you if he thought you’d sided with the upstart contender for his throne.’

Oliver replied coldly, still striding forward, ‘If you value your teeth, you will remove yourself from my path.’

Gérard stepped aside with exaggerated grace and allowed Oliver to sweep past him. He watched as the knight climbed the path and disappeared into Alberon’s quarters; then the Wolf turned and smiled from under his eyes at Christopher.

‘So your master still keeps you, does he, pup? You must have some wondrous skills to have stayed in favour so long – and you nothing but a cripple.’ Gérard licked his teeth and looked Christopher up and down in a way that made Wynter want to cut the eyes from his head. ‘Oh aye,’ said the Wolf. ‘I’d wager you have learned
many
a way to please. I’ve no doubt al-Sayyid rattles your bells whenever he chooses.’ Gerard chuckled. ‘I’ve always said there’s no better music than that of slave bells, sounding out their rhythm in the dark.’ With that he tipped a gracious bow to Wynter and strolled away into the dying light.

‘Scum,’ hissed Christopher. ‘
Scum!

’ Wynter took hold of his clenched fist. Her throat was so tightly packed with rage that it took a moment before she could speak. ‘They are only words, love,’ she managed. ‘Just words.’

Christopher tore his hand from hers and spun to go. His angry face grew even darker at the sight of Jean blocking the path. Unaware of Wynter and Christopher, the big, broad-shouldered Wolf was crouched by the supply tent, face to face with Alberon’s little servant, Anthony. As they watched, the Wolf leaned close and murmured into the child’s ear. Jean’s voice was inaudible to Wynter, but at his words the already frightened little boy turned white and his body went rigid with terror. Still whispering, Jean smiled and ran his fingers through the silky fineness of the boy’s hair.

With a low sound of fury, Christopher darted forward. But even as he and Wynter rushed towards him, Jean rose to his feet, pinched the child’s cheek and wandered off in the direction of the Wolves’ quarters. Anthony was left staring at nothing, his cauldron of water held stiffly before him, his little chest rising and falling in rapid, terrified breaths.

‘What did he want?’ snarled Christopher, dropping to his knees beside the child.

Anthony yelled in fright and jumped back, slopping water from the cauldron.

‘What did he
want
!’ shouted Christopher.

Wynter laid a restraining hand on Christopher’s arm. ‘It is all right, Anthony,’ she murmured. ‘Freeman Garron does not mean you harm.’

But the little servant took another step back, his eyes fixed on Christopher. His terror seemed only increased by the fury on the young man’s face. Christopher did not seem to even notice the poor child’s distress. ‘Tell me what he
wanted
!’ he cried, grabbing Anthony by his narrow shoulders. ‘You have to
tell
me!’

Wynter tightened her grip on Christopher’s arm and crouched down. ‘Anthony,’ she said. It took him a moment to tear his gaze from her friend. ‘It is all right,’ she said again. ‘You may go.’

The boy fled, heedless of the water he was slopping over himself, running frantically for the hill and the safety of Alberon’s tent. Christopher went to lurch to his feet, meaning to follow him, but Wynter pressed down on his arms, halting his rise. She looked into his dangerously tinted eyes.

‘It is all right,’ she said firmly. ‘The boy is safe.’

Christopher growled at her without any recognition, and she took his knotted fists in her hands, squeezing them tight.

‘It is all right, Christopher,’ she repeated. ‘Come back now.’

He frowned uncertainly. Blinked.

‘Come back to me,’ she said. ‘I need you.’

Christopher suddenly breathed deep. His eyes cleared as they stared into hers. His fists relaxed.

‘Are you with me, love?’ she whispered.

He nodded. Up on the hill, the little boy had made it to the Prince’s tent. They watched him run into the protective shadow of the awning and disappear inside – a tiny figure barely large enough for the cauldron he carried. Wynter squeezed Christopher’s scarred fingers one last time, and together they rose to their feet and made their way back to the Merron quarters.

Wynter told Razi about the young Haun’s scars and her theory on the Bloody Machine. Razi was quiet for a very long time after.

In the silence, Wynter gazed down at her hands. To her surprise, they were clasping and unclasping as of their own accord. She clenched them tightly together, forcing them to be still, and squeezed hard so that her knuckles gleamed brightly in the firelight.

Sitting across from her, his face intent, Christopher waited for Razi to speak. On the other side of the fire, the Merron sat quietly. Though they were trying hard not to eavesdrop, they had been intrigued by Wynter’s low, intense conversation, and they kept glancing furtively across the flames, their curiosity impossible to hide.

‘I shall have to see his body,’ whispered Razi at last.

Wynter nodded absently, watching as her filthy nails dug into the backs of her hands. It had been very easy, in the end, to say the words. It was such a simple sentence, after all, and so quickly over:
I think our fathers killed them all.
But when she had finally said it, she had felt a pain in her chest, a sharp, tearing sensation, and now she felt nothing.

She spread her hands, watching the firelight play across her grimy fingers. Her nails had left pale half-moon indents in her skin. Wynter regarded them with interest, then tried to fit her nails back into the exact position again, pressing hard. Would it take a lot of pressure to break the skin, she wondered? She dug her nails deep, frowning in concentration.

‘Iseult!’ snapped Christopher, and she glanced up at him, startled. ‘Stop that!’ he hissed.

‘I shall have to see his body,’ murmured Razi again. He scrubbed his hands on his trouser legs and nodded. ‘Yes. After all . . . those scars could have been from anything. You are not a doctor, darling. Perhaps the poor fellow had the smallpox. Perhaps he was mauled by a bear. Perhaps he . . .’ He stopped talking, and his hands stilled. He looked up into the star-strewn sky. ‘Perhaps,’ he said desperately. Then he seemed to give in. ‘Oh God,’ he whispered.

Christopher looked down at Boro, his mouth unsteady. The dog grinned at him and Christopher scratched between his ears. ‘Good boy,’ he whispered.

The night was very still, just the muffled sounds of the surrounding camp, the crackling fire, the snoring of the other warhounds audible. Sólmundr and Hallvor were sitting with the other Merron, grave and withdrawn: after dinner, the soldiers had caught them hassling the Loups-Garous’ slaves down by the river, and the two of them had been returned to their quarters in shame. Úlfnaor had been furious with them. He had made them apologise to David Le Garou and forced them to fetch the Wolves’ spilt water. They had been tense and silent ever since.

Music came drifting from somewhere deep within the camp, a guitar strummed low. Wynter glanced dully at Christopher. He too heard the music, and she saw his face soften at the sound. He shut his eyes, tilting his head to listen as gentle memories played across his face.

‘
Maidin Ór
,’ he whispered.

Across the fire, Úlfnaor smiled in recognition of the tune and murmured something in Merron. Hallvor glanced fondly at him. Surtr nodded in time with the music, tapping his fingers.

‘
Go h-álainn
,’ he sighed.

Suddenly, Frangok asked a sharp question and the Merron lost their warm good humour and straightened slowly, their expressions hard. Frangok snapped the question at Christopher. His face drew down in pained understanding, and he groaned, dropping his head into his hands.

‘Oh,’ he breathed, ‘the scum.’

‘What is it?’ mumbled Wynter.

Christopher shook his head.

‘It
Maidin Ór
,’ snapped Sólmundr. ‘It Merron song! It
Merron
! Who teach it to
coimhthíoch
?’

‘I did,’ whispered Christopher, ‘when I were a slave. I taught Pierre to play it on my father’s guitar.’

Sól sank back in shock. ‘But
why
, Coinín?’ he cried. ‘It
Merron
song, we not ever—’

‘Because I
liked it
!’ hissed Christopher, glaring across at him. ‘I
liked
it, and I used play it, and he made me teach it to him! All right? Is that all right, Sól? Can you accept that?’

At Christopher’s taut anger, Sólmundr softened instantly and held up his hands, his face gentle.

‘Shhhh,’ he said. ‘Shhhhh,
a luch
.
Ná bac faoí
. . . it all right.’

Christopher’s face darkened and he bowed his head again. He dug his fingers into his hair and squeezed hard, as if trying to hold himself together.

‘You not to worry,
luichín
,’ rumbled Úlfnaor. ‘No one blame you. It not your fault that those
caic
steal everything they see.’

The music continued to float gently around them and it was as if the entire camp had paused to listen, so quiet had the night become. Somewhere out there, the blond Wolf sat and played that lovely tune, and Wynter had no doubt that this terrible pained reaction was the very reason he had chosen it. She imagined him glancing up from the strings to look at David Le Garou, the knowledge of what he was doing clear in his grin, and she wondered if he was still playing Aidan Garron’s guitar.

At that thought, anger blazed hot and clear and sharp within her, and she welcomed it. It felt good. It felt much better than her previous muffling fog. Razi sat at her side, his hands clenched, his face dull, and Wynter glared at him.

‘When shall we act?’ she asked.

‘Soon,’ he whispered. ‘Give me time.’

‘For
what
? The Haun have gone back to their leaders, bearing the message Alberon wished. What use have you for the Wolves now?’

Razi sighed and shut his eyes. ‘Please, Wyn,’ he said.

Christopher looked up from between his hands, his face hard. She met his eye, rage to rage. ‘Soon’ was not enough.

The music ceased without warning, cutting off in mid-chord, as if the guitar had been snatched from the player or dropped from his hand. It was so abrupt an ending that everyone sat frowning for a moment, waiting for it to start again. Christopher straightened, staring out into the quiet night. The silence stretched on, and the sounds of the camp filtered in to fill the void. Hallvor glanced at Sólmundr, sidelong, from the corner of her eye. Sólmundr studiously did not look her way.