The Rebel Prince (36 page)

‘If anyone can, they can.’

Alberon ran his fingertips along the edge of the table. He plucked invisible fluff from his sleeve. ‘You understand,’ he said softly, ‘I would need to be very delicate with my men about this? They take great pride in their capabilities. There can be no hint that they have been in any way . . . um . . .’

Christopher smiled bitterly. ‘The Merron lords are the most diplomatic of folk,’ he said. ‘Certainly they ain’t about to ruin your men’s appetite by crowing over who provided the meal.’

Alberon regarded him very closely.

‘I swear it,’ said Christopher.

‘They are remarkably subtle when it comes to politics,’ murmured Wynter. ‘Take it from me, if it is diplomacy you need, these folk will oblige.’

‘If you wish to make use of the Merron, it might be wise to open talks with them soon,’ said Razi. ‘I will be taking Freeman Garron back to the palace with me and he will not be around to act as your liaison.’ He smiled in innocence at Alberon’s hard look. ‘I need Christopher,’ he said blandly. ‘Without him I may well get eaten by a bear. After all, I don’t know one end of a tree from the other.’

Wynter hid a smirk. Alberon went to reply, but Oliver interrupted by ducking into the tent and jerking the door shut behind him. He did not look happy. ‘The Wolves are asking for a doctor,’ he snapped. ‘They are ill. One of their slaves is near dead, the other severely afflicted.’

‘Oh, Good
Christ
!’ cried Alberon. ‘Have they brought the damned plague in on top of us, along with everything else?’

Oliver flickered his eyes to Razi, then away. ‘They hint at poison, Highness.’

Alberon’s face darkened. ‘Razi?’ he growled.

Razi spread his hands in denial of involvement. Christopher gazed steadily at the table. Wynter examined her nails.

‘Razi!’ demanded Alberon. ‘You were prowling about in the night! You actually sent me
word
that you intended to interfere with the Wolves!’

‘As I said, brother, petty vandalism, nothing more. The Wolves’ illness is nothing to do with me.’

‘Le Garou is most insistent in his calls for a doctor,’ said Oliver. He looked significantly at Razi. ‘We have none but you in camp, my Lord.’

‘There is nothing I can do for them.’

‘
Razi
,’ growled Alberon.

‘But there is nothing I can
do
,’ repeated Razi. ‘They were fool enough to eat something disagreeable and that is that.’

‘This is your opinion?’ asked Oliver. ‘They ate something disagreeable?’

‘Most disagreeable,’ murmured Christopher.

Razi gave him a warning look. ‘That is my opinion,’ he assured Alberon.

‘And you know this how, brother?’ asked Alberon tightly. ‘You simply sense it? You’re that wonderful a physician? You can diagnose a patient’s condition as if by magic through acres of tent canvas?’

‘The Wolves ate something disagreeable,’ repeated Razi. ‘Your men have no need to fear the plague. I bet my life on it.’

‘I have no doubt you do,’ murmured Alberon, his eyes flitting to Christopher. Wynter glanced slyly at him and he caught her eye. ‘
Jesu Christi
,’ hissed the Prince, ‘you’re like a trio of well oiled snakes sitting there, with your shifty eyes and blank looks. Oliver, tell David that we are not fortunate enough to have a doctor in camp. Give him my sympathies, keep him appeased and keep me apprised. Do not let this escalate.’

Oliver nodded unhappily and left.

‘This will not escalate, will it, Freeman Garron? I shall not find myself stuck in a spiral of spite and counter-spite?’

‘It may be wise,’ said Christopher, his scarred fingers drawing spirals on the tabletop, ‘to request that Úlfnaor’s Second join my Lord Razi on the trail.’

‘Certainly,’ said Wynter, ‘Freeman Garron could do with some assistance guarding us in the wilds. The lord and I being such sorry hands at forest-craft.’

‘Hmmm,’ mused Razi, ‘that is an excellent suggestion. If Sólmundr could be spared, of course.’

‘We’re discussing that thin, sandy-haired fellow?’ asked Alberon. ‘The one with those appalling shackle scars?’

Christopher nodded.

‘I see,’ said Alberon quietly. His eyes dropped to Christopher’s mutilated hands, and Wynter saw some measure of deeper understanding cross his face. ‘I’ll assume that the appointment of this fellow to Razi’s service will miraculously bring a halt to the Wolves’ stomach problems?’

Christopher nodded again.

‘I see.’ Alberon slapped the table with a decisive bang. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Razi! You have yourself the protection of the savage. I wish you joy of him. In your place, I should keep him far from my cooking pot, but that’s just me.’

Razi chuckled. ‘I shall bear that in mind,’ he murmured.

Wynter glanced at Christopher, smiling. He closed his eyes and she briefly took his hand.

‘Now,’ said Alberon, rising to his feet. ‘Your maps . . .’

CONSEQUENCES

‘Y
OU INSIST
on taking Wyn?’ murmured Alberon, his eyes on the map. Wynter tutted, but the Prince paid her no heed and continued to discuss her as though she were not there. ‘Those mountain tracks are hardly fit for a woman.’

‘I am taking her, and that’s an end to it,’ said Razi, peering at the thin thread of mountain pass he was currently examining. ‘I will not leave our sister in camp without your protection, Albi, and I certainly will not send her travelling with you when Father’s entire army is after your head.’ He pointed at the map. ‘This river, here,’ he said, ‘it is deep?’

‘It is both deep and rapid. However, if you were to cross here . . .’ Alberon twisted the map so that Razi could see, and they bent low, murmuring, their equally tousled heads close together as they discussed the best way to ford the river.

Wynter sighed and pushed back from the table, stretching broadly and wincing at the stiffness in her back. They had been over the route three times already and were merely re-examining the alternatives. There was nothing left for her to learn.

Christopher had wandered to the door and was gazing through the insect-netting, watching the camp. He was pensive and withdrawn, and Wynter assumed he was worrying about the Merron and their future. He had brought them into the conversation several times, and Alberon had been remarkably patient with him. But in the end there was little that could be done, and Christopher knew it.

The lords had not fallen prey to Marguerite Shirken’s plan of entrapment, but that was about the only good thing that could be said for their situation. There was no room in this kingdom for their nomadic way of life, and there was little Alberon could do to avert the Shirkens’ war of attrition against them. Even were the Prince willing to offer sanctuary – and there was no indication that he was – it was unlikely that Úlfnaor’s party would accept his protection and leave their tribesmen in the North to struggle on alone. Eventually, the Merron lords would have to return home to deliver the bad news to their people, and to face whatever it was that life had in store for the tribes.

Wynter crossed to Christopher’s side and took his hand. She leaned against him, looking down into camp.

‘This plan is madness,’ he said softly. ‘The King ain’t ever going to allow this all to just slip by. What king would? His heir threatening the throne, toppling his allies, restructuring his carefully established relationships? If Jonathon allows all that to go unpunished, he may as well just hand the boy his crown and have done with it.’ He shook his head grimly. ‘They ain’t going to succeed.’

Wynter glanced back at the brothers. They had taken one of Razi’s maps and were comparing it with Alberon’s, measuring the distances and frowning. ‘Razi is a remarkable diplomat,’ she whispered. ‘He simply has to persuade Jonathon to meet with Alberon and—’ ‘He won’t
succeed
!’ hissed Christopher, turning to her. She squeezed his hand and glared at him in warning to keep his voice down.

He turned his face to the insect-netting again, and they listened for some sign that the brothers had noticed. But the low conversation carried on behind them and, after a moment, Christopher tilted his head to her once more.

‘As soon as the King finds out that Razi lives, he’ll take up arms and he’ll kill the Prince, and that will be an end to it all. Razi will be forced to the throne, and we’ll be attending his funeral by Christmastide because there ain’t no way Jonathon’s beloved subjects will let his brown bastard live as heir.’

The cold possibility of this clenched itself around Wynter’s heart. Christopher held her eye for a moment before turning his face back to the camp. Behind them, there was the rustle of another map being unfolded. Alberon murmured something and Razi huffed in amusement. He made some dry remark and the two brothers chuckled.

Christopher’s hand tightened against Wynter’s and she drew his fist up to her heart. She stared blindly through the mist of the insect-netting as all the desperate possibilities of what might come to pass wormed their way through her mind.

At the beginning of all this, Alberon had no doubt believed that his father would back down. It must have seemed so unlikely that Jonathon would simply sweep his heir from him and begin afresh with Razi on the throne. Regardless of anything else, the consequences to the kingdom of such an act would have been apparent even then. By now, though, Alberon had to be aware of the hopelessness of his position. In his guilt over the Bloody Machines and his violent desire that they not continue in use, Jonathon had made the rift with his heir too public. He had taken things too far. Now, no matter what Razi did or said, how could the King ever permit Alberon return to the throne?

Neither Razi nor Alberon were fools. Wynter knew that they both understood the unlikelihood of turning back this tide. Still, they seemed determined to forge ahead – Alberon in his steadfast belief that he could strengthen his father’s wonderful kingdom, Razi in the hope that he could reconcile all.

‘There is nothing else they can do,’ she whispered.

‘I know.’

‘This is their only chance.’

‘I know.’

‘I will not abandon Razi to do this alone, Chris.’

‘Oh God, lass! I know! Neither would I.’

She smiled. ‘I never suspected you would.’

Down in the camp, a muted trumpet called muster to dinner, and the two of them paused to listen to the distant clatter of men falling into line.

At the map-table, Alberon sighed. ‘I am clemmed,’ he said. ‘Will we tidy up in the hopes that someone may present us with a meal?’

Wynter listened, with her back turned, as the brothers folded maps and cleared away pens and folios. Christopher sighed and shook his head. He squeezed the bridge of his nose with his free hand, hopelessness and misery clear in every line of his face.

Wynter kissed his scarred fingers in sympathy. ‘Would you like to meet an old friend of mine?’ she whispered. At his surprised nod, she led him past the table to Alberon’s cot.

‘He’s asleep,’ she said, pulling back the insect-netting and sitting on the bed. ‘He’s not terribly well.’

Christopher hesitated at the sight of the cat. ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Uh . . .’ He glanced back at Alberon, then turned to face her and widened his eyes in secret warning. ‘I don’t tend to get on with cats,’ he said. ‘They tend to be . . . hmm . . .
alarmed
by me. Seeing as how your Southern cats are a touch more vocal than most, is it wise that I . . . ?’

He contorted his face in a ridiculous attempt at nonverbal communication, obviously concerned that Coriolanus might leap from his nest screeching ‘Wolf ’ at the top of his lungs.

Wynter smiled. ‘Don’t worry, Christopher,’ she whispered. ‘Cori knows all there is to know about you. He will not be alarmed. Come here.’ She patted the cot and Christopher sat down. Without hesitation, he slipped his arms around her and put his chin on her shoulder, watching the sleeping cat. Wynter saw Alberon frown at this most uncourtly display of affection. She looked away from his disapproval and pulled Christopher’s arm a little tighter around her waist.

‘Poor wee thing,’ he murmured. ‘He’s naught but skin and bone.’

‘I should like to offer the Lady Mary my protection,’ said Razi suddenly, and they all turned to look at him in surprise.

‘Oh, Razi,’ said Wynter sadly. That was a hopelessly impossible kindness.

‘Don’t be a fool, brother,’ said Alberon, ‘she’s a Midlander.’ At Razi’s unreadable silence, Alberon sighed. ‘She is a
devout
Midland lady of court
. She will no more accept your help than she would sail to the Moroccos and take up service in the harem of the Sultan.’

‘I intend merely to offer my protection, Albi. I expect nothing in return.’

‘I do not imply that you wish to make the poor thing your concubine,’ said Alberon with surprising gentleness. ‘I am simply pointing out the unlikelihood of her accepting even the most courtly of advances from a man of your colour, creed and . . . um . . . birth. That is all.’

‘She has
nothing
, Albi,’ said Wynter softly. ‘Her husband’s destruction has left her bereft of family and of fortune. She must be desperate for help.’