A stray horse loomed, its shoulders black with gore, and Wynter slapped it aside.
Above the chest-high pall of smoke, Anthony sat atop his little horse – a small boy drenched in blood. He was gazing at the men in the forge house as they released the spent barrel-ring and hoisted a fresh-loaded one into its place. Their crewmates carried the first away to be reloaded. The gun crew heaved the lever to engage the new barrels, and Anthony watched with no emotion as they swung the gun around to face him.
Alberon rose from the river of smoke and reached for the child. Shoving his hands beneath the boy’s armpits, he dragged him from the saddle, and Anthony slid like a sack of loose grain into the Prince’s arms.
Spinning with the limp child cradled to his chest, Alberon looked for somewhere to go. Anthony’s little head lolled to his shoulder, his eyes wide and blank and staring. Desperate, the Prince glanced up at Oliver, who still swayed protectively in the saddle above him. Alberon’s expression fell as he registered the knight’s chalky face. Oliver’s tunic was scarlet from shoulder to hip. A sheet of blood coated his horse’s side and dribbled in a steady stream to darken the ground at its feet.
Alberon roared in wordless horror. Oliver, still gazing down upon him, slid slowly sideways from the saddle.
‘Albi!’ screamed Wynter, still running. ‘Albi! Run! Run before they can fire!’
Razi’s deep voice cut above the residual whine in her ears, a muffled bellowing somewhere behind her: ‘STOP, YOU CRETINS, IN THE NAME OF THE KING! IN THE NAME OF THE KING!
’ Deaf from the gunshots and blinded by the smoke, the men at the forge took careful aim and once again began to crank the handle. The machine coughed its brutal roar. Great gouts of earth sprayed from the ground, arcing a curved path towards the Prince.
‘Get down!’ screamed Wynter.
Alberon twisted his body to shield the little boy, and ran. Oliver’s horse staggered under another rain of fire. Oliver spilled lifelessly to the ground. The horse fell.
Shots followed the Prince’s hunched retreat, biting the ground at his heels. Wynter reached for him, as if to pluck him from death’s relentless path. The smoke bit her eyes and throat as she drew breath again to scream. Alberon jerked. Blood erupted from his shoulder. He jerked again. Blood sprayed from his hip. Anthony’s small hands flew up as the two of them spun. Blood flew from Alberon’s mouth and he hit the ground, Anthony still clutched to him like a doll.
Alberon rolled, once, twice, three times, then came to a stop, still shielding Anthony with his body. For a moment, rigid tremors shook him. Then, to Wynter’s horror, her friend seemed to deflate, and both he and his little servant lay corpse-still on the smoky ground.
The machine cranked on. The earth puffed up in a series of lethal explosions as the shots arced a path from Alberon to Wynter. She ran towards them, her mind filled only with Alberon’s lifeless, sprawling body; the horrible way the ground was darkening where he lay. Something hit her, shoving her sideways, and the ground spat up by her foot as the arc of the machine passed by.
She was tumbled over and over, a band of iron clamped around her waist. Then a slim weight pressed upon her, holding her down. A lilting voice in her ear shouted above the noise. ‘Stay easy, you bloody fool!’
Christopher was lying across her, pressing her into the ground as he jerked his crossbow up and took aim. She struggled against him, trying to reach Alberon, and Christopher elbowed her hard in the ribs. ‘Stay still!’ He took aim, fired, and Wynter looked up to witness one of the machine crew lurch back, Christopher’s arrow jutting from his brow. There was a brief pause in the firing as the machine crew regrouped, and Christopher rolled onto his back, trying to reload.
Wynter began slithering beneath the smoke to Alberon.
‘Razi!’ bellowed Christopher. ‘Stop!
’ Wynter twisted, gaping back over her shoulder.
Running from the curled body of the King, Razi had leapt onto his horse. With a cry, he pulled the terrified animal around and, just as the machine began to shoot again, galloped straight for it.
Wynter lurched to her feet in horror. Christopher, still lying on his back, took aim and fired. Another of the machine crew fell, and the machine temporarily dipped its nose, shooting aimlessly into the earth. Men who had been working in the background ran forward with the fresh-loaded barrel-ring, heaved it into the ready position, then took their fallen comrades’ place. They pulled the muzzle around to aim at Razi and fired.
Razi kept going. Wynter saw shots tug his tunic. Saw one shred the corner of his doctor’s bag. Razi leaned forward in the saddle. He settled against the horse’s neck, and Wynter realised he was going to try to jump the wall.
She began to run, waving her arms. ‘Stop firing!’ she screamed. ‘Stop firing!’
Behind her, Christopher leapt to his feet and took aim again. His bolt clattered harmlessly against the metal carriage of the machine, but the men swung the weapon in response and drew down. Wynter skid to a halt as the gun’s multiple eyes turned to stare at her.
The machine fired, BAM BAM BAM, the shots running towards her in a straight line. She leapt aside. The ground puffed by her foot. Shots cut a path from her to Christopher.
‘GET DOWN!’ she screamed.
He did not get down. Instead he stood, legs akimbo, slapped the bow to his shoulder and fired once more. A gunner sprouted an arrow from his chest and fell from sight. Christopher went to reload. The last round hit him. He dropped, and the machine fell silent as it ran out of shots.
In the ringing silence, Christopher curled on the ground, his eyes bulging, his hands clenched around his thigh. Blood poured from between his fingers. Wynter skidded to his side, snatching her scarf from her neck, and wrapped it tightly around his wound.
‘You fool!’ she cried, knotting the scarf. ‘You fool!’
‘Razi!’ he yelled, struggling to see over her shoulder. ‘Stop!’
The men at the machine were scrabbling to reload. Frantically they hauled the lever to release the spent barrelring and allowed the next one to clang into place. All the time, Razi was thundering towards them. He shouted ‘hup’ and his huge mare launched from the ground. There was silence as she tucked her legs and sailed across the tumbled remains of the wall. Rider and horse trailed ribbons of smoke behind them, as if they were made of cloud, descended from the sky.
At the sight of all that great weight of horseflesh bearing down on them, the terrified men lifted the muzzle of the reloaded gun. But it was too late, and as they released their first shots, Razi and his beautiful horse crashed down on top of them. Wynter howled in despair as gun, men and horse toppled sideways in a horrible screaming tangle and fell behind the wall.
‘Razi!’ yelled Christopher.
Wynter staggered to her feet and stumbled forward through the smoke. Within the ruins, Razi’s big mare was kicking and neighing, trying hard to gain its feet. There was a man screaming in there somewhere, and Wynter was sure he was caught beneath machine and horse, that massive weight grinding him against the ground. Suddenly, and with a huge surging effort, the mare lurched upright. Clumsy, staggering, the big animal managed to haul herself from the wreckage of the machine and back over the wall. Clattering her way across the uneven scatter of rocks, she sank to her knees on the grass and toppled to her side, shuddering in agony and fear. She was a terrible mess, her lovely body torn, her legs ruined. Wynter staggered past her, blinking against the tears and the smoke. That poor man’s screaming ceased abruptly. Without his voice, it was very quiet. Out of sight behind the wall, someone began a piteous moaning.
Wynter dropped to her hands and knees and began an awkward clamber across the fallen stones, wanting and not wanting to see what lay on the other side.
It took a moment for her to register a man’s hoarse voice, calling over and over on the battlefield behind her: ‘Alberon! Alberon!’
She paused and looked back. Jonathon, the arrow still jutting from his shoulder, was staggering towar
ds his son’s body.
As the King lurched past, Christopher pulled himself to his elbows and twisted anxiously to look over his shoulder. Sólmundr was carrying Hallvor’s body across the field towards them, his face streaming with tears. The warrior strode through knee-deep smoke, his blood-soaked friend held out before him like an offering. Hallvor’s head lolled in the crook of his arm, her long hair hanging to the ground. Mary stumbled along behind, her hand knotted in Sól’s tunic, her eyes fixed on the healer’s lifeless face. ‘Tá sí marbh!’ cried Sól. ‘Tá Hally marbh!’ and Wynter had no doubt in her mind that Hallvor was dead.
Gravel rattled loosely behind her, but Wynter didn’t turn. She could not take her eyes from Jonathon, who was just then falling to his knees at Alberon’s side. She dropped down onto the sun-warmed stones and watched as the King turned his son over. Jonathon knelt for a moment, his hands poised, staring down at Alberon’s limp body. Then he grabbed his son’s tunic, pulled him into his arms, and screamed at no one in particular.
‘He breathes! He breathes! Save him!’
There was a small movement at Wynter’s side, and she turned to look into Razi’s dusty, bloodstained face. He blinked at her, those big brown eyes, flecked all through with gold.
‘Razi,’ she whispered, ‘save him.’
PADUA: FIVE YEARS LATER
THE LITTLE boy ran, fear and excitement spurring him on. It was the first time he had been allowed to travel this journey alone, and the city had never seemed so big. He clutched the crackling parchment note to his chest as he dodged through the heedless citizens, his small feet flying in their green leather boots.
Breaking from the gloom of a crowded arcade, he emerged into the harsh light and sun-blasted stillness of the big piazza. It was midday, and the open spaces were relatively deserted. Even the shadows stayed close to the feet of the buildings, waiting for the heat to pass.
Pigeons scattered from the uneven ground as the boy skirted the bronze statue of the Man on His Horse. ‘Honeycat’, his mama called him. That always made the little boy smile; he loved the taste of the word in his mouth. Honeycat. It seemed such an odd name for so imposing a man.
As he jogged past, the little boy glanced up at the statue. He loved the man’s horse: he loved its wide, strong neck, he loved its knotted tail. Though, like his father, the little boy disapproved of the rider’s spurs. He never failed to wince at the sight of them, and shake his little head. A good rider should have no need of such a brutal tool.
The sun tyrannised the open air, hot as a furnace, and the little boy hurried across the piazza and into the protective shadows thrown by Il Santo. He raced along the smooth stone walls of the Basilica – past the first little door, past the great big door, past the second little door – and then out into the sunshine again before ducking into the shelter of another sottoportego and down a dim and quiet arcade street. It was time for siesta, and work on the new city walls had paused for an hour or so. In the absence of the usual dust and noise, the entire world seemed to be napping.
The little boy heard the End of Lessons bell just as he turned the corner and began to run down the sunny little lane that led to the compound and the site of the new hospital. Free from their classes, the bigger children began to trickle from the arched gateway, and the little boy slowed his progress, pretending to be preoccupied. It was not that he was afraid of the bigger children. Of course he wasn’t. But there was something about this particular group – a certain pride, a certain lack of courtliness – that made him uncomfortable. It was unfair to them, he knew; they had never done him harm. But still, he hung back.
The bigger children walked together, talking softly in their own strange language, their slates clutched at their chests, their satchels on their backs. The little boy was just about to crouch and pretend to tie his lace when a familiar figure came strolling out among them and the little boy straightened with a grin and ran on.
‘Good afternoon, Anthony!’ he called in his clear little voice. ‘Are you done your alphabets for today?’
The young servant turned and the little boy took great delight at the surprise and concern in his face. ‘My Lord!’ he cried. ‘Hast thou come here all alone?’
The little boy tutted. ‘I am well able to cross the city alone, Anthony. I am not a baby, you know.’
Anthony hefted his satchel onto his shoulder and scanned the arcaded streets behind the boy. ‘Does thy father know thou hast . . . ?’ Something caught his eye and he smiled. ‘Of course, my Lord,’ he said, looking back to the child and bowing. ‘I do keep forgetting how big thou art.’
The child glanced suspiciously behind him, but there was no one there.
Anthony’s friends stopped to wait for him at the corner of the street. An equal mixture of boys and girls, they paused in a bright splash of sunshine, and it gleamed on their silver bracelets and shone in their long hair. They smiled, but did not bow. The little boy had long ago given up taking offence at this. After all, as his mama always said, a nod was as good as a bow where these folks were concerned.
‘I have a message,’ he said importantly, holding the parchment out to show them. ‘Papa entrusted it to me!’ Anthony’s friends raised their eyebrows and made impressed noises, and the little boy turned back to his servant. ‘You may go with your companions if you wish, Anthony,’ he allowed. ‘I shall not need you till much, much later. I am well able to return home alone, once my work is done.’
‘Thank you very much, my Lord,’ said Anthony, his lips tugging at the corners.
Bowing with a rather amused solemnity, the young servant strolled off to join his friends. They glanced back at the small child with undisguised fondness, waving and smiling with quite an appalling lack of propriety. The child watched them go with a patient shake of his little head. Anthony was a very good servant, indeed he could almost be called a friend – but on occasion he did keep rather dubious company.
Glancing behind him once more – there was most definitely no one there – the little boy ran beneath the sandstone gate-arch and down the lane that led to the compound’s stable yards. The sound of hooves on cobbles came to him as he rounded the corner, and he paused at the sight of the Chief of Horses leading one of the Arabians across the yard. The little boy faltered for a moment in the shadows.
It was not that the little boy disliked the Chief of Horses. In fact, he liked him very much, but there was something about him that made the boy shy. It was hard to define. There were those terrible scars, of course, and his horribly accented Italian. But it had more to do with a strange feeling of loss that the little boy felt around this man. There was a sense of hidden grief to him that made the little boy feel sad. He was often filled with the desire to clamber up the man’s wiry body and hug his scarred neck, but the man’s noble reserve made such a gesture seem inappropriate.
A familiar, nudging presence at the child’s back made him turn and he was greeted with a blast of musty dog-breath and a face full of slobbering kisses.
‘Dog!’ spluttered the little boy. ‘Stop at once! Or I shall be drowned!’
The hound, of course, declined to stop, and the little boy abandoned the pretence at annoyance and embraced his shaggy neck, laughing. The huge creature snuffled down the collar of the child’s tunic with great enthusiasm, and the child giggled at his tickling whiskers.
‘Boro,’ called the Chief of Horses. ‘Leave the lord be.’
The great hound broke off his slavering attack and trotted over to his master. Nudging the man’s hands and licking his scarred wrists, the dog rolled his eyes in adoration and whined like some ridiculously huge puppy.
‘Bloody fool,’ growled his master. ‘I take back of my sword to you if you not behave.’ The dog grinned and yawned and flopped down into the dust, showing his belly for a scratching. The Chief of Horses sighed and shook his head, but crouched down to oblige nonetheless. ‘My Lord,’ he said, squinting across at the little boy. ‘You come for to take out your horse? It a little hot f
or riding yet, nach ea? Maybe you wait for evening and then I bring you down along the river?’
‘I am on business, Freeman! I have come all the way here with a message for the Protector Lady!’ He held out the note with great pride.
The Chief of Horses’ face drew down in concern. ‘You come alone?’ he said. ‘Across the city? Your father knows this?’
‘Papa sent me, Freeman. I am quite old enough, you know, to deliver a message.’
As the child spoke, the man’s eyes drifted to the corner. Whatever he saw there wiped away his grim concern, and his weathered face softened into amusement. The child snapped his head around just in time to glimpse his father’s aide duck back behind the wall.
‘Marcello!’ cried the little boy. ‘I see you!’ He stamped his foot in rage. ‘Oh!’ he cried, ‘Papa sent you to follow me! After he promised I was to do this alone!’
The dapper little man stepped out into the sunlight. He smiled, and tilted his head. ‘I assure you, my Lord, your father did not send me. The Lord Razi has absolute faith in you, and trusts entirely that you shall deliver his message. I am here on separate business, and it is but a coincidence that we have arrived together.’
The little boy glared at him. Marcello Tutti spread his hands in all innocence. ‘I swear by the Holy Mother of Jesus, my Lord, I am here for my own ends.’ His dark-brown eyes lifted and met those of the Chief of Horses. ‘Is that not so, Sólmundr?’ he said softly.
The Chief of Horses ducked his head, and the small boy frowned curiously up at him. ‘You have gone very pink, Freeman,’ he observed. ‘You really should not go about without your hat, you know. Papa says the midday sun can quite fry a man’s brains.’
For some reason, this made Marcello Tutti chuckle, and the Chief of Horses went even pinker.
The child looked from one to the other of them in confusion. ‘Um,’ he said, waving the paper, ‘I must deliver Papa’s message. Now you must not follow me on the way home, Signor Tutti! I am very able to travel alone, you know!’
The Rebel Prince Page 35