‘I am so sorry,’ said Razi. He leaned forward and squeezed her hand in sympathy. It had the effect of undoing the poor woman’s restraint somewhat, and her eyes overflowed. She shook her head, extricated her hand from Razi’s grip and pressed her fingers to her face until she got herself under control.
‘He was simply my friend,’ she said. ‘He was my friend.’
Razi glanced at the priest. ‘Presbyter, would you like to fetch the lady some tea? Or something to eat?’
The priest stared at him for a moment. He looked at Alberon, then Oliver, then his eyes went to the door. The sun had risen fully, and within the angular shade of the awning, the soldiers’ shadows loomed tall. The priest shook his head, and Wynter felt a small spark of admiration for him. He would not leave his Lady alone under these circumstances.
‘Oliver?’ said Razi. ‘Please arrange something for the lady.’
Oliver remained unmoving, waiting for Alberon to give his orders. Razi sighed, and looked to Alberon. The Prince returned his look with a disapproving shake of his head and crossed to take a seat on the cot instead.
Razi gaped at him. ‘Albi!’ he cried.
‘I shall ask Freeman Garron if he would be so kind,’ murmured Wynter, heading for the door before the brothers could descend into a repeat of their recent irritation.
Soldiers glanced at her when she came to the door, then looked away.
She gestured Christopher to her and he came, Boro trailing in his wake. ‘Freeman,’ she said quietly, ‘the Lady Mary . . .’ She paused in embarrassment, then leaned to whisper in Christopher’s ear, her cheeks burning even as she said the words: ‘The lady is quite heavy with child, Christopher, and though commendably restrained, I suspect suffering a good deal of mental distress. I wonder . . . do you suppose Hallvor might have something suitably soothing for her to drink? And perhaps something more substantial to eat than seems to be available to the camp?’
Christopher, his face close to her own, nodded. Their cheeks brushed for a moment as he pulled away. ‘I’ll see what I can do, Protector Lady,’ he murmured, bowing.
She watched him leave, glanced again at the soldiers, and ducked back into the tent.
The priest was speaking rapidly to Razi. ‘I am sorry for what Isaac did to you, my Lord. I can understand the light that it must throw me into, but I can assure you, I have come here in all sincerity to finish my Lord D’Arden’s work. I would do nothing to jeopardise it. Certainly, had I an inkling of how Isaac would act, I would have done my utmost to dissuade him. I hope . . .’ He looked anxiously at Alberon. ‘I can only pray that this has not put an end to our negotiations?’
Alberon regarded him coolly.
‘There . . . so many people are depending on . . . Phillipe himself gave his life for . . .’ The priest stuttered to a hopeless silence. ‘You have reason to think me guilty?’ he cried suddenly. ‘Isaac said something that would lead you to believe it? It is lies!’ He jarred to a halt again, frantic.
Innocent panic born of fear, mused Wynter, or wretched guilt? She looked to Razi. He, too, was assessing the priest, his eyes narrowed. Under their combined scrutiny, the man looked as if he was about to cry with fear.
Finally, Razi shook his head. ‘Isaac said nothing of you, priest. Only that Alberon was in negotiation with the Midlanders over the Bloody Machines.’ He paused, then pointedly switched his focus to Oliver. ‘Isaac did say that you had arranged his access to the palace, Sir Knight.’
Oliver’s face flared red and his spine stiffened. His eyes stayed firmly locked on the blank canvas of the far wall.
‘Which you had done, of course,’ said Alberon. ‘On my orders.’
Oliver’s eyes flickered to Razi.
‘Mind you,’ said Alberon, ‘none of my orders involved killing my brother.’
Wynter’s stomach went cold at that, and she looked at Oliver anew. Both Alberon and Razi sat motionlessly regarding him, their faces blandly inquiring.
Oliver remained still and silent, his eyes front.
‘Do you recall a man named Jusef Marcos, Sir Knight?’ Razi’s soft question elicited a stiff nod from Oliver. ‘He told me that the Prince sent him some orders. I suspect those orders came from you. Do you recall them?’
Oliver said nothing, just gazed straight ahead, his face immobile.
‘Do you recall what orders you sent to Jusef Marcos, Sir Knight?’ At Oliver’s continued silence, Razi sighed. ‘Oliver,’ he said tiredly, ‘did you tell Jusef Marcos to kill the pretender to the throne?’
At last, Oliver looked at Razi. His mouth drew down. He nodded. Wynter gasped in shock, but Alberon and Razi’s expressions did not change. Instead they remained seated side-by-side on the low cot, their elbows on their knees, their very different faces intent.
In stark contrast to their strange composure, it was all Wynter could do not to rip her knife from her scabbard and fling it at Oliver’s face. ‘You goddamned traitor,’ she cried.
‘How could I not?’ he said sadly. ‘The King would never leave himself without an heir. With my Lord Razi dead, Jon would have had no choice but to allow his Royal Highness to come home. With Razi dead, there can be no mortuus.’
‘And the attack on Simon’s men?’ asked Razi, his quiet voice hard, his jaw tight. ‘His murder, and that of my good friend Shuqayr ibn-Jahm? Was that also your plan, dear Uncle? Did you also order that? That I should be bound behind my horse? That I should be dragged until dead? That my head should be removed and kicked about and finally sent home to my father in a hessian sack? These too were your orders?’
Oliver shook his head. ‘Oh no, Razi,’ he whispered. ‘God, no. Not that.’
Alberon was on his feet before anyone could register it. Moving with deadly silence, he strode to Oliver and punched him hard in the temple, felling him as sure as if he’d stabbed him in the head. Oliver dropped to his knees, his face creased in agony and despair.
The Lady Mary jumped in shock, but to her credit, she did not cry out.
Alberon stood over Oliver, who knelt, dazed, at his feet. ‘Did I order it?’ he hissed. Oliver blinked rapidly, his hands hovering as if he had started to shield his head but forgotten to finish the action. ‘Did I order it?’ repeated Alberon quietly, and he punched again, sending Oliver to the ground.
Wynter bit back a protest. Despite her rage, it was shocking to witness Alberon’s violence, and frightening to see Oliver’s silent lack of resistance to the younger man’s attack.
Alberon leaned down to snarl quietly into the knight’s ear. ‘Answer me, you cur! Did I order my brother’s death?’
‘No, your Highness,’ whispered Oliver, his eyes averted. ‘No.’ He kept his hands up, anticipating another blow.
Alberon slapped his face. ‘You seditious mongrel,’ he said. ‘You faithless goddamned renegade. How dare you?’
‘Alberon,’ murmured Razi, ‘leave him.’ Alberon did not respond. ‘Your Highness,’ said Razi, ‘please, I beg you, leave him.’
Alberon straightened, his fists clenched, and Oliver pushed himself slowly to his knees. He looked up at Razi, his face a picture of sad regret. ‘My Lord,’ he whispered. ‘What else could I have done?’
‘Waited for your damned orders!’ hissed Alberon.
His words registered on Wynter, and she realised with a sudden chill that it was Oliver’s insubordination that had most angered the Prince. Shocked, she stared at Alberon’s scarlet face. It was suddenly very clear to her that if Oliver paid the ultimate price for his actions, it would be due more to his disloyalty to Alberon than his attempts to end Razi’s life.
Alberon continued to glower in silent rage, and it struck Wynter that, for all his usual bellowing and his obviously genuine anger, both he and Razi were going about this in a very quiet manner. She glanced to the shadows of the soldiers guarding the door. There had been no reaction from them. They seemed to have no idea what was happening within the canvas walls of the tent. Wynter straightened slowly, her heart tightening
in understanding.
They mean to let him go, she thought. Good Christ, after what he has done, they will let Oliver go!
She looked to Razi in disbelief. He was watching Oliver.
‘You should have trusted me,’ he said sadly. ‘You should have known I would never . . .’ His voice trailed to nothing, and the two men gazed at each other in silence, both knowing that Razi had had very little say in his accession.
Oliver shook his head in genuine regret. ‘I am sorry,’ he whispered.
‘Do you not understand,’ asked Razi, ‘that I have no desire to usurp my brother? Do you not trust me to act with only his interests in mind? You do not have to protect him from me, Oliver.’
Oliver regarded Razi with glittering eyes, and Wynter knew what he was thinking. All Razi’s good intentions were as naught should the King remain set to put him on the throne. From any angle, Alberon’s position would be greatly strengthened by his brother’s death, and Oliver could not in all conscience kneel at Razi’s feet and offer his fealty if it meant Alberon’s disinheritance.
‘Sir Oliver,’ said Wynter. The man turned to her. ‘However it may seem, I assure you that the Lord Razi is his Royal Highness’s only hope of returning to the throne. The lord has risked everything in coming here, just as you have risked everything in support of your Prince. I beg you understand this, Sir Knight: without the Lord Razi you are doomed; his Royal Highness is doomed. In fact, I sincerely believe that this kingdom is doomed, sir, unless the Lord Razi lives to complete his mission in reconciling the King and his heir.’
The man she had known as Uncle looked up at her from where his beloved nephew had knocked him to the ground – this same man who had jogged around the parapets with Razi on his back, neighing like a horse and pretending to jump hurdles; who had cried as he carried Wynter back to the palace the day she’d fallen from that damned tree and broken her arm; who had swung Albi onto the back of his first horse and told him, ‘Ride boy! Don’t be afraid! Just ride!’ The very same man who had been her father’s great friend, who was the King’s cherished cousin, now spread his hands in apology for having ordered the death of her beloved Razi and shook his head.
‘Protector Lady,’ he said, ‘I did what I had to do.’
A shadow moved across the canvas and Alberon’s lieutenant made a perfunctory noise before pulling back the door-flap. His face froze at the sight of Oliver crouched by Alberon’s feet, his face blotched and swelling from the Prince’s blows, and he came to a terrified halt, not certain what to do. His eyes slid to the far wall, pretending not to see, and Oliver looked miserably across his shoulder at him.
‘What is it?’ growled Alberon.
The lieutenant, still frozen in place, his eyes focused on absolutely nothing, said, ‘R-reporting as ordered, sir . . . uh . . . your Highness. The changing of the pickets has come and gone, and still no supplies, sir . . . Highness . . . sir.’
‘Sir Oliver will be with you in a moment. Go and await him outside.’
The lieutenant dropped the door with unseemly haste, and Oliver gaped at Alberon, obviously hardly daring to believe his ears.
‘I should have you whipped to death, Oliver.’
Oliver nodded, his eyes wide.
‘I should hand you to my brother and allow him exact his vengeance upon you. Allow him drag you to your death, perhaps . . . play a little football with your head.’
Oliver shook his head. ‘That was not me,’ he whispered. ‘I would never . . .’
‘Get up,’ said Alberon. ‘Go tend to our men.’
Oliver got stiffly to his feet. He turned to leave.
‘Oliver,’ said Razi softly. The knight froze, his hand on the door. He looked reluctantly back.
‘I understand you had no choice,’ said Razi. ‘It is simply the world we live in.’
Oliver could not contain himself at that and he sobbed, his eyes overflowing. He shook his head. ‘I am so sorry,’ he whispered. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘It is over,’ said Razi. ‘I have forgotten it. Go do your work.’ And he allowed Oliver to duck from the tent and walk away.
A WOMAN'S PLACE
THERE WAS an uncertain silence after Oliver’s departure.
The Lady Mary and the priest remained very still, as if frightened to draw attention to themselves. Mary sat erect, her hands knotted in her lap, her eyes on Razi.
Wynter stared at Alberon. ‘You cannot mean to trust him?’ she said.
Alberon tutted, and Razi sighed and rubbed his forehead with his hand. Wynter looked from one to the other in disbelief.
‘He has proved himself disloyal!’ she cried. ‘He has betrayed the King, he has acted behind your back and he has tried to kill Razi!’
Alberon snapped his attention to her. ‘In what way has he betrayed the King?’ he said. Wynter dropped her outstretched hand. Alberon glared at her. ‘In what way has Sir Oliver betrayed the King, Protector Lady?’
‘Albi,’ said Razi softly. ‘She did not—’ ‘No one in this camp has betrayed the King. I would charge you remember that! Bad enough these men have had to risk all to support me, without my very allies sullying their names!’
‘Your Highness,’ said Razi again, ‘please. She did not mean it.’
‘He ordered you dead!’ cried Wynter, unable to contain herself. ‘Are you insane?’ She turned to Alberon. ‘He ordered Razi dead! Tell me that means something to you!’
‘Wynter!’ Razi’s voice was sharp now and he slapped his hand on the cot. ‘That is enough!’
She clenched her hands, enraged beyond words, and Razi’s face softened. ‘Keep your voice down,’ he said gently. She shook her head at him. They could not possibly plan to ignore this? It was not possible that they would.
‘Oliver did what he felt he must to protect the Prince’s position as heir,’ said Razi. ‘He felt he had no choice . . . I shall not condemn him for it.’ His eyes flickered to the Lady Mary, and he looked suddenly drained and lost. ‘We’ve all done terrible things in our time.’ He heaved himself to his feet. ‘What now, your Highness?’
Alberon gestured grimly to the priest. ‘I must discuss details with Jared, here.’ He looked his brother up and down. ‘Go shave your face and comb your hair, Razi; you look like hell. Wynter, you will tend the Lady Mary. I shall send breakfast.’ He was already ducking out the door as he spoke, his voice drifting off. Jared followed him.
Razi remained standing for a moment, his face blank with exhaustion. Then he shook himself. ‘Stay here, darling,’ he said. He smiled. ‘We’ll be going home soon . . . Lady Mary? Is there anything I can do for you? Any comforts you might need?’
Mary just stared at him, her hands clasped at her stomach. Razi nodded, bowed and headed tiredly for the door. He was about to duck outside when Mary spoke.
‘What did you do to him?’ she asked. Razi came to a halt, his hand tightening against the canvas wall of the tent. ‘Isaac,’ clarified the lady. ‘What did you do to him?’
Oh, no, thought Wynter. Don’t. Don’t tell her.
Razi turned his head only a little. She saw him hesitate. Then he turned to face the lady and looked her in the eye. Wynter felt Mary stiffen by her side, her small hands clenched.
‘I had him tortured,’ said Razi.
Mary shook her head in horror.
‘I had him tortured,’ said Razi again, his voice too loud. ‘It was vile.’ He held Mary’s appalled eyes, as if to punish himself with the look in them. ‘He died,’ he said. Then he ducked outside and the tent-flap fell into place.
Wynter stood behind the lady’s chair, waiting for tears and searching her mind for suitable platitudes, but when Mary spoke, her voice was curiously steady and distant.
‘Poor Isaac; I always suspected that he had feelings for me.’
He called you ‘darling’, thought Wynter. He said to tell you that he had stayed true. I do not think I shall ever tell you that. I think it might break your heart if you knew it.
‘It was not for
revenge that he was tortured, Lady. You understand that? To have done that to another person . . . it is so far from what Razi is. I wish I could make you understand how far.’
Mary remained silent. Wynter stared down at the lace cap settled neatly on her glossy black hair, overwhelmed with sympathy for her. ‘Lady?’ she asked gently. ‘Do you think it likely that Isaac acted alone?’
Mary nodded. ‘I suspect so. Poor Isaac was unbendingly loyal to my husband, but he was no reformer. I’m afraid that your Lord Razi’s dark skin would have been enough to appal the poor fellow . . . and the thought of a non-Christian on the throne!’ The lady shook her head. ‘I can just imagine his outrage.’ She looked beseechingly at Wynter. ‘It is true that Isaac was no humanist, Protector Lady, but I hope that you can believe me when I tell you he was a good man.’
Wynter nodded. ‘I understand,’ she said.
‘The inquisition took Phillipe the very week that he had planned to journey here. Jared knew I would not be safe, and so he came for me and took me with him. Phillipe’s fellows were meant to meet us on the trail. They never appeared, but Jared knows they are still active. They await news of this negotiation – so eager for change.’
Mary paused, her thoughts running away with her.
‘Do you think they will effect that change, Lady?’
‘Oh yes,’ breathed Mary. ‘Oh yes. With your Prince’s machines they can do it. I have no doubt.’
The Prince’s machines.
‘Lady?’ asked Wynter, her mouth dry. ‘Will it be a change worth effecting?’
Mary looked up at her. ‘Protector Lady, anything would be better than the current situation. My husband’s plans have robbed him of his life, and they have left me with nothing. I doubt that even one member of my family remains alive. But I still believe in the reform, Protector Lady. I must. For if you could only know what it is like there . . .’ She shook her head. ‘A change must come,’ she whispered.
Wynter looked from the lady’s dark, earnest eyes to the swell of her pregnancy, appalled at how little the poor woman had left. What on earth would become of her, now that Tamarand’s purge had robbed her of all she was?
The Rebel Prince Page 12