‘I have need to speak to the woman in this tent,’ said Alberon tightly. ‘She’s highborn and . . . and a little . . . delicate. Another female presence would do much for her peace of mind.’
Wynter quelled an amused snort. The thought of herself, head-to-toe dusty and dressed in men’s clothes, acting as a feminine buffer between a ‘delicate’ female and her male companions was just too amusing. She managed to nod politely. ‘I shall do my best,’ she said. ‘Who is the poor flower?’
‘The Lady Mary Phillipe D’Arden,’ said Alberon. ‘She—’ ‘Lady Mary?’ said Wynter, startled into remembrance, the words out before she could stop them. ‘Isaac’s Mary?’
‘Good God,’ moaned Razi, ‘Wyn!’
Alberon clamped down on her arm and dragged her closer, his eyes wide. She choked back a cry and forced herself not to struggle as his strong fingers bit into her flesh.
‘Alberon,’ she whispered, trying hard not to make a scene, ‘my arm.’
‘How do you know Isaac?’
Wynter hesitated, not certain how to explain her horrible interview with the poor tortured ghost, and how he had been so keen for Wynter to find the rebel camp and get a message to his ‘darling’ Mary. Her hesitance seemed to enrage Alberon and his brutal grip on her arm tightened even further. Wyn couldn’t help it; she winced and squirmed.
‘Albi,’ she whispered, ‘stop!’
Razi’s hand came between them. He grabbed Alberon’s fingers and squeezed so hard that the tendons in his hand stood out like knotted ropes under his skin.
‘Let. Her. Go,’ he said, staring into his brother’s eyes.
Alberon released Wynter and she stepped back, her arm numb.
Razi maintained his grip on his brother for just a second longer than necessary, then released him. He slid a look at Oliver. ‘Sir Knight,’ he murmured. ‘Take your knife from my back or I shall break your arm.’
Oliver looked to Alberon, who nodded his consent, and the knight slipped his little sleeve-knife back into its hidden scabbard.
Wynter glanced anxiously at Christopher. He was standing to attention just outside the awning, his hand on his belt-knife, his face uncertain. The guards around him were similarly poised, and Wynter realised that the entire confrontation had been so quick and so subtly enacted that the witnesses were not sure what had transpired.
‘The Protector Lady is innocent of any plotting, your Highness,’ whispered Razi. ‘I told you nothing of her communion with Isaac because I want her out of this. Do you understand, Alberon? I want Wynter out of this. She’s been through enough.’
‘You bloody fool!’ snapped Alberon. ‘What was I to think, after you had told me she knew nothing of the man? How am I supposed to trust you if you insist on playing games? What else have you kept from me?’
Alberon was flushed with rage, Razi darkly intent, and they were hissing furiously at each other across the top of Wynter’s head. She stood between them clutching her aching arm and looked up into their angry faces.
‘Do not manhandle me again, your Highness,’ she said quietly. ‘I will not take kindly to it.’
Alberon faltered. He blanched. His eyes fell to her arm. ‘Oh, sis,’ he whispered. ‘Did I hurt you?’
She turned to Razi. ‘And as for you, my Lord, perhaps we can dispense with the furtive politics? At least between the three of us, it would be refreshing not to stumble around each other’s lies.’
Razi’s lips parted in shock and his cheeks flushed ever so slightly, whether from anger or from shame it was difficult to tell. The brothers lapsed into a suddenly self-conscious silence. Wynter glanced at Sir Oliver, who was gazing blankly into space while his superiors settled their differences. Sometimes there was a lot to be said for courtliness. She turned once more to Alberon.
‘So, your Highness,’ she said. ‘What is it you wish us to do?’
The interior of the Midland tent was dim and stuffy, smelling of damp canvas and un-aired blankets. The two occupants did not show any concern at the group’s abrupt entrance. The priest simply lifted his head to regard them, and the lady did not look up at all. They were occupied in prayer, the lady kneeling at a delicate-looking prie-dieu, the priest standing behind her, his hands folded into his sleeves. Wynter regarded him cautiously as she ducked in the door. Within the frame of his dark cowl, his long, square-jawed face was as smooth and arch as a Comberman icon. He gave no discernible reaction to the unlikely combination of an Arab and a bare-headed woman at the Royal Prince’s side.
The lady continued her prayers, her lips moving gently, her eyes closed. It was obvious that she had made an effort to maintain a level of courtly presentation, despite her reduced circumstances. Her once rich gown was travel-worn and frayed, but she had taken care to keep it clean, and it was well brushed and neat. Her dark hair was carefully coiled and pinned beneath her skullcap, two heavy rolls of it decently hiding her ears. Her hands were respectably covered to the tips, only her ring-finger bared to show her status as a married woman. She was in every way a decent, God-fearing
Midland lady, and she was determined to be seen to finish her prayers no matter what was going on.
Alberon cleared his throat with quiet impatience, tapping his fingers against his thigh.
The lady continued to ignore him, her slender hands folded under her chin. She had a sweet enough face; a very acceptable court-face, in fact – heart-shaped, her little mouth a soft undemanding pink, her eyelashes long and delicately shading her cheeks. Wynter was sure that she would have had her pick of suitors before making what must have been a good match.
What had brought her here, though? To this musty tent in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by soldiers, with nothing but a rope-cot, a prie-dieu and a folding chair for furniture; no one but a stone-faced priest as chaperone.
Wynter hoped she would not be relegated too long into this woman’s company. On the whole, court women bored her terribly. The poor creatures’ lives were so narrow, their view of the world so horribly constricted that Wynter could rarely find anything in common with them. She did not wish to spend her time here discussing frivolities while her menfolk pursued the hard realities of life.
‘Lady Mary,’ prompted the priest.
The lady sighed; her lips tightened. She opened eyes of the darkest brown and looked straight ahead, staring at the canvas wall as if gathering something within her. She turned to look at Alberon. There was such weariness in her young face, such stony, hopeless pride, that Wynter could not help but feel sorry for her. Then the lady heaved herself to her feet and Wynter realised with horror that she was pregnant. Under her full skirts it was difficult to tell just how far gone she was, but a goodly seven months by the looks of it. Wynter glanced back up into the lady’s face, unable to hide her shock, and the lady made brief, expressionless eye contact before looking back to Alberon.
‘Lady Mary,’ he said. ‘I would speak with you. To that end, I shall be happy to introduce the Protector Lady Wynter Moorehawke. She would be more than pleased to make your acquaintance, should you desire it.’
Wynter curtsied slightly. She watched the lady’s expression, waiting for the usual Midland distaste at her father’s unique title. But to her surprise, the lady’s face opened slightly, and she seemed to lose some of her reserve.
‘Protector Lady?’ she asked. Her musical accent gave the title a lovely poetry. ‘You are the great Lorcan Moorehawke’s daughter?’ Wynter nodded, pleased, and the lady smiled in welcome, clasping her hands at her breast in the formal gesture of delight.
Alberon formally introduced the Protector Lady Wynter Moorehawke to the Lady Mary Phillipe D’Arden, and Wynter crossed to take the chaperone’s proper place at the lady’s left hand.
‘Thank you, your Highness,’ said Mary, her gratitude genuine. ‘What a pleasure!’
Alberon regarded her with pursed lips. There was a laden silence where his reply should have been. Mary’s eyes flicked uncertainly to Razi, then back. She glanced at Oliver.
Both men were watching her with unreadable expressions.
Her face closed over again.
From this side of the tent, Wynter saw her companions anew, and the change in perspective was a little shocking. Razi’s dark face was rough with stubble, his clothes dishevelled. His hair, unruly at the best of times, was an uncombed mess. Despite his courtly posture and his smooth manner, he looked unpredictable and wild. By his side, Alberon was hard-faced and speculative, his silence a deliberate act of hostility. Oliver stood at their backs, solid, deep-rooted and darkly ready. He gave the impression of a man waiting to strike.
All three were at least a head taller than the two women before them, all armed, all staring across the barely furnished tent from a position of absolute power. The priest, standing out of Wynter’s line of sight, was an unknown quantity. Wynter felt a strange and unexpected rush of protectiveness towards the woman by her side.
‘Your Highness?’ ventured Mary. ‘You wish something from me?’
Alberon jerked his chin at the folding chair. ‘Sit,’ he ordered.
Mary’s hands tightened briefly into a sudden, anxious knot. Then she seemed to force herself to relax, and, smiling, she curtsied in gracious welcome.
‘Your Highness,’ she said. ‘How happy I am to receive you to my quarters. Please, allow me to make you comfortable.’
She swept her hand to the rope-cot, as if offering a golden couch strewn with velvet cushions. For a moment, this struck Wynter as a rather pathetic, peculiarly female thing to do, but then she saw the discomfort in the men’s faces and she was filled with admiration. In the face of such courtly hospitality, how could any gentleman behave other than civilly?
Mary stood waiting, her arm out, her face politely expectant. It was a horribly shaky, desperately fragile form of self-defence, but Wynter thought it gave the Lady Mary a strange type of power, an undeniable dignity and an air of unbreakable self-worth.
Alberon fumed, his jaw working.
Oliver shifted his eyes to the wall.
Razi blinked. Then, to Wynter’s great pride, he pushed his sword back on his hip and bowed. ‘You are kind, Lady Mary,’ he said, ‘and we are most obliged. Will you not also take a seat?’
Mary nodded graciously and settled herself into her little chair. Razi lowered himself onto the low bed with as much dignity as he could muster. It took him a moment to arrange his long legs, but he managed to do so in the end, without looking too much an awkward fool. He gazed blandly at his brother. Alberon glared, his lips tight.
‘Protector Lady Wynter,’ murmured Mary, leaning back and looking up. Wynter, seeing her face properly for the first time, realised that she could hardly be more than nineteen or twenty. She bent to listen. ‘Would you like to sit, dear?’ asked Mary. ‘I am afraid there are no more seats, but we can pull Jared’s pallet from the corner there and you could use it as a cushion.’
‘No thank you, Lady Mary. I am perfectly happy to stand.’
‘You are certain? I am sure Jared would not mind.’
Wynter could only assume that Jared was the silently lurking priest. Smiling, she shook her head and straightened once more. She found herself standing almost to attention, her hand resting casually on her sword. Quite apart from the fact that she had no desire to sit on Jared’s possibly infested bedding, she felt the overwhelming urge to stand protectively at this woman’s back and stare down the very men she had come in with. Alberon looked from her to Razi as if they had both quite spectacularly lost their minds.
‘Won’t you sit down, your Highness?’ said Razi, patting the cot.
‘You must be the Royal Prince Alberon’s brother?’ asked Mary, leaning forward and touching Razi lightly on his dirty sleeve. ‘I should not like to be forward, but I would be so pleased to make your acquaintance. Should we ever be introduced.’
Wynter smiled. One would think oneself at a reception! ‘Should we ever be introduced’, indeed. She glanced to Alberon’s still glowering face and leaned to murmur into Mary’s ear: ‘I have the honour of being a member of the Lord Razi’s circle,’ she said. ‘As you and I are now acquainted, Lady Mary, I doubt anyone could take offence should I provide an introduction.’
Mary smiled up at her, no trace of irony in her expression at all. ‘I should like that very much, Protector Lady. If you think you could arrange it.’
‘My Lord Razi,’ said Wynter formally, ‘would you allow me the pleasure of introducing the Lady Mary Phillipe D’Arden? She would be more than pleased to make your acquaintance, should you desire it.’
The Lord Razi did not attempt to rise from his awkward seat, but he managed to contrive a little bow nonetheless. The Lady Mary dipped her head and Wynter introduced her formally. Razi shook Mary’s hand. Her cuff was terribly frayed, Razi’s stained with soot.
‘Pleased,’ he murmured.
‘I shall take it from your presence here, my Lord, that my dear Isaac found you at last?’
Razi’s big hand tightened in shock, and Mary’s face showed momentary pain and fear before freezing into a strained calm. ‘Your dear . . . ?’ said Razi.
Mary remained motionless, her eyelids fluttering, convinced, perhaps, that Razi was purposely inflicting pain, and unwilling to plead with him to stop.
‘Razi,’ murmured Wynter.
‘Your dear Isaac,’ said Alberon, drawing the lady’s eyes, ‘betrayed my trust in him and, instead of opening dialogue with my father as I ordered, abused his access to court in an attempt to assassinate my brother.’
Mary, still leaning forward, her arm stretched awkwardly between herself and Razi, shook her head mutely. Wynter said Razi’s name again, and he realised that he was crushing Mary’s hand. He released her and she withdrew with careful composure, discreetly opening and closing her fingers. He reached as if to check her hand, and she drew back.
‘Isaac would never do that,’ she whispered. ‘Never.’
‘Your Highness’s brother is mistaken,’ said the priest, his deep rumble surprising them all.
‘Mistaken?’ said Alberon, his tone dangerously low. ‘Mis—’ He strode abruptly around the cot and pushed Razi’s head aside, jerking his shirt down from his right shoulder. Razi yelled in protest, and the Lady Mary gasped at the ugly, knotted scar that marred his brown flesh.
‘Good God,’ cried Razi, shrugging his brother off and yanking his shirt back into place. ‘Albi!’
Alberon ignored him, all his attention on the priest. ‘Isaac threw a knife across a crowded room,’ he snarled. ‘He threw a knife.’
The words ‘threw a knife’ seemed to have some resonance for these people, and the priest deflated. He exchanged a stricken look with the lady. ‘Oh, Isaac,’ he said.
‘Do not feign shock,’ said Alberon. ‘Nor you!’ he snapped at Mary. ‘Courtly and all as he might have been, Isaac was no politician. He was just a damned soldier, and hopelessly infatuated with you, Lady! Do not sit there with your doe’s eyes and tell me you had no idea of his plan to kill my brother!’
Mary shook her head, her bruised fingers held to her breast, her eyes glittering with tears. Wynter stood very still, her posture and expression an unconscious mirror of Oliver, who was standing by the door with his hand on his sword, his face carefully neutral. She glanced sidelong at the priest. Like the Lady Mary, he seemed genuinely thrown.
‘Isaac . . .’ ventured the priest. ‘Isaac was very devout.’
Whatever he meant by this was lost on Wynter, but Mary closed her eyes in dismay. ‘Oh, Jared,’ she said, ‘no.’
‘You imply, perhaps, that he could not bear the thought of a Musulman on the throne? Is that your thought, Presbyter?’
The priest gazed at Alberon mutely. His eyes flickered to Razi.
‘Would you perhaps have encouraged these opinions?’ hissed Alberon.
The priest’s eyes widened and he stayed silent. Wynter wondered what it was that Alberon expected to hear from this man. A confession? In the priest’s position, Wynter would have had her tongue
drawn rather than implicate herself. On the other hand, did Alberon really think it likely that a Midland priest and a devout Midland soldier would be open to the idea of a Musulman heir to the Southland throne? Did he really think it likely that they would have been anything but appalled at the thought? For the priest to deny such feelings would be patently ridiculous.
She stared at the priest’s terrified face and wondered just how much or how little he had had to do with Isaac’s fervent beliefs. She wondered if he would have been willing to compound them, had he known what a terrible death the poor man would face because of it.
‘We did not discuss the Lord Razi,’ whispered the priest at last. ‘It never seemed likely that he would be put in your place. It was so far from possible that your father would have been so—’ The priest cut himself short, but everyone knew what he meant to say. Stupid. It was so far from possible that Jonathon would have been so stupid. Alberon looked the man up and down, and Wynter could see it in his face: like her, Alberon was considering the possibility that Isaac had acted alone, on the spur of the moment, as a violent reaction to Razi’s sudden and unexpected accession to heir.
Razi’s deep voice drew her attention. He was staring at Mary. ‘His Royal Highness told me that Isaac was your squire, Lady Mary.’ His eyes flitted to Mary’s swollen belly. ‘I had not understood . . .’ he said softly.
The lady placed her hands on her stomach, as if to hide it, and drew herself up straighter in her chair. Wynter blushed for her. It must be terrible to have a man see one in that state. The poor woman should have been safely in her confinement by now – happily sequestered from sight, surrounded by her ladies and female relatives, knitting and sewing and preparing in joy for the arrival of her child – not stuck in this Godforsaken backwoods, surrounded by rough men, with not even a beaker of fresh tea to give her comfort.
‘This is my late husband’s child, my Lord,’ she said. ‘Please do not stoop to sully my friendship with Isaac. I could not bear it.’ Her voice was cold, but it trembled, and it was obvious that she was nearing the end of her self-control.
The Rebel Prince Page 11