The Rebel Prince (6 page)

HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS

O
LIVER’S SWORD
came down to tap Christopher’s hand. ‘You would do well to unhand the lady,’ he said softly, and he pressed the flat of his sword against Christopher’s arm until he had pushed the young man’s hand from Wynter’s waist.

Christopher stepped back, arms spread, and Oliver gestured with his sword that he should back away from Wynter. Christopher looked at her, uncertain. She saw the surprise in his eyes when she didn’t immediately defend him, and her heart dropped.

On the trail it had been so easy to forget their differences. They had been just Christopher and Iseult, and for what had felt like the longest time, that had been all that mattered. There had never been time to discuss this return to court life, and Wynter had always assumed that Christopher would simply adapt to it. In a sudden rush of panic and regret, she realised that they had left far too many things unsaid, and now it was too late. She stared at him, her face a cool mask, the memory of their last kiss still ghosted upon her lips, and she prayed that Christopher would play along until they had time to talk things through. But Christopher’s clear grey eyes hardened, his chin lowered, and Wynter’s heart squeezed in alarm as she realised that he was going to say something both of them would regret.

Alberon’s dry laugh saved them. Wiping his eyes, he looked Christopher up and down in tolerant amusement and addressed Oliver in Southlandast.

‘Go easy on him, Sir Knight,’ he said. ‘These fellows have not the sense of propriety one might desire. The poor savage probably thinks he’s gaining favour by protecting Razi’s woman – forgive my crudeness, Wyn.’

‘Alberon . . .’ warned Razi.

‘Oliver, why don’t you take him out to those others,’ continued Alberon. ‘Get them something to gnaw on and somewhere to squat down until I am ready to deal with them.’

‘Alberon . . .’ said Wynter quietly.

‘Actually,’ interrupted Christopher, uncovering his face, ‘this savage would prefer to stay, until the Lord Razi tells him otherwise.’

There was a moment of strained silence as Alberon registered the fact that Christopher spoke perfect Southlandast.

‘Freeman Christopher Garron is my Second, your Highness,’ said Razi, ‘my bodyguard. As well as a very good friend.’

‘A friend,’ said Alberon. The Prince regarded Christopher coolly, his clothes, his bracelets. His eyes faltered on Christopher’s horribly mutilated hands, then rose smoothly to his face. ‘Your Southlandast is excellent, Freeman Garron.’

‘Thank you, your Highness,’ said Christopher flatly.

Bow
, thought Wynter.
Bow, damn it.
But, of course, he didn’t.

‘Do the others speak Southlandast?’ asked Alberon. ‘It seems underhanded to conceal the fact if they do. I had expected to deal with the Princess’s messengers via Garmain; ’twas a surprise to find these folk speak only Hadrish, and so poorly at that. Though, perhaps . . . ?’ He looked uncertainly at Christopher, doubt evident in his expression. ‘Perhaps you are their translator?’

Christopher glared, that dangerous pride rising in his face. ‘I have no doubt that the Merron lords speak Garmain with every fluency,’ he said. ‘They chose to speak Hadrish out of deference to the Lord Razi. He speaks neither Garmain nor the Merron tongue, and the Merron would consider it below their dignity as noblemen to indulge in a conversation that one of their party could not understand.’

If Alberon felt the sting of that he did not let it show. ‘I see,’ he said. He glanced back at Razi, spent a brief moment in contemplation, then turned to Oliver. ‘Go out now and thank the Merron leader for his duty to my brother. Tell him that I am pleased. Find accommodation for him and for his entourage . . . make it
good
accommodation.’

Oliver hesitated. He glanced at Christopher, then murmured, ‘There
are
no accommodations, your Highness.’

Alberon sighed. ‘Just double up the men, somehow. Commandeer some tents. I want those people settled by nightfall, Oliver. I have no desire to set them above their station, but if they are to stay, I want them where I can see them. You, Freeman, go with Sir Oliver. Keep an eye on your people; report back to him if there is discontent.’

Christopher stiffened. ‘I ain’t no spy,’ he hissed.

‘Christopher.’ Razi’s quiet voice drew everyone’s attention to him. ‘It would probably be wise that you help the Merron get settled.’ Christopher held his eye. ‘The Protector Lady and I will be safe,’ said Razi, smiling gently. ‘Thank you, friend.’

Christopher flicked a glance at Wynter, and she nodded to let him know that she would be fine. She tried to soften her face, tried to smile and seem warmly grateful like Razi, but she had the horrible feeling that she looked as though she were haughtily dismissing a servant. Christopher compressed his mouth, staring at her. Then he gave Alberon one last suspicious glare, bowed stiffly and stalked out the door. Wynter did not turn her head to watch him exit the tent.

Oliver loitered unhappily, his eyes hopping from brother to brother.

‘Shoo!’ said Alberon with a smile. ‘Out! I shall write you a full report by morning.’

Oliver gave him a tight-jawed look, bowed and left, leaving Wynter, Razi and Alberon alone.

The three of them stood still for a moment as the light within the tent flickered and danced with the movement of the men outside. Dust filtered through the open door, hazing the air as the soldiers retreated. Two long shadows fell against the canvas as Alberon’s personal guard took position at the awning. It grew quiet.

The little boy-servant came and peeped in at the door. Alberon smiled at him.

‘Small-ale, Anthony, please. Some cheese and . . . is there bread?’

The boy nodded, and Alberon waved him away. They listened to him scamper off, then Alberon turned to his family. ‘How shall we do this?’ he asked softly. ‘So many things . . .’ He looked to Razi. ‘I should like to finish my negotiations, Razi. Before we go back. I had always planned to bring it to him, a
fait accompli
, and there is still much to do. Though all is nearly ready.’

Razi stood with his back to a small dark-wood folding table. He reached behind him and placed his fingertips on the scarred surface, as if to anchor himself. ‘The King did not send me,’ he admitted. Alberon’s face immediately lost its warmth. Razi pressed on. ‘Father has told me nothing of you, nor of what you have done. I have come in secret, without his permission, in the hope that I may reconcile you to each other . . . before this goes beyond repair.’

Alberon shook his head in what Wynter could only interpret as grim disapproval. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘Well, well. So, you play the politician even with me, do you, brother? I had hoped you would leave such games behind you in the Moroccos. I had hoped that
you
at least would talk to me as a man – straight and true.’

‘I play no games, Alberon. I merely—’

‘You merely opened your mouth to me, and your first sentence was a lie,’ interrupted Alberon. Razi went to object and his brother lifted his hand to silence him. ‘No,’ he said. ‘No more now. I understand that you have spent years speaking from two sides of your mouth, Razi, and our father owes you much for it. But you will break that habit now, understand? You are here with
me
now. You are on
my
side. There is no more need for two faces. We go forward from here together, as men, honestly and without falsehood.’

Razi frowned unhappily and clamped his lips shut, as if biting back a reply.

‘Good man,’ whispered Alberon, his face softening. ‘Good man. We will all do so much better with just a little less guile.’ He slid a half-smile at Wynter. ‘Speaking of which, what brought you to drag our poor little sister along? Thought I might need my socks darned; did you?’

‘Alberon,’ snapped Wynter, ‘what
exactly
are you doing here?’

Alberon grinned. ‘My!’ he cried. ‘How very direct of you, little sister. How decidedly uncourtly. You have no idea how much that refreshes me. Perhaps your stay with Marguerite has taught you something of candour? Perhaps she has shown you what it can truly mean to be a ruler?’

‘Only if being a ruler means bludgeoning your people into submission and burning all dissenters at the stake.’

‘Sometimes that is what it takes, Protector Lady. I have come to understand that a real leader needs to know when to leave the pretty words aside and hammer his opposition into line.
If you are not with me, you are against me
, correct?’ Alberon nodded to himself. ‘Correct,’ he said.

Seemingly carried away with the force of his thoughts, he began to pace, his head down, his expression intent. ‘Until recently, I was not certain that my father truly knew what this kind of strength meant . . . but now!’ Alberon smiled in admiration. ‘
Mortuus in vita
!
That
was a kingly act. I would not have thought him capable of it – to disinherit his only legitimate heir. Of course, he would have been better to simply have had me killed – but, as ever, he continues to turn his face from the final stroke. I’m telling you, if
I
were a king and
my
son stood against me, there would not be a tree left standing till his charred corpse and the corpses of all his supporters had been dragged down the mountain and strung up along the port road.’

Wynter met Razi’s eye as Alberon strode up and down between them. The expression on her friend’s dark face was a mirror image of the confusion in her heart. Was Alberon actually
berating
his father for not yet having killed him?

‘Your death, though,’ said Alberon, pointing at Razi. ‘A sly trick, but genius nonetheless! What better ruse to break me than the contrived slaughter of my brother? If anything would bring me down, that would! The old man knows me, Razi, I’ll give him that. Damn near broke my will.’

‘But that was no
ruse
!’ cried Wynter. ‘Albi, that was poor Shuqayr! It was
Shuqayr
! And Simon De Rochelle and all his men! Those murders were real, Albi. They really did those awful things! And they did them thinking that Shuqayr was Razi! Oh, Albi! The things they did to that poor man. If you only knew.’

‘Shuqayr?’ Alberon came to a sympathetic halt. ‘That tall Arab boy you knocked about with? The apothecary’s boy? I am sorry, Razi. Truly. He seemed a good fellow.’

Razi said nothing. Just stood with his back to the little table, staring at his brother, his face closed up like a book.

‘They did it because they thought Razi wanted your throne, Albi,’ said Wynter. ‘They did such terrible things to that poor—’ ‘Oh, aye,’ interrupted Alberon. ‘Aye – that would be it.’ He crossed to the door of the tent, and Shuqayr’s terrible death seemed to slip into the background for him as he looked down into the camp. ‘My people would do anything to protect me,’ he murmured, his eyes roaming the neat tents, now pink-tinted in the failing light of evening. ‘I have much support from court, as you can tell. Though they are yet to know the nature of my misunderstanding with Father, they are utterly determined to keep
you
from power.’ He looked at Razi over his shoulder. ‘Not that I ever doubted you, brother. Though God knows, the gossips have you leaping across banquet tables and shoving weeping guards aside in your haste to get to my throne. I know it has never been in your nature to strive for such power. You are not a man destined to be a king. Do not take insult from that. I do not mean it as such. We cannot all be kingly men.’ He turned back to thoughtfully surveying his camp. ‘Indeed, where would we be if that were the case? Incessantly battering each other over the head while our kingdom went to ruin.’

He smiled, his eyes slipping to Wynter. ‘You are ever the sly hand though, bringing our sister with you. No doubt you thought her presence would soften my resolve? I’m sorry, Wyn, but I’m afraid you must resign yourself to camp rations and a hard pallet for a while longer. I await my last representatives – the curs are days late – and I shall not be leaving till my work is done.’

Wynter bristled at that. God knew she was used to court men assuming she was naught more than a bit of fluff to dandle or protect, but after all she’d been through, to hear this attitude coming from Alberon was just too hard to take.

‘I came here of my own volition, Alberon Kingsson,’ she said stiffly. ‘It was only by chance fortune that Razi and I met up. I risked all to get here. I abandoned my poor father to his deathbed to come seeking you.’

At the mention of Lorcan, Alberon’s face fell. He blushed, opened his mouth to speak, but could find nothing to say. Wynter realised with a sudden flare of anger that her father had utterly slipped his mind, and all her courtly restraint flew out the window. Alberon stepped towards her, and she flung her hand up, halting him in his tracks.

‘Alberon!’ she cried. ‘What are you
doing
? You have the kingdom in an uproar! You have your father crazed with anger and fear. Those supporters you are so proud of? They are lying dead in streams and ditches on this very mountain! They are swinging in cages all along the port road! And those who
are
free have dedicated themselves to
trying to
kill your brother
!’

Alberon stepped back, his eyes wide, and Wynter advanced, jabbing her finger at him like a common scold. ‘Everything our fathers have worked for is about to fall apart, Alberon! And you, goddamn you,
you
are at the very heart of this turmoil. Do not stand there,
your Highness
, and talk to me of kings and kingly acts, when you seem wilfully determined to uproot all the good our fathers have done, and turn this kingdom to the same pit of carrion in which the rest of the Europes currently wallow!’

She came to a halt, painfully close to tears, and for want of words, punched Alberon on the chest.

‘Wynter . . .’ he said gently. ‘Wyn . . .’

He went to take her hand, and she tugged it from his grip. Stepping back, she impatiently swatted the tears from her face. Why had she cried? Now he would think her an incorrigible girl, and would feel obliged to comfort her. The conversation would be hopelessly diverted.