The Rebel Prince (26 page)

‘Hmm,’ mused the Wolf, arching an eyebrow towards the now silent Merron quarters. ‘That mongrel has finally ceased his yapping. Perhaps the Prince has done the sensible thing and had him muzzled . . . certainly I should do the same, were I lumbered with such an undisciplined beast. They’re simply too untrustworthy, these packless creatures. In fact, I believe I may go so far as to say—’

To Wynter’s relief, Oliver chose that moment to urge his horse between David and Razi, cutting Le Garou off in mid-sentence. The knight kept himself between them and glared across at the Wolf with every ounce of his courtly disdain. ‘You will break off
here
, Le Garou.
Now.
Or I shall be forced to make you sleep in the forest with the rest of your mangy curs.’

Wynter lost sight of Le Garou’s face as Oliver danced his own mount sideways, forcing the Wolf ’s big stallion to shy off.

‘We shall talk later, Lord Razi,’ sang Le Garou as he drew away. ‘When I have had my rest.’

And to Wynter’s surprise and relief, the Loups-Garous allowed themselves be herded away, veering towards the tents on the far side of the road, their pack mule and their slaves trotting placidly behind, the sound of bells following them. She watched them ride off; then she ran to catch up with Razi, who had simply kept on walking.

The Merron women were shadowing Razi through the tents, staying abreast of his progress but keeping their distance. Up ahead, Wynter saw Jared standing at the corner of the supply tent, glowering at the retreating Loups-Garous. He had strapped a sword around his waist and his cowl was thrown back, revealing his tonsured head. Mary lurked behind him, her eyes hopping keenly between Razi and the Wolves. Wynter was fairly certain Jared did not know the lady had emerged from the safety of her quarters.

Razi must have seen the priest, because he turned abruptly away from him and cut between the nearest tents. Wynter dodged to keep up with his long-legged stride. The Merron women ducked from sight. Razi just kept walking, apparently with no destination in mind.

‘Razi,’ said Wynter, jogging breathlessly at his side.

He shook his head.

‘The Merron are this way,’ she said, pointing. ‘We must tell Úlfnaor. He must be warned . . . he must . . . he must know what to say . . . should Alberon call him. Razi!’ she cried. ‘Please! I am running out of breath!’

Razi came to a sudden halt and pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. Taken by surprise, Wynter slid to a stop, then slowly came back to his side.

‘Razi?’ she said.

‘Am I to never have one single honest feeling?’ he whispered. ‘Am I never . . . will it always be one betrayal weighed against another?’

Wynter put her hand on his arm. ‘Come back to the Merron,’ she said softly. ‘Come sit and think and—’

‘I cannot,’ he said, pressing his hands harder against his eyes. ‘I cannot face him. I simply . . . I cannot.’

‘My Lord.’ Mary’s quiet voice made Wynter startle.

The lady came from between the tents, Jared trailing anxiously behind her. It was obvious that the priest wished her back in seclusion, and equally obvious that he was not having much luck persuading her.

At Mary’s voice, Razi shook his head and groaned without looking up, but Mary crossed to him without hesitation. Wynter stood back. Mary took her place, reached up and gently took Razi’s hands from his eyes.

‘My Lord,’ she said again, her face gentle with concern.

‘Four years, Mary,’ he whispered, taking both her hands and holding them between his own. ‘Four years I have held my tongue. And today, of all days, I allow myself to speak in anger. Mary, I have ruined everything.’

He spoke to her as if she had every knowledge of what he was saying; as if she were someone he had confided in many, many times over the course of his complicated life. And the Lady Mary looked up into his desolate face with all the sympathy and understanding one would give a cherished friend.

She nodded. ‘Our lives are such, that words can lay the deadliest traps,
n’est-ce pas
? But you are the cleverest of men, my Lord. You will find a way.’

Razi pressed Mary’s hands to his chest and Wynter saw a flame of gratitude rise up behind his desperation. ‘Thank you, Mary,’ he said.

Wynter could not fathom it, this understanding between two people who had only just met. Where had it come from? But she was extremely moved by it, and she found herself wanting, more than anything, that right here and now, Mary would put her arms around Razi and squeeze him gently and tell him,
It will be all right.

‘Are the Loups-Garous a danger to us?’ asked Jared.

‘They are
Wolves
, Jared,’ sighed Mary. ‘They are hardly likely to invite us to tea.’ She glanced wryly at Razi. ‘Unless, of course, we are to be their entrée.’

To Wynter’s astonishment, Razi smiled. It was a broken smile, to be sure, but a smile nonetheless. Wynter might well have fallen in love with Mary then, so thankful did she feel towards this gentle, soft-spoken, beautifully self-possessed little woman.

‘Come now!’ Mary released Razi’s hands and smoothed the front of his shirt in a businesslike manner. ‘Come to my tent. I shall send Jared to beg some tea, and you will sit in blissful solitude and think for a while with no one to bother you. Oh, do not grimace so, Jared! What could even the most scurrilous mind construe from a woman in my bloated condition and a man of the lord’s standing sharing an innocent pot of tea?’

‘I will speak to Úlfnaor for you, Razi,’ offered Wynter. ‘If you like, you can take your ease for a while. Perhaps get some sleep? You can speak to Christopher later; I am sure that he . . .’

Razi shook his head. ‘Thank you, Wyn,’ he said, ‘but I must face up to this now. To leave it will only make it worse.’ He kissed Mary’s hand. ‘Thank you eternally, sweet woman. I cannot fathom your kindness to me after . . . after what I have done. It shames me . . . I feel . . .’

Mary silenced him with her fingers on his lips. ‘We have been through enough, you and I. I shall not torment you with recriminations, when it is obvious that you already torment yourself. In the small time that I have known you, my Lord, I have witnessed much forgiveness in you, and forgiveness breeds forgiveness. The man you are shapes those around you.’

Razi clutched Mary’s fingers to his lips, his eyes glittering. Wynter felt certain he would come undone. But after a moment he simply drew a breath, nodded, kissed Mary’s fingers once more and let her go.

‘You have business to attend,’ said Mary, smoothing her skirts. ‘I am tired. I shall retire. Protector Lady, a pleasure.’ Wynter bobbed a curtsy, her heart full of gratitude. Mary nodded. ‘My Lord Razi.’ Razi bowed. ‘Feel free to call,’ she said, turning for her tent. ‘I am home most days between sunrise and sunset. You have no need to send a page; I shall receive you with no ceremony.’ And she made her way between the tents, Jared following ruefully in her wake.

When they returned to the Merron, the women had already rejoined the group and the warriors were standing in a huddle, murmuring grimly to each other. At the sight of Razi and Wynter, they fell silent and waited.

Sólmundr and Christopher were sitting by the fire, Christopher leaning against his friend, gazing darkly into the flames. Sól murmured and stood, his expression belligerent, and Christopher looked up. To Wynter’s distress, his narrow face hardened, and without a word he pushed awkwardly to his feet and made his way into the Merron tent, pulling the flap down behind him. She came to a halt, staring at the starkly closed door.

Úlfnaor bowed warily, and Razi tore his attention from the tent and bowed in return. ‘I must speak with you,’ he said.

Úlfnaor gestured to the fire and Razi took a place beside it. All the Merron except Sólmundr crouched and listened carefully as Razi began to explain the things that Marguerite Shirken had said in her papers. Wynter ignored everyone and picked her way around Úlfnaor’s dogs, heading for the tent.

‘He not want talk to you,’ said Sólmundr coldly.

Wynter just glanced at him and passed on by. With a grimace, the warrior went to join his companions by the fire, and Wynter ducked past the growling Boro and into the tent.

‘I’m angry,’ said Christopher. ‘It ain’t a good time to come calling.’

His voice was hoarse and gravelly, barely recognisable as his own. He stood at the back of the tent, a slim darkness among the shadows, and Wynter couldn’t help but feel a prickle of fear.

‘I cannot see your face, Christopher,’ she said softly. ‘Will you come into the light?’

He laughed, the harsh, dry sound of a sneer articulated. ‘You’re afraid of me,’ he said.

‘Do you expect me not to be?’

There was silence; then he came forward so that his face was dimly visible in the interior gloom. His eyes were strange. His usual sly grace seemed wickedly transformed. It was as though the Christopher Wynter knew – that loose-limbed, smiling blade – had become something dark and prowling; something horribly
ready
.

‘Oh, Christopher,’ she whispered. ‘Don’t.’

‘I can’t
help it
,’ he hissed. ‘I’ve had
enough
.’

Wynter spread her hands. She shook her head. Her eyes filled with tears.

‘I know, love,’ she said. ‘I
know
. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. It’s not fair.’

Christopher gaped at her, his mouth open. He seemed so astonished by her tears that Wynter would have laughed were she not suddenly occupied with sobbing into her sleeve.

‘Don’t . . . don’t cry,’ he said.

‘I’m sorry.’ It seemed to be the only thing she was capable of saying because it came out again, almost immediately. ‘I’m sorry.’

He came and held her close, and she put her arms around him. His slim body was strung with tension, his muscles twitching in the aftermath of his battle to suppress the creature inside of him; the creature that his hatred could make of him. Wynter clung to his tunic and looked up into his face. The eyes looking down on her were clear and grey again. As honest as sunlit water.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said again, firmly and with a fierceness that overcame her tears. ‘I mean it. The Loups-Garous are monstrous, Christopher. I do not know how you have managed all these years in their proximity. I do not know how you have not gone mad.’

He laughed, a strained thing, on the edge of crying. ‘I thought I had. When they arrived, I thought I’d lost myself. I nearly . . .’ His eyes grew huge at the thought of what he had almost done. ‘I nearly killed Surtr.’

‘But you didn’t,’ she said firmly, and he nodded.

‘Aye,’ he whispered. ‘Aye. That’s right. I didn’t.’

‘What will—’

She was cut short by the door being lifted aside.

Sólmundr peered in. He seemed amazed to find them in each other’s arms; then his weathered face softened into sad understanding. ‘You good?’ he rasped.

They nodded.

‘Tabiyb want to talk. This good with you, Coinín? You want that Tabiyb to come talk?’

Wynter felt the power surge within Christopher’s body, a frightening, physical manifestation of his anger. He abruptly disengaged from her and retreated once again into the shadows.

‘I can’t,’ he growled.

Wynter turned to Sól, her heart battering the inside of her chest. ‘Let Razi in,’ she said.

Sól looked uncertain.

‘Let him in, Sól. Christopher is not about to let the Wolves steal this friendship from him.’

There was a long silence from the back of the tent. Then Christopher whispered, ‘Let him in, Sól. But you stay, too.’

The wiry man nodded and ducked outside. Moments later he returned, shooing Razi into the tent and closing the door behind them. Sól remained by the wall, his face watchful, and Razi came forward, his eyes on Christopher.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

‘Let me kill them, then.’

Razi winced. ‘Chris,’ he pleaded.

‘Let me kill them. Let it be over.’

‘Chris, I can’t.’

‘You can. Let me take my sword, let me take the Merron, let us go kill the Wolves. It is very,
very
simple, Razi. Do it now. Fulfil your promises. Let me kill the Wolves.’

‘I cannot,’ whispered Razi.