‘. . . and peace with you, Aidan an Filid, Mac Oisín an Filid, as Tír na Garron. A million thanks to you, for granting to me the son of your heart and now mine, Coinín Mac Aidan ’gus Mac Sólmundr. See he walk in freedom now, as one of the tribes. We have faith this make you happy as you walk in peace at the Heart of the World, and we ask you reclaim your property which your son and mine has liberate for you and now returns as is right.’
He kissed the guitar again and once more held it over the flames until Christopher took it. For a moment, the young man held the instrument poised across the hungry fire, his face determined. But then his strength seemed to desert him, and he snatched it back, curling himself around it as if incapable of letting go. His shoulder quaked beneath Wynter’s hand, and she squeezed gently, her vision blurred with tears. Sólmundr tilted his head in sympathy as Christopher silently keened, his body rocking, his forehead pressed to the snake emblem on the back of the guitar. Then Christopher abruptly raised his head and, without further hesitation, placed his father’s guitar into the heart of the flames.
‘Bye, Da,’ he said.
It caught immediately, the fire roaring to life around it, the strings snapping with sudden, sharp pops. Wynter sank to her knees by Christopher’s side. He slid his arm around her waist. Razi came to stand behind them, and the three of them watched as the flames turned blue and green around the varnished wood.
They watched until there was nothing but ash and ember, until the silver fittings were nothing but meaningless blobs of metal. Then they rose together, as the sun began to cast its first faint light across the treetops, and walked in weary silence back to their tents.
ALLIES TO THE PRINCE
‘WHAT WRONG with you lot? You look like you drink too much mead. Sól? You been sneaking brew?’ Sólmundr didn’t bother to open his eyes, just waved a lazy hand in the Aoire’s direction. The warrior was sprawled on a blanket, baking gently in the sun, Boro snoozing by his side. The other Merron were picking their way around him with tolerant amusement as they went about their chores. Úlfnaor directed a questioning look to Wynter and she shrugged noncommittally; better he think they had been at the wine than know what they had really been up to.
It had been almost midday when the sounds of camp and the airless fug of the tent had finally roused her. She had pushed herself from her bed, blear-eyed and swollen-headed from lack of sleep, only to find that both Razi and Christopher were still snoring lightly into their blankets, dead to the world. She had roused them as best she could. Since then, all three of them had sat slumped outside the Merron tents, as listless and fragile as soldiers after the feast of St Barbara.
We should have stayed abed, thought Wynter as Razi cracked his jaw with an enormous yawn.
‘I should get going,’ he murmured, ‘I have things to arrange.’
Christopher’s head drooped and his beaker began to slip slowly from his fingers. Wynter was eyeing this with weary glee – anticipating his no doubt colourful reaction to a lap full of tea – when the warhounds distracted her by growling and climbing to their feet. The hackles rose on their great necks and they lowered their heads, eyeing the alley between the tents. Sólmundr sat forward, the rest of the warriors tensed, and all the lazy relaxation left the air as David Le Garou came to the mouth of the alley.
He was alone, leaning at the corner of the tents like a derelict drunk, looking across the Merron to where Razi sat. ‘I would speak with you, al-Sayyid.’
Razi, his face impassive, did not bother getting up.
Christopher carefully placed his beaker on the ground. ‘Good morning, David,’ he said. ‘Ain’t you pretty today? Weren’t no one around to brush your hair for you?’
Le Garou regarded him with loathing, and Christopher grinned, hard, bright and defiant. Wynter had to stop herself from crying out, Stop that, Christopher! She wanted nothing more than to throw a cloak over his head, so that he would be hidden and wouldn’t aggravate this dangerous creature any further. There was something in Le Garou’s dishevelled condition that made him seem even worse than before, as though the loss of some of his veneer had brought his evil closer to the surface. Wynter’s sword, still sheathed, was lying on the ground behind her. She shifted her hand until she felt the hard reassurance of its hilt beneath her palm.
Le Garou tore his eyes from Christopher and back to Razi. ‘I would speak with you,’ he said again.
Razi crossed his ankles, leaned back on his elbow and laced his fingers. He shrugged lazily. ‘I’m a little busy,’ he said. ‘But I could spare a brief moment. Are you unwell, David? You’re a touch pasty.’
The Wolf was slightly worse than ‘a touch pasty’. His eyes were red and sore-looking, his hair a dull tangle around his grey face. With a scowl of discomfort, he pushed himself from the tent and stepped, squinting, into the sunshine. The hounds immediately blocked his way, their fur bristling into stiff ruffs, their bared teeth dripping. The Merron hummed to themselves and went about their business, doing nothing to clear David’s path.
‘Call them off,’ he said. Then again, with impatience: ‘Call them off, curse you! I have no tolerance for games this morning.’
At Úlfnaor’s nod, Hallvor called the dogs and she and Wari took them down to where the others were tending the horses.
‘Merron scum,’ hissed David, staggering across the clearing and easing himself down onto Hallvor’s abandoned seat. Sólmundr and Úlfnaor exchanged a look, but remained silent. David sat swaying for a moment, his eyes shut, then he reached into his belt-purse, fetched out both sets of snake bracelets and laid them onto the fire-stones.
‘Here,’ he said, ‘I’ve been told that these belong to your boy.’
There was a moment of frozen shock, during which time Úlfnaor got to his feet, his eyes fixed on the glittering jewellery. Sól murmured something, and the Aoire turned his head on a stiff neck to look at him. Sól said something again and Úlfnaor sat back down, his face dark with rage.
‘Take them,’ said Le Garou, pushing the bracelets to Razi. ‘They are your property once more.’
Christopher’s hands knotted in his lap, but neither he nor Razi moved to touch the bracelets. It was all Wynter could do not to reach for Christopher’s hand and clench it in her own. She could not bring herself to look into the Wolf ’s face, and so kept her attention focused on the toes of his expensive boots.
‘It was Jean who stole them,’ he said. ‘At the Wherry Tavern, I believe? In the process I understand he attempted to harm your boy. He is, of course, yours to do with as you wish. None of us will intervene.’
Wynter could not help it: she raised her eyes to see Le Garou’s expression. It was blandly patient, as if Razi’s reply were a simple formality. She could not believe the Wolf ’s audacity. It had certainly not been Jean who had done those terrible things at the tavern. It had been the shadow-riders, the lower-ranking Wolves, those men who now lurked in the forest, hidden and out of reach – and they had done it with David’s permission, as reward for their patience on the long trek from the Moroccos. But Jean was an unruly whelp, foisted upon David at André’s insistence, and, according to Christopher, David could not wait to be rid of him. So now he presumed to use Razi for the task?
‘I do not understand, David,’ said Razi politely. ‘Have you mistaken me for someone else?’
Le Garou’s certainty slipped a little and he frowned.
‘You have taken me for a trash haulier, perhaps,’ asked Razi, ‘and so see fit to request that I divest you of your rubbish? Or do you simply wish to insult my intelligence by offering me your dirty work in the guise of favours?’
Le Garou blinked. When he next spoke, it was with carefully contained anger. ‘In my new life we are to be more than just neighbours, al-Sayyid. You must accept that I am now a trusted ally of his Royal Highness and soon shall prove myself the same to his Majesty the King. With my contacts here and in the court of the Sultan, I should be a useful friend to you, if you but have the sense to receiv
e me as such. I have come to you this morning with no accusations made about the events of last night, and have offered a token of peace and reconciliation. One simple act on your behalf will be enough to benefit me and restore your honour. Do not make the mistake of rejecting my kindness.’
‘I wish you the joy of your new life, David. May it grant you all the prosperity that you deserve, but I must ask you to take yourself and your kindness from under my nose. The stink of you is enough to make me retch.’
‘So be it,’ snarled David as he snatched the bracelets from the fire-stones and pushed himself unsteadily to his feet. ‘You’ll find pride is a threadbare cloak when you’ve fallen from favour, my Lord. You will feel the cold soon enough, and will regret turning aside a genuine alliance.’ He weighed the silver bracelets in his hand and looked Christopher up and down. ‘They’re not half as pretty without bells attached,’ he said, ‘but I suppose you are a man of simple taste. You must regret the loss of your trinkets, boy. It must sting that your master cares not to get them back for you. Still, my own Boys will be glad to have them returned; they get such pleasure from wearing them. Adieu, al-Sayyid. I shall give your best to the Prince when next I speak with him.’
There was a short, tense silence after he left. Then Christopher put his head into his hands and groaned. ‘Good Frith, Razi. If this doesn’t work, I swear I’ll skin you alive.’
Sólmundr nodded in agreement. ‘Oh aye,’ he said. Wynter eyed his grim face and tried to convince herself that he didn’t mean it literally.
Instead of listening, Razi was leaning to the side, looking down the alley. ‘David must be very certain of his position,’ he murmured. ‘If he felt he could lead me about like a pup on a string . . . ah!’ He had spied something in the alley and it sent him to his feet. Straightening his shirt, he reached for the scarlet long-coat that he had shaken out earlier and hung upon the awning poles. ‘Come along, Wyn. Up, up!’
She must have looked entertainingly confused, squinting up at him, because he smiled and nudged her with his boot. ‘Up!’ he said, shrugging into his coat. ‘You too, Christopher. Look lively, brush yourselves off and put on your cloaks, will you? Try and look a little dressed up.’
They climbed uncertainly to their feet and made a desultory effort to straighten their hopelessly crumpled clothes. Razi sighed and shook his head. ‘Ah, well,’ he said. ‘You will have to do.’
He turned to Alberon’s lieutenant, who was just at that moment coming to the mouth of the alley with three of Alberon’s personal guard.
The lieutenant bowed uncommonly low. ‘My Lord,’ he said, ‘his Royal Highness would see you now, if you have a moment.’
Razi nodded grimly and adjusted his collar. ‘Come along,’ he said. ‘If we hurry, we will be just in time for David Le Garou to witness this.’ He followed the lieutenant out into the dust and noise of the camp. The soldiers fell protectively into place at his back, and Wynter and Christopher trailed behind.
‘Did he mean me to come along?’ whispered Christopher anxiously.
Wynter shrugged, frowning. It seemed unlikely that Razi would take Christopher into Alberon’s presence. Perhaps he meant to leave him on guard outside the tent? It would be a wonderful honour, but even so, a little presumptuous on Razi’s part, especially in light of his recent shaky relations with the Prince. She tugged nervously at her cloak and trotted along, struggling to keep pace with Razi’s long stride.
Christopher peered around the lofty entourage, trying to catch a glimpse of Alberon’s tent. ‘The Prince is watching from the top of the hill,’ he murmured. Then he straightened in alarm and ducked back in behind the soldiers. ‘Good Frith! He’s coming down!’
Wynter dodged swiftly to the left, glanced up the slope and dodged back again. Alberon was indeed striding down the steep path, blatantly heading towards his brother. Oliver followed calmly in his wake, his eyes scanning the crowd.
‘I shouldn’t be here,’ hissed Christopher. ‘We misunderstood.’ He scrubbed his hands anxiously on his trousers. ‘Look at me,’ he moaned. ‘I’m like a God-cursed gypsy. I ain’t washed myself nor brushed my teeth. I don’t even have my sleeves rolled up! I’ll shame our lad!’
He began furtively trying to push his sleeves to the tops of his arms. Wynter gripped his hand to make him stop. ‘Stay easy,’ she whispered. ‘We’re just here for show, the Prince will pay no heed to—’
‘Brother!’ bellowed Alberon, loud enough to shake the birds from the trees. ‘I am delighted that you could attend!’
Razi answered, almost as loud, ‘You have but to think it, your Highness, and I am there!’
The soldiers on the road turned in curiosity, and Wynter understood at once that she was part of a display: the loud, public, irrefutable resumption of communication between the Royal Prince and his bastard brother. She glanced over her shoulder and saw David Le Garou leaning weakly at the corner of the supply tents. He was glowering at the proceedings with undisguised frustration and rage.
The brothers met near the middle of the hill, close enough that the men on the road could hear their exaggerated conversation, elevated enough that they could be seen by all. With practised diplomacy, Alberon’s lieutenant gestured his men aside so that all could witness the Prince clasp his brother’s forearm and, in a thoroughly courtly gesture of filial accord, clutch Razi to him in a brief embrace. They stepped apart and Razi bowed low. Then, to Wynter’s immense surprise, he turned to indicate her.
‘Your Highness,’ he said. ‘The Protector Lady Wynter Moorehawke has come in the name of the King to offer her affection and support. Despite her recent terrible loss, our beloved sister could not rest easy until she found you and confirmed your Highness’s health with her own eyes.’
Alberon turned to her.
‘Protector Lady,’ he said loudly, ‘we join you in mourning the loss of your great father. I am deeply moved that, despite the depths of your grief, you have journeyed here to find me. You are a credit to your sex, Lady, and an example to all.’
Gravely, Alberon took Wynter’s hand and kissed it, bowing slightly from his hip. There was a sighing murmur from the surrounding men, and Alberon gently squeezed Wynter’s fingers as he rose from his bow. She closed her hand tight against his, overcome with gratitude for this public recognition of her loss, and for Alberon’s acknowledgement of her as an ally and a woman worthy of respect. She had no doubt that the dusty faces on the road were now suffused with sentimental protectiveness and sympathy; for there was nothing a soldier loved more than a tragically brave noblewoman. God help us, she thought, but Albi certainly knows his men. In this one greeting, he had transformed her from suspected murderess and harlot to a shining icon of feminine worth.
‘And your husband, Protector Lady? The man whose bravery and knowledge of the wilds has ensured your safety and that of the Lord Razi? Are we ever to be introduced, do you think?’
At the word husband, the gathered men fell utterly silent. Wynter was amazed that a hundred burning holes did not appear in Christopher’s rigid back as all eyes turned on him. She did not make the mistake of introducing Christopher herself, as if he were some ragged sailor picked from the street by a common jade. Instead, she waited for Razi, her acknowledged male guardian, to step forward and do his duty.
Razi bowed, indicated his friend with a little gesture of his hand and said, ‘Your Highness, as you wish, allow me to introduce to you my most trusted Second and bodyguard, the Freeman Christopher Garron. A worthy person, your Highness, and that most valuable of rarities, an honest man.’
Christopher bowed very low and did not presume to speak. Alberon regarded him with regal coolness. ‘I have heard much about you, Freeman Garron,’ he said quietly. ‘My brother feels he owes you much.’
Christopher’s eyes flickered to Razi, who nodded almost imperceptibly.
‘Thank you, your Highness,’ he said, ‘but the Lord Razi owes me nothing. My debts to him, however, can never be repaid, though I shall spend the r
est of my life attempting to do just that.’
Alberon’s face softened a little, as if Christopher’s words had thrown him, and he faltered a moment before nodding. When next he spoke, his voice was once more loud enough for the crowds to hear. ‘You would not be the first commoner to have proved himself worthy of the company of royals. All here know how steadfast a friend the Protector Lord Moorehawke was to my father the King. Welcome to my service, Freeman Garron. May you prosper in it.’
Wynter tightened her jaw at the wry irony in this last line, but Christopher, all unawares, straightened from his bow, relief evident in his face. Alberon leaned close, and in the guise of shaking Christopher’s hand, murmured low and private, ‘If you hurt my sister, Garron, you die a traitor’s death. Understand?’
The men met each other’s eyes. Christopher nodded, and Alberon spun from him. ‘Behold my brother,’ he cried, slinging his arm across Razi’s shoulders and turning him to face the camp. ‘He has journeyed here at peril of his life in order to aid us in our task of strengthening my father’s kingdom. No prince could wish a more steadfast supporter. No man could have a brother more loyal.’
The gathered men muttered uncertainly to themselves. Frowning, their eyes slid to Oliver, who stood at Alberon’s right, his hands folded blandly on his sword.
‘Let all my allies know this face,’ cried Alberon, grabbing Razi’s chin and wagging it. ‘It should not be hard to recall it, after all!’ He looked around the assembled ranks of his men, and though his smile did not slip, the warning in his voice was clear to all when he said, ‘Make it known that this is a face beloved to me. Make it known that no harm shall come to this man, by my allies’ hands or the hands of any other. He who harms my brother, harms me. Is this not so, Sir Oliver?’
‘Aye, your Highness,’ said Oliver. ‘There’s no man here who does not recognise the Lord Razi’s devotion to you. There is no man here who would not die in his defence. My sword is yours, my Lord!’ he cried, bowing his head to Razi. ‘My strength, my blood, my life, all pledged to your service.’
The Rebel Prince Page 24