The Rebel Prince (51 page)

Up they went, and up, until they were high above the sleepy towers and cupolas of the sun-baked city. The Protector Lord was not even slightly breathless when they finally breasted the rough planking of the uppermost tier and he stooped to let the little boy slither from his shoulders.

‘Christopher Garron! You best not have brought that child up on your back!’ The Protector Lady poked her head out from the A-frame of the hospital roof and glared. Her crotchety old grey cat slipped carefully from her shoulder and slunk across the red timbers like smoke. He looked his human companions up and down with the usual disdain, settled himself in a patch of warm light, and closed his beautiful green eyes. His name was Coriolanus, and he was so old and threadbare that Isaac thought he resembled nothing more than a dusty grey rag curled carelessly onto the timbers.

‘What did I tell you!’ cried the Protector Lady, as she clambered from the timbers and jumped onto the scaffold. ‘The boy comes up in a basket or he doesn’t come up at all! Isaac Kingsson? Do you want your good mother hunting the Protector Lord down and beheading him in a violent rage? Can I not at least depend that
you
shall keep a sensible head on your shoulders?’

The Protector Lord just grinned and leaned recklessly out from the scaffold, suspended above the sheer drop by his heels and one misshapen hand. His hair came loose from his collar and swung behind him, a dark raven’s wing against the blue sky as he turned his face to the sun and shut his eyes.

‘Oh hush, lass,’ he murmured. ‘Sure isn’t the lad as nimble as a little green monkey.’

At the sight of him hanging over the drop, the Protector Lady went a little pale. She placed her hand upon a strut, as if by steadying herself she might also steady him. If Isaac had not known her better, he would think she was afraid she might fall. But of course he
did
know better: the Protector Lady was famous for clambering the scaffolds, quick as any ship’s boy. She was never afraid she would fall. The little boy grinned as the lady called softly to her husband.

‘Christopher,’ she said, ‘come in.’ Her voice was so low that Isaac was surprised the Protector Lord heard her. But the lord’s clear grey eyes opened immediately, and he ducked his head to look in at her. ‘Come in,’ she said.

The Protector Lord swung in under the bar and landed on the wide scaffold boards with a bounce. He winked at Isaac. ‘Women,’ he said.

‘Huh,’ she said, releasing her hold on the strut and clearing her throat. ‘If you fall and sully all my lovely wood, your ghost will be mopping up the mess for all eternity.’

‘I have no doubt,’ murmured the Protector Lord. He crossed his arms and lounged against the beams, smiling tenderly at his wife.

The Protector Lady came and crouched by Isaac. She grinned at him, and Isaac grinned back. He knew very few women who would crouch down like that. It had to do with her clothes, he supposed. ‘How do, little pud,’ she said, tapping his nose and pushing back his sandy hair. As usual, her own hair had come loose of its long plait and was tumbled around her shoulders in messy auburn waves. Her face was a sunburst of ochre freckles after the long hot summer. ‘Is your da with you?’

‘Papa was called to the university very early, Aunty Wyn. They are to begin lessons again next week, you know! There is much to do.’

The Protector Lady smiled. ‘Your mama must be very happy that she can resume her studies.’

‘Oh, yes, though she tires of always sitting behind the curtain; it quite obscures her view of the tutors!’

‘She should bring scissors and cut a damned big hole in it,’ grunted the Protector Lord. ‘She will continue to press for recognition?’

‘Oh yes,’ nodded Isaac.

‘I despair of them ever granting her the blue robe,’ sighed the lady.

‘That don’t take her talents away,’ said the Protector Lord. ‘It don’t make her any less learned, just because they refuse her a doctorate!’

‘Papa says Mama is quite the best person he has ever met for cutting open and sewing shut a patient! He has crowned her the Lady Mary, Mistress of the scalpel, Master of his heart!’

The lord and lady laughed in delight, and Isaac, very pleased with himself, thrust the now crumpled message out before him. ‘I have brought this!’ he said. ‘It is from Papa. He entrusted it to me!’

The Protector Lady eyed it dubiously. ‘Isaac,’ she said, ‘if your father continues to expand upon his plans, this hospital will never be built! Please tell me he has not sent you with yet another extension to the wards or more storage for the bleeding-room or some manner of new dissection chamber?’

The child laughed. ‘No, Protector Lady, it is news of the baby!’

The Protector Lord straightened. ‘What news?’ he said.

‘I do not know. Papa read it, handed it to Mama, kissed her and left for the university. He entrusted me to take it to you. He said he will see you soon.’

‘How did he seem?’ asked the Protector Lady, taking the message and clutching it in her hands. ‘Was . . . was he sad?’

‘No, Lady!’ cried the child in surprise. ‘Of course not! Sad! How silly! He was just . . . Papa! Busy. Smiling. Just Papa!’

The Protector Lady opened the message and scanned its contents. ‘It is from Alberon,’ she cried. ‘Oh, it is a boy! Born last month!’ She looked up at the Protector Lord and quoted from the letter. ‘He says the child is
a fine, bawling
manling
.
I cannot wait until I have done overseeing the new fleet and
can get around to buying him a horse . . .
’ She read on in silence and her smile faltered. ‘Oh,’ she whispered. ‘Oh.’ Her eyes filled with tears. ‘The babe is to be called Oliver.’

There was a small moment of quiet. Then the Protector Lord said dryly, ‘An unusual enough choice.’ The lady met his eye.

Isaac frowned. The Protector Lord’s bitter expression was as difficult to understand as the lady’s tears.

‘Ain’t Jonathon afraid what people might think?’ said the lord. ‘Naming his new boy after the man what almost brought his kingdom down?’

‘Christopher,’ whispered the Protector Lady. ‘Don’t. You know someone had to take the blame. Better someone already beyond pain than those left alive.’

The Protector Lord tutted and turned to look out at the city. Behind Isaac, Coriolanus suddenly rose to his feet, muttered something about ‘the fickle fortunes of man’, and slunk away. The Protector Lady watched his stiff progress through the slats of sunlight and shade until he had moved out of sight behind the timbers, then she sat looking down at her hands, her face grave. The silence became itchy and uncomfortable.

Isaac squirmed. ‘Papa . . . Papa seems most
pleased
to have a new brother,’ he ventured.

The lady took a deep breath and sniffed. ‘Aye!’ she said. She shook herself, then waved the letter cheerfully in his face. ‘And you have a new uncle, little pud! How wonderful for you! Certainly the Royal Prince Alberon is delighted . . . he says you shall both have to take the little chap fishing whenever you get around to visiting your grandfather’s kingdom!’

‘I should very much like that!’

The Protector Lady dragged Isaac onto her knee and tickled him until he shrieked.

‘And what of Queen Marguerite?’ asked the Protector Lord quietly.

The lady subsided against the scaffold bars, the little boy cradled fondly in her arms. ‘Gone back home already,’ she said. ‘She took but two weeks’ rest after the birth, then headed North to finish her campaign against the Haun. Apparently she and Jonathon have decided this child shall be a Southland prince, by dint of his being firstborn.’

Christopher sighed, shook his head, then spread his hands and laughed. ‘Why not!’ he said. ‘It’s as good a way to choose as any, I guess.’

‘I doubt Jonathon will regret his darling wife’s absence,’ said the lady dryly. ‘One could hardly call their union a love match.’ She rose to her feet, lifting Isaac on her strong shoulders. ‘Speaking of which, a certain husband of
mine
promised coffee and manchet once his students had gone! Perhaps there’s something wrong with my nose, but I don’t smell coffee! Where’s my manchet, little man?’ She pretended to root in Isaac’s coat. ‘Have you hid it? Have you? Is it in your britches?’

Isaac squirmed and shrieked and wriggled. Finally the lady thrust him from her with a weary sigh. ‘Here,’ she said, ‘you will just have to cook this piglet. It’s all I can find to eat, I’m afraid.’

The Protector Lord swung the little boy onto his back with an order to hold tight, then launched himself over the edge. Isaac grinned at the lady’s faint, ‘Jesu!’ He glanced up to see her looking over the scaffolding, shaking her head at them as they descended the ladder. She was all lit up against the very bright blue of the sky, her untidy red hair ruffled and streaming out like ribbons on the hot breeze. As he watched her, she leaned her elbows on the scaffold bar, laced her work-hardened hands and gazed out across the huge and troubled magnificence of the city. Her face fell into that grave kind of watchfulness so familiar to him, and he regarded her with all the love possible in his small and happy heart.

The Protector Lord climbed down and down. Just before he reached the final levels, where the roof would no longer be in their line of sight, Isaac saw the Protector Lady catch sight of something down by the stables and straighten. She smiled, raising her hand, and Isaac’s heart leapt because he knew
that
look too – that beaming anticipatory grin. His father was coming! The lady must have seen him walking through the gate.

Just before the Protector Lord swung them both in and onto the ground, Isaac saw the Protector Lady swing herself out onto the ladder and begin to follow them down. The little boy laughed and slithered from the lord’s shoulders. He hit the ground running, determined to beat them all to it and meet his father halfway.

GLOSSARY

T
HE LANGUAGE
used by the Merron in this book is equivalent to modern-day Irish. Note: apparent inconsistencies in the spelling of some words, like
Domhan
and
Domhain
, relate to the rules of Irish grammar.

A chroí
– My dear / love

A luch / lucha
– Mouse

Agus / ’gus
[abbreviated] – And

Aidan an Filid, Mac Oisín an Filid, as Tír na Garron
– Aidan the Poet, Son of Oisín the Poet, from the Land of Garron

An Domhan / An Domhain
– The World [the Merron’s version of God]

Aoire
– Shepherd

Aoire an Domhain
– Shepherd of the World

Aonach
– A fair

Cac / caic
– Shit [singular / plural]

Cad a rinne tú?
– What did you do?

Cad é?
– What? / What is it?

Caora / Caoirigh
– An Honoured Representative of the Merron God / the Merron God made flesh [singular / plural]

Cén fáth na saighdiúirí, a Choinín?
– Why the soldiers, Coinín?

Ciúnas!
– Silence!

Coimhthíoch
– Foreigners

Coinín Mac Aidan ’gus Mac Sólmundr
– Coinín Son of Aidan and Son of Sólmundr

Coinín. Agus é ag rith
– Coinín. And he’s running.

Cosc ort nóiméad, a luch
– Stop yourself for a moment, mouse

Croí-eile
– Other-heart

Cúnna
– Dogs

Fan
– Stay / wait

Fan nóiméad
– Wait for a moment

Fear óg thú, a Choinín. Tá neart ama agat
– You are a young man, Coinín. You have plenty of time.

Filid
– Poet [Ancient noble and hereditary title. A
filid
would be responsible for preserving the history of his people in oral form and then teaching it to the next generation. The preservation of history in its oral form was very much the traditional role, and any moves to write history down would have been frowned upon. The modern version of this word,
file
, has come to mean simply
poet
.]

Frith an Domhain
– Frith of the World [sometimes used as Merron blasphemy]

Go h-álainn
– Beautiful

Hallvor an Fada, Iníon Ingrid an Fada, Cneasaí
– Hallvor an Fada, Daughter of Ingrid an Fada, Healer

Is mé atá ann!
– It’s me! / I’m the one who’s here!

Luichín
– Little mouse

‘Maidin Ór’
– ‘Golden Morning’

Mo mhuirnín
– My beloved / sweetheart / darling

Ná bac faoí / Ná bac
– Don’t bother about it / don’t let it worry you [literally
don’t baulk under it
; sometimes used in the sense of
you’re welcome
]

Ná bac faoí, a chú. Níl iontu ach amadáin
– Don’t let it worry you, hound. They are only fools.

Na Cúnna Faoil
– The Wolfhounds

Nach ea, mo ghadhar?
– Isn’t that right, my [hunting] dog?

Scòn
– Scone [Old Scots Gaelic for a specific type of griddle cake]

Slán, a stór
– Goodbye, dear

Sól, mo mhuirnín, tar ar ais gan mhoill
– Sól, my darling, come back without delay