The Rebel Prince (37 page)
‘You would not think it to look at her,’ said Christopher, his voice warm in Wynter’s ear. ‘She’s a formidable little person.’
‘She has remarkable character,’ agreed Razi. ‘I should hate to think of her trekking home in that condition. And then, arriving to what?’
‘She would be returning home to nothing,’ observed Wynter. ‘Worse than nothing if the purge against her family still rolls on.’
‘And so I would like to offer her my protection, Albi. If you would only agree to shelter her here while I am away, I should—’
‘I thought I had made myself clear on this,’ said Alberon sharply. ‘This is not the place for a woman in her state. You cannot simply offer her your protection, then hand her over into my care without a thought. Either she is your responsibility or she is not! Do not foist the consequences of your magnanimity onto me.’
‘I cannot take her with me over the mountains!’ exclaimed Razi. ‘Do not be ridiculous!’
‘Then why offer your protection at all! That’s nothing but words! If you’re—’
‘The Merron may protect her,’ suggested Wynter, ‘while they are here, at least.’
‘Oh, aye,’ murmured Christopher, reaching to stroke Coriolanus’s back. ‘There’s no way Úlfnaor would turn her aside, and should it come to it, Hally’s sat birth-vigil more times than we could count, I’d say. The lady would be safe in their keeping until the Lord Razi returns, and your soldiers needn’t fret over the possibility of having to help a baby come into the world. God knows, it ain’t what soldiers are useful for, is it?’
At the ensuing silence, Christopher and Wynter looked up. Razi and Alberon were regarding them with strangely startled expressions. Christopher faltered uncertainly. ‘Uh . . . that is, if the lady agrees, of course,’ he said. ‘It’s merely a suggestion.’
‘Of course she’ll agree,’ said Wynter. She leaned back, settling comfortably against Christopher’s chest, and smiled. ‘Don’t mind the brothers, love, they’re just surprised, that is all. The Kingssons are not used to seeing things so straightforwardly.’
Anthony announced himself at the door, and Alberon grinned in anticipation as the servant carried in a tray of dishes. ‘Food!’ cried the Prince. ‘Get off my bed, you two, and come sit for your meal.’
‘Anthony,’ murmured Razi as the little fellow set the table. ‘Would it be possible for me to wash first?’
Anthony nodded tightly. He was far more subdued than Wynter was used to, and she thought he seemed a little pale. She watched him from the corner of her eye as he placed the bowls on the folding table, but refrained from asking if he was all right.
He set a basin and pitcher on Alberon’s bedside locker and Razi came across to wash his hands. Wynter smiled as Anthony sidled past, but he didn’t seem to notice her. Christopher, awaiting his turn at the washbasin, followed the little boy’s progress with a concerned frown.
‘Have we bread?’ asked Alberon, rubbing his hands and looking around hopefully. ‘No, we don’t. You’ve forgot the bread, mankin,’ he said. ‘Go get it.’
Anthony was in the process of hoisting a jug of water to the table. He poured an unsteady beakerful for Alberon, and Wynter realised that his little hands were trembling.
‘Anthony,’ repeated Alberon, already tucking into his porridge. ‘Didn’t you hear me? Run down to the supply tent and get some bread.’
At the words ‘supply tent’, Anthony made a desperate little noise and lost his grip on the pitcher. Razi watched in dismay as his dinner bowl overflowed with the water meant for his beaker. Wynter rose to her feet, her hands out to steady the jug, but Christopher was already there, and he lifted the pitcher from the child’s shaking hands. Anthony stepped back, his face crumbling, and his eyes filled with tears.
‘Hey, it’s all right, mouse,’ said Christopher, setting the pitcher down. ‘It’s naught but water.’ He stirred Razi’s bowl with his finger. ‘Look! You made soup. Razi
loves
soup, don’t you, my Lord?’
‘I generally prefer it with a spoon,’ muttered Razi darkly. Blushing, Christopher took his finger from the bowl. Razi looked to Anthony. ‘What the devil is the matter with you, child? Have you the palsy?’
Anthony took a big deep breath and straightened his narrow shoulders in an attempt to gain his equilibrium. Wynter felt sure he intended to speak, but his mouth just squirmed about instead and his tears overflowed down his cheeks to drip onto his apron.
‘Good Christ,’ protested Alberon, ‘all I wanted was some bread.’
‘I’m
your
servant!’ cried the child suddenly. ‘I’m
yours
!’ Everyone gaped at him, startled, and he flung his skinny little arm out, pointing insistently downhill and crying again. ‘I have nothing to do with Wolves, have I, Highness? They can’t make me do anything! Just because the soldiers won’t serve them! I’m just your servant, aren’t I!
Aren’t
I, Highness? I’m just
yours
!’
Christopher’s face went hard and cold, and he straightened slowly from where he had been crouched by the boy. Anthony wrung his apron between his fists and looked pleadingly up at him, mistaking his rage, perhaps, for disapproval.
‘But I don’t want to,’ he whispered.
‘You don’t have to,’ hissed Christopher. ‘You don’t have to do
aught
!’
‘Christopher,’ said Razi gently, ‘they only wanted him to serve their food. I’m sure that is all.’
‘But I don’t want to,’ whispered Anthony again. ‘Please. I’m
your
servant, Highness. I’m—’
‘Yes,’ said Alberon. ‘Yes, Anthony. Shush now. It is all right. I don’t need any bread, and you
are
my servant, no one else’s. So hush.’
Just then the strangest sound drifted up from camp – a low, keening moan.
Christopher’s eyes narrowed as he listened to it, his shoulders hunched. The first moan was joined by another and the two voices rose slightly, not quite becoming a howl before dying down. Immediately, the sound rose up again, three voices this time, like ghost-dogs mourning in their sleep.
‘Why are they
doing
that?’ whispered Anthony desperately, his eyes huge.
Razi met Christopher’s eye across the water-slopped table.
‘The slaves are dead,’ said Christopher. ‘The Wolves are lamenting their loss.’
‘I don’t want to be their Boy!’ cried Anthony. ‘That man said I must! But I don’t want to! He said I must, but—’
Wynter snagged his tunic, pulling him in. ‘Shush now,’ she said softly. ‘It’s nothing at all to do with you. The Prince is your master. That is an end to it.’
‘Will these deaths be a problem?’ snapped Alberon. ‘Will they seek revenge?’
Razi shook his head. ‘David has too much at stake to run amok over this,’ he said. ‘He feels secure in your protection and will not be foolish enough to jeopardise his future.’ His eyes flickered to Christopher’s livid face, then back to Alberon. ‘It is over,’ he said, picking nervously at his cuff. ‘I am certain of it.’
Christopher just stared at the terrified little boy and said nothing.
‘Y
OU VERY
quiet,’ said Sólmundr, eyeing Christopher across the neck of his horse.
Christopher shrugged, tightened the girth on his saddle and snapped his stirrups into place.
‘You feel not good?’
‘I’m fine,’ he grunted, swinging into the saddle and pulling his horse around. ‘Stop acting the old biddy and saddle up.’
Sólmundr met Wynter’s eye. Christopher had been silent and prickly since the night before, and Sól, usually so easygoing, had nagged at the young man’s ill humour like an anxious hen. He was making Christopher worse.
The sooner Razi and I get them from camp the better
, thought Wynter.
She tugged her saddlebags into place and glanced across to where Razi stood in conversation with Jared. The Lady Mary had refused Razi’s protection, as Alberon had known she would. To Wynter’s surprise, however, the priest had been remarkably open to the idea. Wynter was trying hard to be gracious about his intentions, but it was easy to suspect that this had less to do with Mary’s welfare, and more with the hassles of trailing a pregnant woman all the way home.
‘I shall speak with her again,’ said Jared. ‘Try and convince her of the sense of it.’
‘Please do,’ said Razi. ‘And do your best to convey my sincerity, won’t you? There will be nothing of the beggar’s taint involved. No unsavoury implications. The Lady D’Arden will have every dignity, and her child the best of care. You
do
believe me, Presbyter? You
will
press my case?’
Jared sighed and ran his hand across the gleaming whiteness of his scalp. ‘I’ll try,’ he said, ‘but it is vital I leave today. If I cannot convince her to stay, I must take her with me. There’s naught else for it.’ He tutted. ‘If only the Blessed Virgin had not made that damned journey on an ass, my Lady might feel less inclined to risk the same . . . oh, God forgive me for saying so!’ he said and blessed himself quickly, three times in a row. ‘She
is
an exasperating woman, though,’ he muttered. ‘I’m not so certain you’re wise in taking her on.’
Razi extended his hand. ‘Do your best,’ he said quietly.
Wynter paused in the act of tying her blanket roll, and stared as the priest gripped Razi’s dark hand and shook it. She did not know why, after all the things she had witnessed in the last few months, but this sight arrested her – a Midland priest shaking an Arab’s hand, their faces set in solemn accord.
The two men were caught in a slanting shaft of early light, and it rimmed them in gold, throwing their shadows long and misshapen against the sloping sides of the Merron quarters. As Jared released Razi’s hand and turned away, Hallvor emerged from the darkness of the tent behind them. She carried Sólmundr’s bright wool cloak in her arms, and as she slipped past Razi the sun glanced hotly from her bracelets and glowed in the fluid blackness of her hair before she crossed back into shadow.
It was a moment so vivid and so inexplicably sad that it stole Wynter’s breath.
Úlfnaor ducked from the other tent and waited while Razi watched the priest leave. Then the big Aoire smiled and bowed, offering his hand to Razi in farewell. The Merron gathered in a silent row behind them, their faces grave as the two men shook hands.
‘We shall see each other again,’ said Razi.
‘I want tell you thanks, Tabiyb, but there not ever to be enough words for it.’
Razi nodded silently and turned away, heading for his horse. Úlfnaor’s attention lifted to Sólmundr, who was just taking to his saddle. The Aoire met his friend’s eye and his face creased in wordless emotion. Sólmundr grimaced ruefully and shrugged. By his horse, Hallvor stood with his cloak in her hand, her dark eyes sad.
‘
Sól, mo mhuirnín
,’ she whispered, ‘
tar ar ais gan mhoill.
’ Taking his cloak, Sólmundr leaned perilously low and pressed his forehead to hers, squeezing his eyes shut. ‘
Slán,
a stór
,’ he whispered.
‘You to stay alive!’ shouted Wari suddenly, and Sól laughed, his forehead still pressed to Hallvor’s. He straightened and pulled his horse into line.
‘Don’t go hunting any Wolfs without me!’ he said. ‘It is for my son and I their heads are keeping.’
Úlfnaor and Wari nodded in dark understanding. Úlfnaor murmured a translation, and the other warriors grinned knowingly. Surtr made a cutting motion at his throat. Wynter frowned as she took to the saddle, glancing at Razi, who was pretending not to notice or understand. Christopher, hard-faced and silent, just waited expressionlessly to pull away.
‘Iseult?’ Wynter glanced down to find Hallvor smiling gravely up at her. ‘You take care of yourself,
luichín
, yes? You and your odd little tribe.’ Wynter nodded. ‘And do not forget.’ Hallvor tapped her temple, a wicked twinkle in her eye. ‘If Coinín ever gives you any trouble, hit him in the head, preferably with your boot.’
Wynter couldn’t quite bring herself to smile. ‘You will take care of the Lady Mary?’ she asked. ‘For as long as she remains in your care?’
Hallvor nodded. ‘I will protect her,’ she said. ‘I swear it.’
She squeezed Wynter’s hand, then stepped back as Razi clucked his mare past them, heading for the thoroughfare. Christopher pulled his horse into line behind him. He seemed lost in his own thoughts, and it was clear that he intended leaving without saying goodbye to his Merron friends.
‘Coinín,’ called Úlfnaor. The young man paused. ‘
Fear óg
thú, a Choinín. Tá neart ama agat.
’ Christopher nodded without looking back and went to kick on.
‘I will mind the little boy!’ called Úlfnaor. ‘You not needs to worry.’
Christopher reined his horse around, his eyes wide, and with a surge of painful understanding, Wynter realised that Úlfnaor had hit upon the source of his distress.
‘He’s so small,’ said Christopher urgently, ‘he ain’t got a chance against them.’
Úlfnaor shook his head. ‘They not get him.’
‘You need to watch them all the time, though. Watch Jean! Make him understand that if he does aught, we’ll remember it. Let them know that we are
strong
.’
‘I swears it,’ soothed the Aoire. ‘You not to worry.’