‘Then . . . then why are they here?’ asked Razi.
‘That was your damned brother,’ sneered Christopher, glaring out into the snickering darkness. ‘He invited the poxy things back.’ He glanced across, and the look on Razi’s face made him laugh despite himself. ‘I know,’ he said in sympathy. ‘It’s all just a mite too perplexing, ain’t it?’
Late into the night, Wynter woke from a dream in which her father stood staring down into a valley of silent ghosts, his hands red with blood. She had been shouting across to him from the other side, Da? Da! I don’t know where I am. But even as she called to him, Lorcan had turned and walked into the misty rain, and she had understood that she was all alone. She woke with the diplomatic folder clutched to her chest. She’d fallen asleep with it in her arms.
Christopher lay warm beside her, his strong arm looped around her waist. She slid carefully down under their covers until she could rest her chin against the top of his dark head, and she put her arm around him, pulling him closer.
‘Y’all right?’ he murmured, and she nodded. ‘Go asleep,’ he said. ‘They won’t come near the dog.’
She lay staring out into the impenetrable trees, holding Christopher close and listening to the Wolves as they whispered in the darkness beyond the light. She could think of nothing to say when she met the King. She could think of nothing to do. Across the fire, Razi’s dark eyes reflected the light as he too lay awake, thinking. Sólmundr sighed and rolled over, grousing at his blankets.
‘Lass,’ whispered Christopher, ‘go back to sleep.’
But she didn’t, and neither did he, and when dawn finally broke, it found them still lying there, staring pensively into the forest as the trees emerged slowly from the dark.
DAY ELEVEN: CHER FORD
Well, it is still here, she thought, scanning the small group of plain tents, the one smoking camp fire. But this is no royal party. There are too few men, no supply wagons, no military presence. Her heart sank at the growing likelihood that she’d made the wrong decision. She had wasted so much time.
Enough of that! she told herself. Christopher is right. What is done is done! We are but three days from the palace. If we hurry, we may arrive back on the same day as Alberon. Perhaps even hours ahead of him. It is possible that we still have some time.
She looked back at her companions. She had insisted that they take the old cart road through the forest, approaching the ruined ferry house from the east. This abandoned track was detailed on her map with the orange broken line of a disused trail and had been labelled ‘unpassable to cart and wagon’. Certainly it was horribly overgrown, filled with light saplings, waist-high in grass and snarled with trailing clots of bramble. But it was still relatively open ground when compared to the shadowy depths of the surrounding woods, and it made their approach easier and gave them a good view of the camp. More importantly, it allowed the camp to see them and reduced the all-too-likely danger of them being shot as spies.
Boro, bristling with hostility, tried to dash ahead through the high grass, but Sólmundr called him to heel. The warhound returned with great reluctance, barking and snarling into the trees and at the camp. Sólmundr snapped at him, obviously telling him to behave.
‘It’s difficult to tell from here,’ murmured Christopher, eyeing the small group of men who now stood shading their eyes and watching their approach. ‘But they don’t look to be soldiers. I don’t see no uniforms or pennants, nor any other fancy royal things.’
‘We were wrong,’ sighed Razi.
‘We will pass on through,’ said Wynter. ‘It will be easier to follow the track around and back onto the main road. Then we must fly like the wind to the palace. Jesu, I cannot believe that I have made such a grave—’ ‘Go no further, travellers! You must needs turn back here.’
Wynter jerked her horse to a dancing standstill as men emerged from the surrounding trees like shadows made flesh. They filled the path ahead and behind. Boro snarled and prowled, glaring up at Sól as if to say, I tried to tell you. The warrior sighed, lifted his hands from his sides, and told the hound, ‘Tarraing siar!
’ Though they were dressed in ordinary clothes, the surrounding men levelled their crossbows at the travellers with all the dispassionate intent of professional soldiers, and Wynter’s heart soared. She had never thought to see the day when she would be quite happy to have an arrow so coldly aimed for her heart. She uncovered her face and grinned at the puzzled man, whom she recognised as the lieutenant of the King’s guard. Squinting up from the bushes, he was obviously thrown by her apparent delight.
‘You must turn back now,’ he said slowly, convinced perhaps that she’d escaped from some bedlam and could not understand. ‘You cannot make use of this road.’
‘Thank you, lieutenant,’ she said. ‘I commend you for your vigilance. However, we come bearing papers for the King. I would be grateful if you would convey my greetings to him, and request please that his loyal servant, the Protector Lady Wynter Moorehawke, in the company of his son, the Lord Razi, might be granted access to his presence.’
They were divested of their weapons and brought on foot down through the long grass and into the King’s camp. This was a tiny entourage indeed, no more than ten men, with only four tents between them, one of which would obviously be reserved for the King himself. Wynter, scanning about her, was gratified to see no sign of heavy artillery or even the deep wheel-tracks that would signify its passage through camp. This meant that no cannonry had been through here. The ground bore no trace of any foot-traffic, or horses other than those evidenced at the camp’s highlines, so there were no great numbers of archers either, waiting in hiding to rain death on Alberon and his accompanying men.
Wynter could not prevent the surge of hope this evidence brought to her heart. She could see no sign at all that the King intended an ambush. Could it be that he had relented?
Had Razi’s supposed death brought Jonathon to his knees at last, and had he been sincere in his offer of parley to his one remaining heir? Hard as it might be to believe, it seemed as if the impossible had come to pass. Wynter glanced up at Razi, who was nervous and wary by her side, and thought to herself, Perhaps we can manage this after all.
The lieutenant led them from the pollen-laden grass, and the rest of the King’s men gathered silently around. The soldiers eyed Sól and Christopher with disbelief – and kept their distance from Boro.
‘If that creature so much as cocks its leg, shoot it,’ said the lieutenant, and his men levelled their crossbows and followed the warhound’s progress with their fingers on the triggers.
Wynter watched the soldiers from the corner of her eye. She was impressed at their stone-faced lack of reaction to Razi’s sudden return from the dead. For the most part, their responses were confined to furtive glances and only the occasional nudge and whispering comment. These were obviously well seasoned men, but, aside from the King’s lieutenant, Wynter recognised none of them, and there was no sign of any of the other tall and broad-shouldered longbow-men who comprised the King’s personal guard.
Where are Jonathon’s men? thought Wynter, risking a glance behind her. Certainly they could not all be crammed within one of these small tents. Had there been turmoil within the ranks? Had the King’s own men fallen victim to a purge? Surely not. Jonathon had gone to pains to tell her father how much he trusted his guard. The men themselves were undyingly faithful to the crown. What could have happened to them?
‘Wait here,’ said the lieutenant, and, leaving them under the watchful eye of the others, he approached what Wynter presumed to be the King’s tent.
To Wynter’s great shock, the lieutenant did not stand to attention outside the awning, announce himself loud and clear and wait for the order to approach. Instead, he went right up to the closed door of the tent, murmured, ‘It’s me,’ through the canvas, and waited there, leaning across the entrance like some forward peddler at a hovel.
Wynter glanced at Razi. Even in his present state, her courtly friend r
egarded this lack of decorum with frowning disbelief. ‘Is . . . ?’ he asked. ‘Is that fellow announcing himself to a king?’
A man came to the door, and Wynter recognised him as being the captain of Jonathon’s personal guard. Another huge man, he stooped to listen as the lieutenant murmured in his ear. Then he raised startled eyes to Razi, unable to hide his shock.
Wynter heard the lieutenant whisper, ‘Is he in any condition?’ The officers’ eyes met, and instead of replying, the captain glanced furtively into the tent behind him.
Wynter straightened in alarm. What on earth were these men up to? Why did they not simply announce Razi’s arrival to the King? And what could the King possibly be doing in there? Surely he wasn’t standing calmly aside as two of his own men whispered at his door?
She stepped forward, and in a high, clear court-voice, demanded, ‘Why do you not announce us?’
The guards flinched, and Wynter purposely raised her voice so that whoever lurked within the tent could not fail to hear. ‘Do your duty this instant!’ she said. ‘And announce the Protector Lady Moorehawke and the Lord Razi to his Majesty the King!’
There was a sound within the tent of something clattering to the ground, and the captain ducked inside, leaving the lieutenant to stare anxiously at Wynter’s angry face. Within the tent, Jonathon’s voice said, ‘It is him? It is him?
’ ‘Announce us,’ she hissed, ‘or suffer the consequences.’
‘I suggest you do as the lady commands,’ said Razi darkly.
The lieutenant opened his mouth, but the door was pulled back before he could reply, and the captain stepped out again, his face tight with anxiety. ‘My Lord Razi,’ he said formally, ‘Protector Lady Moorehawke. The King bids you enter.’
He stood aside, leaving the door clear, and Wynter hesitated.
Razi, her noble friend, looked solemnly down on her from his great height. He radiated all his usual kindness, an indomitable source of strength; but Wynter knew he was depending on her. She knew everything was depending on her. Alberon, the King, the very kingdom itself: it all rested on her shoulders. Without thinking, she turned to Christopher. Wordless, her heart fluttering in her chest, she gazed at him. He gazed silently back.
I can’t do this, love. What do I say?
‘Protector Lady?’ said the captain.
What do I say?
‘The King awaits, Protector Lady!’
‘In the end, you can only tell him the truth,’ murmured Christopher. ‘How he reacts is up to him.’
He was right, of course. Anxiously, she clutched Alberon’s folder and stepped back. She felt on the point of being overwhelmed; still, her voice was steady when she said, ‘Wait here, Freeman Garron, Lord Sólmundr. Please keep the dog in check.’ They bowed, and Wynter turned to go.
Christopher said, ‘Protector Lady.’ She turned back. He leaned in to speak warmly in her ear. ‘We’ll be all right, lass, you and me, no matter what. Just do your best, it’s all anyone can do.’
She tilted her head just for a moment, so that her cheek touched his, then pulled back. He smiled at her – that shamelessly blatant, lopsided smile – and Wynter felt the familiar warm surge of affection for him. ‘This will be done soon,’ she said. ‘And then we shall decide where it is we most want to go, and what it is we shall do with our lives.’
‘That would be nice,’ he said. He glanced up at Razi. ‘Don’t worry, Doctor.’ He tapped his temple. ‘You don’t need anything more than what you’ve got up there already.’
Razi squeezed Christopher’s hand for a moment. The captain coughed pointedly. Wynter nodded. And she and Razi turned and headed for the door.
The King had just begun to rise when they ducked into the tent, but at the sight of Razi, he paused in mid action, his face slack with shock. The captain made as if to follow them inside, and the King whispered for him to get out. For the briefest moment, the captain hesitated in the doorway; then he nodded, stepped outside and pulled the tent-flap shut behind him.
The King stayed where he was, staring at his son.
Razi moved cautiously into the tent. He looked the King up and down, and Wynter could see him trying to reconcile his memory of the small, dark Victor St James with the hugely imposing, blond man who was actually his father.
‘Your Majesty?’ he asked.
‘Razi?’ whispered the King. ‘Son.’
Jonathon pushed himself upright and Wynter’s heart sank as she realised that he was, once again, quite drunk. ‘Son!’ he cried and shoved out from behind his table, toppling a folding chair in his haste.
The King descended upon them. Razi flinched, lifting his hands as if to ward off a blow. But Jonathon just grabbed him and pulled him into a rough embrace, causing Razi to stagger under his unsteady weight. Clenching his fist in Razi’s dark curls, the King buried his face in his son’s shoulder.
‘You live,’ he said. ‘You live.’
Razi, his hands held out from his sides, submitted with alarmed confusion. His eyes met Wynter’s across the top of his father’s head, and she lifted Alberon’s folder, nodding encouragingly that he should speak. ‘We have . . .’ he said uncertainly. ‘That is, the lady and I have . . .’
At Razi’s mention of her, the King turned to Wynter. ‘Child,’ he said, ‘I am sorry. Poor Lorcan. There was nothing I could do.’
Wynter made a tiny sound of grief, but that was all she could manage. Her throat was suddenly too small to allow words. She had not realised that she had been clinging to a last slim fragment of hope; that she had cherished, secret even to herself, the belief that there had been a mistake. But that last slim hope was gone. There had been no mistake. Lorcan was dead.
Why was she still standing, when the world had stopped? How was it that she did not fall down? How was it she did not scream? All the terrible questions rose up inside her: Did he die alone? Did he suffer at the end? Did he call for me in vain? And she was drowned by them. She was struck motionless and senseless and dumb.
Seeing her distress, Jonathon’s eyes filled with tears, and he stretched out his hand as if to pull her into an embrace. His sympathy threatened to undo her entirely, and, to save herself, Wynter thrust Alberon’s folder out like a shield and cried, ‘We have brought these, your Majesty. They are from the Royal Prince.’
Jonathon dropped his eyes to the folder, then raised them again to her face. He did not seem to understand.
‘From the Royal Prince Alberon, your Majesty. For you.’
The King stepped back as though she had threatened him. Still clinging to Razi, he looked from Wynter to his son’s dark face and back. ‘What treachery is this?’ he whispered.
‘No treachery. Just messages from your heir, begging that you understand him. There is no coup, your Majesty. There never has been. The Prince plans no treason. He—’
But the King had spun from her and turned on Razi. Gripping his son’s shoulders, he scanned his face and whispered, ‘He has sent you?’ At Razi’s carefully neutral expression, the King’s horror turned to rage. ‘Where have you been?’ he screamed, shaking Razi hard. ‘You poisonous child! While I mourned you and thought you dead, where have you been? What have you done?’
Startled at this abrupt turn to violence, Razi flung his arms up and broke easily from his father’s grasp. Stepping back, he lifted his fists in silent warning. The King’s face darkened in that frightening, lethal way of his and he hunched his shoulders.
‘You would fight me, boy?’ he said. ‘You think to best me?’
His fists still raised, Razi watched the King and said nothing.
‘Your Majesty,’ cried Wynter ‘If you would but listen . . .’
She tried to step between them, anticipating a return of the King’s terrible, violent treatment of his son. But Jonathon deflated suddenly. Right before her eyes, he seemed to crumple in defeat. He seemed to shrink and age. He turned from Razi as if in a daze and wandered across to sit heavily into his chair.
‘So, he has sent you
,’ he said, ‘and I am undone. How cruel is it, Razi, to have mourned your death only to find betrayal in your longed-for resurrection. It is God’s punishment, I suppose, and well I deserve it. What, after all, did I expect? God help you, despite all my dreams for you both, how could I have hoped that you would escape your Godcursed heritage? As I took my kingdom, so shall it be taken.’ He trailed into silence for a moment. Wynter opened her mouth, but Jonathon went on in a whisper, speaking to himself: ‘At least my sons are not their father’s type of coward. At least they thwart me like men, and do not slither about as poisoning, devious . . . Oh, God.’ He clutched his head suddenly and moaned. It was such a deep, heartfelt expression of pain that Wynter, despite her own distress, felt pity for him. ‘Oh, God,’ he whispered again. ‘I have shaped my kingdom’s fall.’
‘Majesty?’ she ventured. ‘Will you please hear me?’
Jonathon glared up at her from between his fists and snarled, ‘It is the worst kind of mistress that lays herself down for a Prince and expects his power in return. If the Lord Razi has messages to convey, then don’t have him convey them through you, woman. However poisonous their content, let him not do me the discourtesy, nor himself the dishonour, of transferring them through his whore.’
Razi’s sudden roar made them both leap. ‘How dare you!’ he cried. ‘How dare you speak to her like that? Retract your slander immediately! It is the lowest thing in the world to dismiss a woman on terms of her virtue! How simple for you! How neat!’
‘Razi,’ hissed Wynter, ‘this is the King.’
‘He is a nobleman,’ snapped Razi. ‘He should act like one!’
The King frowned at him, his usually circumspect, hitherto unfailingly political son, now scarlet and raging at nothing more serious than a petty slight to a woman. Wynter saw Jonathon register the strangeness of this, and she saw that sharpness in him that her father had so loved; that famous Kingsson intelligence, not yet completely destroyed by distress and wine.
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