The Rebel Prince (45 page)

At Razi’s use of his name, Christopher’s face crumpled in pain. Razi seemed to mistake this for confusion, and he went on trying to describe his father. ‘He was a smallish man? With dark hair cropped close to his head? Slim, sallow face, big nose.’ Razi smiled in fond remembrance. ‘
Bigger nose
than head
, he used to say. He was a lovely person . . . I am fair sure you knew him.’

‘Oh, aye,’ whispered Christopher. ‘I knew him for a while, but . . .’

‘But what?’ Razi raised himself onto his elbow. ‘But
what
, friend?’

Christopher frowned desolately at Wynter and she shook her head in dismay. ‘You are describing Victor St James, Razi – your tutor. Your father is the
King
. St James was certainly no king.’

‘But he was a doctor,’ whispered Razi. ‘He was a
wonderful
man.’

Wynter nodded sadly. ‘But he was not your father,’ she said.

Razi lay back against his saddle again, lost in confusion.

Out in the darkness, the Wolves once more began to laugh. Christopher flung a stone in impotent rage. ‘Go
home
!’ he yelled. ‘Go home! You poxy whoreson curs!’

Sólmundr sighed. ‘Your father may not be no doctor, Tabiyb, but he at least rid his kingdom of that vermin.’

‘Aye,’ muttered Christopher, ‘he did that.’

‘Then . . . then why are they here?’ asked Razi.

‘That was your damned brother,’ sneered Christopher, glaring out into the snickering darkness. ‘He invited the poxy things back.’ He glanced across, and the look on Razi’s face made him laugh despite himself. ‘I know,’ he said in sympathy. ‘It’s all just a mite too perplexing, ain’t it?’

Late into the night, Wynter woke from a dream in which her father stood staring down into a valley of silent ghosts, his hands red with blood. She had been shouting across to him from the other side,
Da? Da! I don’t know where I am.
But even as she called to him, Lorcan had turned and walked into the misty rain, and she had understood that she was all alone. She woke with the diplomatic folder clutched to her chest. She’d fallen asleep with it in her arms.

Christopher lay warm beside her, his strong arm looped around her waist. She slid carefully down under their covers until she could rest her chin against the top of his dark head, and she put her arm around him, pulling him closer.

‘Y’all right?’ he murmured, and she nodded. ‘Go asleep,’ he said. ‘They won’t come near the dog.’

She lay staring out into the impenetrable trees, holding Christopher close and listening to the Wolves as they whispered in the darkness beyond the light. She could think of nothing to say when she met the King. She could think of nothing to do. Across the fire, Razi’s dark eyes reflected the light as he too lay awake, thinking. Sólmundr sighed and rolled over, grousing at his blankets.

‘Lass,’ whispered Christopher, ‘go back to sleep.’

But she didn’t, and neither did he, and when dawn finally broke, it found them still lying there, staring pensively into the forest as the trees emerged slowly from the dark.

DAY ELEVEN: CHER FORD

W
ell, it is still here
, she thought, scanning the small group of plain tents, the one smoking camp fire.
But this is no
royal party. There are too few men, no supply wagons, no military
presence.
Her heart sank at the growing likelihood that she’d made the wrong decision. She had wasted so much time.

Enough of that!
she told herself.
Christopher is right. What
is done is done! We are but three days from the palace. If we hurry,
we may arrive back on the same day as Alberon. Perhaps even hours
ahead of him. It is possible that we still have some time.

She looked back at her companions. She had insisted that they take the old cart road through the forest, approaching the ruined ferry house from the east. This abandoned track was detailed on her map with the orange broken line of a disused trail and had been labelled ‘unpassable to cart and wagon’. Certainly it was horribly overgrown, filled with light saplings, waist-high in grass and snarled with trailing clots of bramble. But it was still relatively open ground when compared to the shadowy depths of the surrounding woods, and it made their approach easier and gave them a good view of the camp. More importantly, it allowed the camp to see them and reduced the all-too-likely danger of them being shot as spies.

Boro, bristling with hostility, tried to dash ahead through the high grass, but Sólmundr called him to heel. The warhound returned with great reluctance, barking and snarling into the trees and at the camp. Sólmundr snapped at him, obviously telling him to behave.

‘It’s difficult to tell from here,’ murmured Christopher, eyeing the small group of men who now stood shading their eyes and watching their approach. ‘But they don’t look to be soldiers. I don’t see no uniforms or pennants, nor any other fancy royal things.’

‘We were wrong,’ sighed Razi.

‘We will pass on through,’ said Wynter. ‘It will be easier to follow the track around and back onto the main road. Then we must fly like the wind to the palace.
Jesu
, I cannot believe that I have made such a grave—’ ‘Go no further, travellers! You must needs turn back here.’

Wynter jerked her horse to a dancing standstill as men emerged from the surrounding trees like shadows made flesh. They filled the path ahead and behind. Boro snarled and prowled, glaring up at Sól as if to say,
I tried to tell you.
The warrior sighed, lifted his hands from his sides, and told the hound, ‘
Tarraing siar!

’ Though they were dressed in ordinary clothes, the surrounding men levelled their crossbows at the travellers with all the dispassionate intent of professional soldiers, and Wynter’s heart soared. She had never thought to see the day when she would be quite happy to have an arrow so coldly aimed for her heart. She uncovered her face and grinned at the puzzled man, whom she recognised as the lieutenant of the King’s guard. Squinting up from the bushes, he was obviously thrown by her apparent delight.

‘You must turn back now,’ he said slowly, convinced perhaps that she’d escaped from some bedlam and could not understand. ‘You cannot make use of this road.’

‘Thank you, lieutenant,’ she said. ‘I commend you for your vigilance. However, we come bearing papers for the King. I would be grateful if you would convey my greetings to him, and request please that his loyal servant, the Protector Lady Wynter Moorehawke, in the company of his son, the Lord Razi, might be granted access to his presence.’

They were divested of their weapons and brought on foot down through the long grass and into the King’s camp. This was a tiny entourage indeed, no more than ten men, with only four tents between them, one of which would obviously be reserved for the King himself. Wynter, scanning about her, was gratified to see no sign of heavy artillery or even the deep wheel-tracks that would signify its passage through camp. This meant that no cannonry had been through here. The ground bore no trace of any foot-traffic, or horses other than those evidenced at the camp’s highlines, so there were no great numbers of archers either, waiting in hiding to rain death on Alberon and his accompanying men.

Wynter could not prevent the surge of hope this evidence brought to her heart. She could see no sign at all that the King intended an ambush. Could it be that he had relented?

Had Razi’s supposed death brought Jonathon to his knees at last, and had he been sincere in his offer of parley to his one remaining heir? Hard as it might be to believe, it seemed as if the impossible had come to pass. Wynter glanced up at Razi, who was nervous and wary by her side, and thought to herself,
Perhaps we can manage this after all.

The lieutenant led them from the pollen-laden grass, and the rest of the King’s men gathered silently around. The soldiers eyed Sól and Christopher with disbelief – and kept their distance from Boro.

‘If that creature so much as cocks its leg, shoot it,’ said the lieutenant, and his men levelled their crossbows and followed the warhound’s progress with their fingers on the triggers.

Wynter watched the soldiers from the corner of her eye. She was impressed at their stone-faced lack of reaction to Razi’s sudden return from the dead. For the most part, their responses were confined to furtive glances and only the occasional nudge and whispering comment. These were obviously well seasoned men, but, aside from the King’s lieutenant, Wynter recognised none of them, and there was no sign of any of the other tall and broad-shouldered longbow-men who comprised the King’s personal guard.

Where are Jonathon’s men?
thought Wynter, risking a glance behind her. Certainly they could not all be crammed within one of these small tents. Had there been turmoil within the ranks? Had the King’s own men fallen victim to a purge? Surely not. Jonathon had gone to pains to tell her father how much he trusted his guard. The men themselves were undyingly faithful to the crown. What could have happened to them?

‘Wait here,’ said the lieutenant, and, leaving them under the watchful eye of the others, he approached what Wynter presumed to be the King’s tent.

To Wynter’s great shock, the lieutenant did not stand to attention outside the awning, announce himself loud and clear and wait for the order to approach. Instead, he went right up to the closed door of the tent, murmured, ‘It’s me,’ through the canvas, and waited there, leaning across the entrance like some forward peddler at a hovel.

Wynter glanced at Razi. Even in his present state, her courtly friend regarded this lack of decorum with frowning disbelief. ‘Is . . . ?’ he asked. ‘Is that fellow announcing himself to a
king
?’

A man came to the door, and Wynter recognised him as being the captain of Jonathon’s personal guard. Another huge man, he stooped to listen as the lieutenant murmured in his ear. Then he raised startled eyes to Razi, unable to hide his shock.

Wynter heard the lieutenant whisper, ‘Is he in any condition?’ The officers’ eyes met, and instead of replying, the captain glanced furtively into the tent behind him.

Wynter straightened in alarm. What on earth were these men up to? Why did they not simply announce Razi’s arrival to the King? And what could the King possibly be doing in there? Surely he wasn’t standing calmly aside as two of his own men whispered at his door?

She stepped forward, and in a high, clear court-voice, demanded, ‘Why do you not announce us?’

The guards flinched, and Wynter purposely raised her voice so that whoever lurked within the tent could not fail to hear. ‘Do your duty this instant!’ she said. ‘And announce the Protector Lady Moorehawke and the Lord Razi to his Majesty the King!’

There was a sound within the tent of something clattering to the ground, and the captain ducked inside, leaving the lieutenant to stare anxiously at Wynter’s angry face. Within the tent, Jonathon’s voice said, ‘It is him?
It is him?

’ ‘Announce us,’ she hissed, ‘or suffer the consequences.’

‘I suggest you do as the lady commands,’ said Razi darkly.