Shocked, the cat met her eye. Wynter stared at him, pleading. He blinked. Slowly, she uncovered his mouth, and to her relief, he kept his peace.
Soldiers rushed into the ring of firelight, swords drawn.
Christopher, Sól and Hallvor followed on their heels, their weapons also at the ready.
Sólmundr called out to Razi: ‘Tabiyb! Cad é?’ He made to approach the table, and one of the soldiers shoved him away.
‘Back yerself orf! Yeh heathen savage!’
Sólmundr pushed the guard contemptuously backwards, and the other soldiers rounded on him with a roar. Christopher and Hallvor leapt to his defence. There was pushing and scuffling.
Razi remained motionless, his hands held up where the guards could see them.
‘Your Highness,’ he murmured, ‘your men are upset.’
Alberon blinked at him.
‘Albi,’ insisted Wynter, ‘your men.’
Alberon slowly turned to take in the scuffle behind him. His face cleared somewhat, and he seemed to gain focus just as Oliver ran into the light. The older man took one look at the Royal Prince, seemed to instantly understand the situation, and swept his attention to the soldiers.
‘Stand back,’ he ordered. ‘Come on now, split up . . . You!’ He pointed his sword at the Merron. ‘You were told to keep your damned weapons in your tent.’
Angrily, Sól went to speak, but at Razi’s warning look, Christopher intervened. He laid his scarred hand on the warrior’s arm, bowed slightly and addressed Oliver. Wynter’s heart swelled with pride at his smooth, courtly tone.
‘We had thought there was trouble, sir,’ he said, ‘and only came to assist. We regret if our actions seem ill-meant.’
Christopher sheathed his sword. Taking his lead, Sól and Hallvor sheathed theirs and drew themselves up into noble silence. The soldiers continued to jostle and push at the Merron, and Oliver roared at them to stand down. They pulled back with shuffling uncertainty, their eyes on their Prince.
‘You are dismissed,’ said Alberon softly. ‘There is no trouble.’
Christopher looked to Razi, who nodded. ‘Thank you, Freeman. The Prince is safe.’
Christopher glanced at Wynter. She held his eye, the cat clutched to her chest, her face carefully neutral. Christopher bowed to her, very slow and solemn. There was not a trace of his usual mocking amusement in the action.
‘At your service,’ he murmured. Then he led the other Merron back down the slope.
Wynter watched his slim back retreat into the darkness. Somewhere near the base of the hill, she saw a brief flash of twin phosphorescence as he turned to look at her, then he was gone.
Coriolanus whispered in her ear: ‘A touch more than just friends, methinks,’ he insinuated slyly. ‘Little wonder you smell of dog.’
‘Hush now,’ she said and scratched his thin shoulders until he purred.
Oliver dismissed the men then turned to regard his Prince. Alberon smiled wanly at him.
‘I lost my temper again,’ he said. ‘But there’s no damage done.’
‘You are tired, Highness. Even the strongest of warriors need to sleep.’
Alberon waved a dismissive hand. ‘Stop lecturing me, you old hypocrite, and get you to your own bed.’
Oliver’s eyes flicked to Razi. ‘The Prince works too hard,’ he blurted suddenly. ‘No man could possibly push himself harder!’
‘Oliver,’ warned Alberon.
‘If you only knew what we’d been through these five years, my Lord. If you had seen a fraction of the things the Prince has seen—’ ‘That is enough,’ said Alberon sharply.
Oliver snapped to rigid silence, and Alberon sighed and rubbed his forehead in weary exasperation. ‘Go to bed, Oliver,’ he groaned. ‘Go get some goddamned sleep.’
Oliver turned to go. Alberon called after him as he descended into the camp: ‘Oliver, if Anthony is still awake – only if he is, mind you – ask him to find us a little tea, would you?’
Oliver nodded without looking back and strode away into the dark.
There was a small moment of silence. Coriolanus purred. The fire crackled. Alberon sat looking into its violent flames, his expression distant.
‘It has been a long five years,’ he said eventually. Razi and Wynter stayed carefully silent. He glanced over at them. ‘For us all, no doubt,’ he said. They nodded. Alberon looked at Razi, his blue eyes very bright in the dancing light. ‘I will not see those five years happen again, brother. I’ve had enough talk; it is useless unless one has an iron fist to back it up with.’
Razi nodded. ‘Tell me about Lorcan’s machine,’ he said.
Alberon spread the second parchment and the two men stood leaning over the plans, absorbed. Razi said something and pointed to a section of the drawing, but his words were lost on Wynter. She remained rooted to her chair, gazing at Lorcan’s neat and distinctive handwriting, his wonderfully delicate drawings, his careful diagrams of the working parts. She had not expected this sudden rush of sorrow. It completely overwhelmed her.
Slowly, she reached and placed her finger on the parchment, lightly tracing the perfect, serrated curve of a cog wheel.
In her mind, she saw Lorcan. He was leaning over the plans for a water-carrying device, a quill behind his ear, his fingers stained with ink. His brows were drawn down in concentration, and his red hair tumbled all around him in the candlelight. He looked up, saw her, and smiled as he had always done. Hello, baby girl, he whispered. Can’t you sleep?
Wynter pressed her palm to the warmth of the paper. Da.
‘Your eyes are leaking, cat-servant.’
She put her free hand to her eyes and pressed hard.
‘My fur is quite damp.’
‘Hush,’ she said.
‘Wynter,’ murmured Razi, suddenly close by.
He crouched at her side. ‘Wyn,’ he said softly.
She shook her head, her fingers still pressed to her eyes. Razi put his hand on her back, warm and comforting. At his sympathy, Wynter felt tears surge dangerously, the kind of tears that she knew would not stop once released. She shrugged his hand away and swiped her face.
‘What is it, Albi?’ she croaked. ‘It looks . . .’ She cleared her throat. ‘It looks to be a matchlock? A gun of some type?’
Razi rose to his feet beside her, placed his hand briefly on her hair, then leaned back over the plan. ‘It seems more like – well, I am unsure what it seems like. A series of rotating matchlocks, perhaps? But if so, I cannot figure . . . where is the serpentine? I can see no spark-wheel, no flintlock. Albi, where are the damned flash-pans? It makes no sense.’
He glanced up at Alberon, who was sitting back in his chair, looking keenly at his brother.
‘Do you . . . ?’ Razi glanced downhill towards the Haun and Comberman tents. The camp was dark and still, watch-fires flickering silently in the night. He leaned forward and whispered, ‘Do you hope to mislead those others? Convince them, somehow, that we have a weapon they do not?’
Alberon grinned. ‘Politician,’ he said teasingly.
‘What is this, Albi?’ Wynter pointed to several vertical rows of strange pictographs. ‘That is not my father’s work.’
‘That, apparently, is the key to the entire thing,’ murmured Alberon. He ran his finger along the little symbols, starting at the bottom and working his way up each column from left to right. ‘I cannot read it myself, but Oliver can. He suspects it is the work of someone called Borchu.’
‘Borchu,’ breathed Razi. He frowned, obviously trying to recall something.
‘You knew this man?’ asked Alberon curiously.
‘Um . . .’ Razi searched his memory, then spread his hands in defeat. ‘I . . . I do not think so. Though I seem to recall Father using that name. I half-remember looking up from under a table, once, while he and Grandfather roared at each other. Father was in a terrific temper. They both were. One of those terrible moments between them. I think that the name came up. Perhaps this Borchu fellow was Fat
her’s friend?’
‘Oliver claims not. He claims to know nothing of the man, except that he worked with Lorcan and that it is likely he wrote this formula. It matters not in any case. Oliver has translated it for me.’ He pressed his finger to the row of glyphs. ‘It is a chemical procedure.’
‘What does it do, Albi?’ asked Wynter.
Alberon glanced fondly at her. He leaned in. ‘It changes everything,’ he whispered.
Alberon ducked from his tent, a small box in his hands. ‘You understand how matchlocks work, sis?’ he asked, laying the box on the ground and hunkering down to undo the lid.
‘You ram gunpowder, shot and wadding into the barrel, you fill the flash-pan with flashpowder. You touch a burning slow-match to the pan; the flashpowder ignites the gunpowder and, bang!’ Wynter clapped her hands, making Coriolanus jerk. ‘The explosion sends the shot flying into your enemy . . . hopefully killing him before he has a chance to ram his sword into you.’
Alberon laughed. ‘Very concise,’ he said. ‘Look at this.’ He held up a finger-length tube of what looked to be sturdy paper. ‘What do you suppose it is?’ Wynter shook her head. Alberon turned to Razi. ‘Brother? What think you?’
Razi’s eyes dropped to the parchment. ‘Hmm,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Would it be . . .’ He squinted, and craned his neck, obviously reading from the plans. ‘A . . . waxed paper tube filled with powder and a ball of shot?’
Alberon laughed again. ‘It and forty-seven of its perfect little brothers are placed into the loading device detailed there.’ He pointed to the relevant section of drawing. ‘Then they are all rammed at once into the circlet of musket barrels. See that circle of blades on the loading device? There, see? Attached to the lever that swivels it? The paper cartridges are sliced open just before the ram shoves them in; they are reduced to powder, ball and wadding, just like any everyday matchlock . . .’
‘Except that you load forty-eight at once, in double-quick time,’ mused Razi.
‘Faster even than that, brother . . . and see? The entire system of forty-eight barrels comes away at once, and can be cleaned and reloaded whilst a fresh one takes its place. It provides an almost continuous rate of fire.’
‘Utterly deadly,’ murmured Wynter. ‘Imagine a row of these atop a palace wall.’
‘Well said, Wyn!’ cried Alberon. ‘Twelve men to each gun, that is all it takes! Twelve men and they do the work of hundreds of archers. It is incredible. Not only that but, unlike our cumbersome cannonry, this entire device dismantles down to its smallest parts and is easily transported over the most inaccessible terrain! Consider its potential!’
‘But it is impossible, Albi,’ said Razi. ‘An impossible flight of fancy, for surely it cannot fire?’
Alberon smiled up into his brother’s regretful face. ‘Behold,’ he said softly, and drew another object from the box.
At the sight of it, Coriolanus tensed. ‘I shall retire,’ he said, shrugging from Wynter’s arms and dropping stiffly to the ground. Her heart wrung to see how awkwardly he landed. She noticed that he gave Alberon a wide berth on his way back to the tent.
‘I shall only demonstrate it once, Cori,’ whispered Alberon as the cat skirted around him. ‘I know you do not like the noise.’
‘Pffffft! Do not trouble yourself on account of me, Prince-and-heir-to-the-throne. I am no milk-addled kit, frightened of thunder. Make all the noise you wish; I simply grow tired of your company.’ He slipped into the shadows of the tent and Wynter pulled her cloak tight around her, suddenly cold without the warm weight of him on her lap.
‘Watch,’ said Alberon. He unfurled a little section of the object in his hands, and Wynter realised that it was a roll of heavy paper tape. The tape was very thick and dotted along its middle with a series of raised bumps. Alberon tore off a section, then carefully put the remaining roll and the paper shot-cartridge back in the box and closed the lid.
‘Watch this,’ he said, laying the piece of torn tape against a flat stone. He took out his belt-knife, grinned up at Razi, then struck the paper with the metal handle of the knife.
There was an enormous bang and a flash of harsh light. Razi yelled and Wynter leapt in shock, shielding her eyes. Down among the tents the warhounds howled, but their panicked barking was nothing but a faint noise through the high singing in Wynter’s ears. She blinked against the light-scars on her eyes and heard Alberon laugh, a muffled sound. He spoke, and his words came clearer as her ears began to recover.
‘. . . should have warned you,’ he yelled merrily, ‘but there’s no preparing one for the shock.’
You enjoyed that, she thought, squinting at him. You imp!
Razi was staggering forward, staring at the now blackened tape, Alberon nodding delightedly at him. ‘I hit a few at once, just for effect,’ he said, shouting over the ringing that still echoed in their ears. ‘But you get the picture, don’t you, brother?’
Razi squatted, and placed his fingers on the scorched paper. ‘Good God,’ he yelled. ‘How? You used no fire . . . What then? A spark?’
‘No fire, brother! No slow-match. No flint. No spark-wheel. No flash-pan. Just those ingenious paper cartridges, a little metal hammer poised over a brass lip . . . and these.’ He held up the tattered section of tape, grinning wildly, his eyes aglow.
‘Welcome to a whole new world,’ he yelled.
SCONES AND TEA
FRANTIC FOOTSTEPS ran towards them, accompanied by the clatter of metal. Anthony rushed from the dark, a steaming kettle held out before him, his little face bright with anticipation. He slid to an excited halt, saw the fragment of blackened tape and lost his smile. He stamped his foot, all his solemn courtliness lost in childish disappointment.
‘Oh, no!’ he cried. ‘You’re finished. You did it without me again!’
Alberon laughed and got to his feet, brushing off his trousers.
‘But you promised!’ cried Anthony.
‘Next time,’ said Alberon, ruffling Anthony’s hair on his way back to the table. ‘Now, mind your manners, mankin, and pour the Protector Lady some tea . . . such as it is.’ He lowered himself into his chair and wearily began to fold the scrolls.
Wynter took them from him. ‘You’re making a damned mess,’ she said softly, furling them and neatly securing the ribbon bindings.
Alberon smiled gratefully at her and slumped back. Razi drifted over, his attention on the blackened tape, which he was turning over and over in his hands. Anthony slammed the kettle down by the brazier, cleared the table and began sulkily washing out the beakers. Alberon regarded him with tired amusement.
‘An explosive element, ignited by percussion,’ murmured Razi, turning the tape again. ‘Unbelievable . . .’ He sniffed it and touched it to his tongue, frowning thoughtfully at the taste.
‘I believe the active ingredient is obtained by some foul exercise involving aqua fortis, some type of alcohol and – your favourite toy, Razi – mercury.’
At the mention of mercury, Razi’s eyes lit up and Wynter grinned fondly at him. She was instantly back in St James’s fantastic laboratory, Razi’s small, brown face alight with wonder as he demonstrated the magical liquid metal rolling in droplets around the bottom of a vial. ‘See?’ he had lisped, holding the vial first to Wynter’s, then to Albi’s wide eyes, ‘’tis water-metal, ’tis most amazing water-metal. See how it does flow?’
‘Mercury,’ breathed the now adult Razi, holding the tape up in awe, as if his beloved quicksilver might roll from it and drop into his lap.
‘Excuse the intrusion, my Lord,’ said Anthony, laying the table with the freshly washed beakers. He carefully poured tea from the steaming kettle. ‘Mind now,’ he said, ‘’tis righteous hot.’
Alberon took a grateful sip and his eyes widened in disbelief. ‘Anthony,’ he gasped, ‘this is fresh tea!’
Anthony, not quite recovered from his childish pique, sniffed piously. ‘’Tis that,’ he said. Wynter smiled at the unspoken not that you deserve it in his tone.
Alberon inhaled the steam and groaned with pleasure. ‘Oh, tea,’ he said. ‘Oh, blessed tea . . . where on earth did you get it? We haven’t had fresh for nigh on a fortnight.’
The little servant looked a touch uncomfortable. ‘I . . .’ he said. He glanced downhill. ‘’Tis a gift,’ he said. ‘Along with these, your Highness.’ He took a little parcel from his apron and unfolded a square of cloth onto the table. It contained six sweet-scented griddle cakes, still gently steaming. Wynter recognised them as the distinctive Merron scòn.
‘The chop-fingered fellow gave them to me,’ said Anthony. ‘He’s down the bottom of the hill. Him on one side of the road, Sir Oliver on the other, both of them staring up at thee and nary a word passed between them.’
Christopher, thought Wynter in alarm. She prayed that her friend had not been so foolish as to send a message with this gift. Please do not say that they are for me! she thought, willing the little servant to keep his mouth shut. Now was not the time to reveal the nature of her feelings for Christopher. Alberon’s reaction would undoubtedly be stormy, and Wynter did not want tonight’s delicate balance disrupted.
Alberon stared at the scòns, then across at Wynter. He frowned, and she swallowed hard.
He’s guessed, she thought. One look at my face was enough to give me away. Oh, curse you, Christopher Garron. Curse you and your damned pride. Let us simply screech our attachment from the rooftops, shall we? Dance the allemande together down the camp road? Announce our betrothal to the whole damned army. She felt her cheeks flare red with embarrassment, and was instantly angry with Alberon for making her feel that way about Christopher, and with Christopher for attempting to force her hand.
The little servant leaned and murmured in Alberon’s ear. ‘The Merron thief had me choose a cake at random, your Highness. I stood and watched him eat it. Stood with him for over three minutes to make sure he didn’t push his fingers down his throat or any such thing. I am beyond certain that they are safe to eat.’
‘I see,’ said Alberon. He licked his lips, gazing at the scòns with an entirely different expression now he knew they were not poisoned, and Wynter realised with a searing pang of guilt that Alberon had no notion of their significance for her.
The Rebel Prince Page 8