The Rebel Prince (9 page)

‘Abdallah ash-Shiekh,’ said Alberon, leaning on the table and staring keenly at his brother.

Razi, who had been regarding the map with uncharacteristic wistfulness, glanced up in surprise. ‘The Sultan of the Moroccos?’ he said. ‘What of him?’

‘He is having problems.’

Razi nodded uncertainly. ‘Some,’ he said. ‘Much the same types of trouble Father has been having. The large numbers of dispossessed Musulmen and Jews pouring in from the Northern inquisitions have put a terrible burden on the Moroccan economy. They have nowhere to live, they have little to live on . . . they are angry. The persecutions that they have suffered in the Europes have caused an upsurge in anti-Christian feeling that the Sultan is finding hard to argue against. It is a delicate situation. But Alberon, none of this is news to you, surely? I understand that communications here were very poor, but I diligently sent Father the most detailed reports, and on my return he seemed well aware—’

‘Why did you not inform us of the attempts to depose him?’

Razi frowned, obviously searching his memory. ‘There have been no attempts to depose the Sultan.’

‘The
Corsairs
, Razi. The Slawi Corsairs in Fez and their allies among the radical imams. I have absolute
proof
that they are determined to take power! But because
you
did not mention it, our father chooses not to believe me!’

There was a long moment during which the brothers regarded each other in silence.

‘Are you going to tell me that you did not know about it?’ asked Alberon, his eyes still on Razi. ‘You who has spent the past five years at the heart of the Sultan’s court?’

The implication of Alberon’s words slowly dawned on Wynter. ‘Albi,’ she whispered. ‘You do not think Razi purposely withheld this information from your father?’

‘Perhaps you underestimated how important the information was?’ asked Alberon. ‘Is that it, brother? I must confess, I cannot see how one could come to such a conclusion – but, still, I am prepared to accept that you might have?’

Wynter stared at her old friend, willing him not to make the accusation she knew was poised on his tongue. Her heart clenched when he spoke again.

‘Or perhaps,’ he said, ‘you were
persuaded
to stay silent?’

‘Alberon Kingsson,’ she hissed, ‘you ignorant
pup
.’

Alberon did not so much as glance her way.

‘Tell me, brother,’ he insisted, still leaning across the table. ‘I am most interested to hear your explanation. Knowing that the future of our kingdom depends on the support of the Sultan, why is it that you concealed this mortal weakness at the heart of the Moroccan court?’

‘Someone has misled you,’ said Razi very quietly.

‘I think not!’ cried Alberon, slapping his hand down onto the map. ‘According to my sources, the Sultan’s court is hopelessly divided, and it is only a matter of time before our father’s most powerful ally is dragged from his throne and cast aside. Tell me I am wrong, Razi. Sit there now and
dare
to tell me that I am wrong, when I have documents proving it, and a contingent of ambassadors on their way here ready to attest it.’

‘You are
wrong
.’

Alberon held Razi’s gaze for a long, intense moment. Then his face softened and he reached across to pat his brother’s hand. ‘All right,’ he whispered. ‘All right, brother. I believe you are honest. You have obviously been misled; but I believe you
fully believe
that which you have told our father.’

Razi sat back, his face rigid, his eyes full.

‘Alberon . . .’ hissed Wynter, almost speechless with rage.

‘Alberon, I swear it to you . . . I swear it, I will kick your . . .’

Alberon reached across to squeeze her hand, and she tugged it free with a snarl. He chuckled.

‘Do not be angry, Wyn. Razi understands, don’t you, brother? I had to be sure of his integrity. Here,’ he tapped his head, then slid his hand to his heart, ‘as well as here. Tell her, Razi. It is simply what men like us must do.’

Razi averted his eyes. He coughed into his hand. ‘It is . . . it is simply the world we live in,’ he said hoarsely. ‘One can never be certain.’

‘Aye,’ breathed Alberon. ‘One must be certain.’ He shifted the beakers slightly and gazed down at the map of his father’s kingdom. ‘And so,’ he said, ‘one must make strong that which one has discovered to be weak.’

‘There are no weaknesses in the Moroccan court, Alberon. I can assure you, Sultan Abdallah ash-Shiekh is as strong as ever. He has no—’ ‘Hush now,’ murmured Alberon, waving his hand. ‘You will see. Tomorrow, if my informants finally arrive, I shall be able to prove to you that you have been misled.’

‘I
assure
you, brother—’

Alberon looked up. ‘That’s
enough
now,’ he snapped. ‘You have proved yourself to me; you do not need to
go on
.’

Razi blinked. His jaw popped. Wynter saw him push some dark emotion down behind his eyes.

‘The Northlands,’ said Alberon, tapping the huge expanse of land that comprised Shirken’s kingdom, ‘and Princess Marguerite. She is the key.’ He turned to Wynter. ‘What is she like?’ he asked.

‘An unrelenting tyrant,’ she said tightly.

Alberon laughed. ‘I have no doubt you think so. But that is not what I meant. I meant what does she
look
like, sis? Paintings can only tell one so much, and one wonders, doesn’t one, how such strength would manifest itself in a woman.’ He looked fondly at Wynter. ‘She would have something of your look, I imagine? A certain fierceness about the eyes? That keen watchfulness not usual in a woman?’

‘I am nothing like her,’ hissed Wynter. ‘It appals me that you would suggest it.’

Alberon grinned, amused at her ferocity. ‘Oh, don’t be tiresome, Wyn. In her letters, Marguerite constantly reminds me of you: her directness of speech, her single-mindedness.’

In her letters.
Wynter exchanged a glance with Razi.

‘You have been in regular correspondence with the Royal Princess?’ asked Razi.

‘For many months now.’

‘To what purpose?’

Alberon just smiled slyly and reached for Marguerite Shirken’s folder. There was a watchful silence from Razi as the Prince undid the ties and quickly leafed through the sealed parchments.

In the silence that accompanied Alberon’s examination of Marguerite’s letters, Wynter was ashamed to find herself battling wounded feelings. She had to admit, she was stung beyond any political rage by Alberon’s communication with Marguerite Shirken. Over the past five years, Alberon had never once replied to Wynter’s many personal notes and letters, and she had assumed that they had been lost in the upheaval of the insurrection. But this seemed unlikely now, considering his apparently rich communion with the Northland Princess. She cradled the sleeping cat and stroked his brittle shoulders. She told herself to grow up. So Alberon had not answered her letters. So what? She was no court moppet, willing to take offence at every perceived slight. Alberon had been a prince at war. He would have had no time for the frivolous scribblings of his lonely little sister.
He had bigger things to consider
, she thought.

She looked beyond the firelight. The camp was lost to darkness, the mountains surrounding them invisible in the night.
I know my place
, Lorcan’s patient voice whispered in her memory.
I know my place.
Wynter had always thought she understood that, had always thought she knew exactly what it meant to put one’s self second to matters of state. Now she was not sure. She was not certain she had the depths of selfless calm that had allowed her father to accept his lot in political life. Down below, the Merron camp fire winked at her like a knowing orange star.
We know what that’s like
, it seemed to say.
We know how you feel.

‘For Christ’s sake, sis! Wake up!’

Wynter came back to herself with a start. Razi and Alberon were staring, Razi concerned, Alberon impatient.

‘Tell me of Gunther Shirken,’ Alberon demanded, as if for the third time. ‘I understand he is ill? His mind is unsound?’

‘You are tired, Wyn,’ said Razi softly. ‘Would you like to lie down?’

Alberon regarded her curiously, as if seeing her for the first time. ‘
Are
you tired?’ he asked. ‘Because . . .’ He gestured to his tent, as if offering her the chance to retire.

She shook her head.

‘It has been a terrible journey, Alberon,’ said Razi. ‘You have no idea. Wynter, perhaps you should consider—’ ‘I am fine.’ Wynter drew herself up, cutting Razi short. ‘King Shirken is an old man, Albi, and my father always claimed that he had a skewed view of this world. But his health is good and he is in firm command of himself. He is in no way of unsound mind. Why do you ask?’

Razi rolled his eyes in defeat and gave up, switching his attention back to the conversation.

Alberon dived straight back into it. ‘Marguerite tells me that her father is more and more unbalanced,’ he said. ‘His legitimate purges have turned to persecutions. His renewed inquisitions are causing unrest. She tells me that the Northlands is on the brink of ruin.’

Wynter hesitated, momentarily overcome with memories of the North. The awful inquisitions, the terrible mass executions. It took her a moment to push these images down. ‘Certainly, Shirken is a rabid cur,’ she said. ‘In truth, I cannot understand how he has survived this long without bringing his country to its knees. While we were there, my father did a tremendous amount of work healing old wounds, but he feared that it was a frail kind of stability. His great worry was that Shirken’s tyranny would push his people into a civil war that would break the Northlands apart.’

‘Disastrous,’ murmured Razi.

Wynter and Alberon nodded in agreement. Shirken’s kingdom was the Southlands’ strongest ally in the Europes, and the North’s primary defence against the Haun. Without Shirken’s stabilising influence, Jonathon’s fragile Northern border would be impossibly compromised.

Alberon tapped his fingers against Marguerite’s sealed papers. ‘So Marguerite’s fears are well founded, then, and her father’s excesses are a cause for concern.’

Wynter frowned. ‘It is not just the
King’s
excesses, Albi. The Princess herself is an appalling tyrant. In our time there, she called for the most outrageous of purges, her motives often obscure and deeply rooted in her hatred of any differences. You would not believe the things I’ve seen there. Simply . . . simply appalling things.’

Once again Wynter paused. She shook her head, remembering the Northland Princess in all her finery, her beautiful clothes, her famous pearls glowing from every tight coil of her hair. She had always looked so magnificent, but always there had been that terrible smell off her. Wynter knew it still – had smelled it only recently – the fat, scorched, oily stench of human beings burned at the stake. She would never forget that smell, nor its enduring association with Marguerite Shirken.

‘She is an evil person,’ she whispered. ‘I have never met anyone with a heart so black.’

Alberon was very quiet for a moment. ‘I see,’ he said. ‘You . . . you are certain of this, Wyn? Father told me that Lorcan kept you very much apart from court life while you were there – a commendable decision, of course, considering your sex.’

Wynter’s voice was colder then she wished it when she said, ‘One can see a lot from the background, Alberon. Sometimes more than would be considered appropriate.’

‘You were very young though,’ he said, as if he himself were years her senior. ‘It is possible that you have misread the situation?’

‘I grow weary of your implications that Razi and I are somehow incompetent and untrustworthy, your Highness.’

Alberon grimaced apologetically. ‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘I have grown too used to soldiers.’

Wynter accepted his apology with a nod, though she was not certain what he might have meant by it. Alberon ran his fingers across Marguerite’s personal seal.

‘She has managed to conceal this aspect of her nature from me,’ he mused. ‘Such guile. Nevertheless, such things could perhaps be gently curbed as time went by. The influence of a good man and all that.’ Wynter looked sharply at him. Alberon glanced at Razi. ‘You cannot deny her value as an ally, brother.’

‘She has made moves towards an understanding?’ asked Razi.

‘The strongest of such.’

Wynter straightened, a horrible light beginning to dawn. ‘Alberon,’ she said. ‘You cannot mean . . . ?’

She turned to Razi, unable to articulate her despair.

He remained calm, leaning back in his chair, his hand on the map, his eyes on his brother. His voice was soft and devoid of emotion when he said, ‘Father would never conscience such a marriage, Albi.’

Alberon smiled sadly, drummed his fingers, shrugged. ‘What must be done, will be done,’ he said. ‘He will see the sense of it eventually.’

‘Marguerite would never take on a husband!’ cried Wynter. ‘She would never relinquish the power of her throne to a man and put herself into a position of secondary importance. That is something she has always made clear. She . . . she is misleading you, Alberon. You . . . and in any case, your father is right! He has always said that the Shirkens must be kept just
so
!’ She thrust out her hand, palm out, in an imitation of Jonathon. ‘Their policies are too destructive, their rule of law too . . . just too damned
awful
to be so closely associated with! It’s a trick! It’s a terrible trick! She’ll see you ruined!’

Coriolanus whined querulously and squirmed in her arms. ‘Calm thyself, cat-servant,’ he hissed. ‘I am quite horribly pinioned!’

‘Marguerite is not about to trick me, Wynter,’ said Alberon. ‘She needs me too much. Nor is she about to hand over the power of her throne to me. She is fully determined to rule. But she has learned the lessons of the Irish Pirate Queen, who had grown old with no heir and now sees her once united court squabbling over her succession. Marguerite is not about to make the same mistake.’ Alberon patted Shirken’s letters. ‘We have drafted a treaty, and will be bound as much by it as by the marriage vow. Marguerite will rule her country, free of an influence from me; as I, eventually, shall rule mine. We do not have to meet but occasionally, to parley terms and the like. And in due course, I have no doubt we will breed an heir or two. But Marguerite and I intend our relationship to be that most courtly of things, Wynter – a political marriage.’