BOOK I IN THE MOOREHAWKE TRILOGY 7 страница
Wynter frowned and sat back. Alberon nodded in approval. He reached over and patted her arm. ‘Come now, sis,’ he said, his tone soft again, and gentle. ‘It’s only a political thing. We all knew I would never marry for love.’ He ducked his head and smiled up at her. ‘Love is what mistresses are for,’ he whispered.
Wynter looked down at the hand Alberon had laid on her arm and all her rage sank under a weight of sorrow. Despite what Alberon thought, Wynter’s outrage up until that moment had been a political one. Now the full implications of what he was planning sank in and she truly understood the depths of the personal sacrifice he was about to make. What Alberon said was true; they all knew it only too well: no royal could ever hope for a love match. Even so, marriage to Marguerite Shirken was very far from what Alberon could have expected for himself. The King had always made nods towards engaging one of the Sultan’s eldest daughters. It would have been a politically expedient match, and Wynter had no doubts that Jonathon would have a least tried for some soft and willing girl, intelligent and not at all a trial to the senses.
The thoughts of Albi with that viper instead, ‘breeding heirs’ as Albi put it, made Wynter shudder. She looked to Razi for support, but Razi was suddenly miles away. He was staring into the fire, his face indescribably sad, and Wynter knew he was remembering his own recent chance at a love match. Embla. That beautiful, gentle woman who had so willingly sacrificed it all to flames of a different kind.
Wynter squeezed her eyes shut.
A long silence ensued. When Wynter eventually looked up, she was surprised to find Razi staring at Alberon. The piercing expression on Razi’s dark face brought Wynter slowly upright in her chair.
‘You are very quiet, brother,’ said Alberon softly.
‘You intend to aid Marguerite Shirken in overthrowing her father’s throne.’
‘Razi!’ Wynter gasped, disgusted that he would even think it. But Alberon only shook his head in bewildered admiration, and Wynter knew at once that Razi was right.
‘Oh, Alberon,’ she moaned, ‘no.’
‘By God, Razi,’ said Alberon. ‘I have been depending on your bringing your words to my assistance – but I had forgot quite how incredible your mind is. What a statesman you must be. With you by my side, I shall be so strong. You must—’ Razi slapped his hand down on the table. ‘You are plotting the usurpation of a king.’
‘I am doing what is best for this kingdom.’
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‘Alberon!’ said Wynter. ‘Such an act undermines the very fabric of what it means to be a ruler born! You cannot knock a king from his throne simply because you do not like his rule of law! Why, if we all thought thusly, there would be chaos!’
‘Oh, come along, sis!’ he cried. ‘You sound like an ignorant peasant. You cannot, surely, still be so naive? Most royal families are less than three generations old and you know it! Our own great-grandfather wrest this kingdom from William of Comber. Our historians now call it a legitimate reclamation of title, but let us for one moment admit it for what it actually was, shall we? Two men with big sticks pummelling each other over land – and the man with the biggest stick won. A king only remains a king for so long as he can outsmart, outrun or outfight his opponents, Wynter, and that is the bare and honest truth of it.’
Wynter was speechless. To discover this unabashed cynicism in her royal friend was shocking. It was no less than treason even to express such beliefs – indeed, in some royal courts it was actual blasphemy! Yet she found herself unable to offer a reasonable argument against Alberon’s unflinching candour.
He patted her hand and glanced sideways at Razi. ‘Don’t ever tell Father I said that,’ he whispered.
‘I think he might already suspect it for himself,’ said Razi.
Alberon nodded, apparently oblivious to the dry irony in his brother’s voice. ‘Yes, yes indeed. He of all men would be so aware of it. I still find it impossible to bear: after all Father has done to improve the lot of this kingdom, that he should almost have been brought down by those who wish a return to the terrible ways of old.’
‘The elite of this land come from far simpler times, Alberon, and are not used to the loss of power and wealth that Father’s vision foists upon them. It will always be difficult to convince men of power that the payment of fair wages is better than slavery and that all men have the right to equality under law. Father has always known that his reforms would be the cause of trouble with some.’
‘There is nothing the aristocracy fears more than a confident, well educated populace,’ murmured Wynter, quoting her own father’s favourite saying. ‘Your father has only ruled for fifteen years, Albi. It will take time for him to win over those who still believe in the old ways.’
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‘Win over . . . or root out,’ said Alberon darkly. ‘There can be no in between.’
‘Which brings us neatly back to the point, Alberon. Our sister is right. The usurpation of one king weakens them all. I cannot condone your plans. Tyrant or not, mad or not, Shirken must be supported against sedition.’
Alberon withdrew his hand from Wynter’s and sat back. ‘Feel free to discuss the immorality of sedition all night, brother; it will not change the fact that Marguerite is determined to take the Northland throne. She will attempt this with or without my support. Without my support she may fail, and if she fails, her kingdom will be ruined and the Europes will fall into disarray. Where will our father’s wonderful plans for the future lie then?’ At his brother’s silence, Alberon nodded tightly. ‘So, I am determined to ensure the rest of the Europes shall not suffer for Marguerite’s actions – in fact, I hope to use this opportunity to improve the lot of many.’
‘What do you intend to do?’ asked Wynter.
‘The Haun are my primary concern here, sis. If Marguerite cannot take the throne by political means and must recourse to war, I fear that the Haun will take advantage and attempt an invasion while her armies are divided. And that,’ he said, rising grimly to his feet, ‘is where I intend to come in.’
AN IMPOSSIBLE DEVICE
‘SO WE have it,’ said Alberon, spreading his hands on the map. ‘Marguerite’s kingdom stands poised on the brink of extreme turmoil. On her left hand, the Haun. On her right, the Midland King Tamarand and his Comberman allies, an undoubted source of trouble when she takes power.’
‘Tamarand is King Shirken’s cousin,’ said Wynter. ‘He could legitimately grab the Northland throne, should Marguerite’s lords go against her deposition of her father.’
‘Tamarand on the Northland throne would not be a good thing,’ mused Alberon softly, his eyes on the map.
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It would be a disaster, thought Wynter. Capricious, wilful and rabidly devoted to the Comberman Sect, Alexander Tamarand was quite certainly Gunther Shirken’s equal when it came to the violent repression of his people, but he did not have a fraction of Shirken’s understanding of government. Should Tamarand take the Northland throne, it would only be a matter of time before he would lose control of it. Both the Midlands and the Northlands would fall into chaos, and the gate would swing open for the Haun to saunter in and take what they pleased.
Wynter hugged Coriolanus closer, as if his skinny little body could warm her against the oncoming storm. He turned his head to rest his chin in the crook of her elbow and scanned the map, his enormous eyes shining in the firelight. Wynter stroked him gently, her attention on Alberon. The Prince was staring down at his father’s kingdom, his eyes bright with some inner calculations. Razi was watching him closely.
‘Why have you not tried to work this out with the King?’ she whispered. ‘Why do you assume you must do this alone and outside of his consent?’
Alberon smiled. ‘You expect me to tell him of Marguerite’s planned usurpation of her father? He would go to Gunther instantly, and Marguerite would be dead.’
‘And this would be a bad thing?’ murmured Razi. ‘Only hours ago you were berating Father’s lack of ruthlessness in dealing with your own . . . disagreements.’
Alberon’s lips curved into a tolerant smile, his eyes roving the port road. ‘Gunther Shirken is an unpredictable canker. I am convinced it is only a matter of time before he turns on us. Marguerite will be a much stronger ally to Father’s throne – and I intend to see her take power whatever way she can. Of course, Father will never tolerate her insurrection, but once she is actually on the Northland throne Father will be free to accept her as an ally without ever having supported her deposition of the former King – it will be very neat for him.’ He chuckled bitterly. ‘Very politic.’
‘If you do not trust your father’s allies then you should discuss it with him, Albi.’
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‘I tried, Wyn,’ said Alberon. ‘But thanks to your father and our brother, the King refuses to listen to me. Lorcan convinced him of Shirken’s strength and stability – regardless of Marguerite’s many testimonies to the contrary. And Razi here has convinced him that our allies in the Moroccos are as strong as ever. So Father remains confident of them both. He is quite thoroughly blind to their vulnerabilities.’
‘That is because those vulnerabilities do not exist!’ cried Razi. ‘The only threat here is Marguerite and you are aiding her in her plans!’
At this first open expression of Razi’s anger, Alberon’s face abruptly darkened and his mouth compressed with sudden impatience. ‘That is your opinion,’ he snapped.
‘Who would know the facts better than I? Listen, Alberon, for the last five years Lorcan and I have fought to keep Father’s alliances strong. We—’ ‘Fought?’ said Alberon. He slammed his hand down on the table, startling Wynter. ‘Fought? You have never fought a day in your life, Razi! What is battle to you? Nothing! Nothing but a word!’
‘Albi,’ said Wynter, shocked at the unexpected rage in her friend’s face.
‘No, Wyn! No! This must be said!’ Alberon leaned across the table and hissed directly into his brother’s face. ‘Where were you, brother? When the dead were piling up and we were soaked in the blood of our own men? Where were you, when we were waking morning and night to screams and the smell of rotting flesh? Fighting, were you? Fighting? I think not!’
Razi opened his mouth to speak and Alberon slammed the table again, making the beakers jump. ‘I will not see that again!’ he cried. ‘I will not wake to that again! All your words did not stop it, Razi! All your talking did not stop it! So do not sit there now, with your court speech and your court clothes, and tell me that you have fought, because YOU HAVE NEVER FOUGHT!’
Coriolanus mewed in fear, and Wynter clutched him to her. ‘Albi,’ she whispered, ‘stop.’
Alberon slammed his hands down again, small-beer splattering darkly across the face of his map.
‘This will work!’ he screamed. ‘It will work!’
He grabbed desperately at the stained map, his eyes huge and rimmed with red, and for a moment Wynter thought he would tear it to pieces. Then, to her immense surprise, Razi reached across and gently covered Alberon’s clenched fist with his hand.
‘Alberon,’ he said, ‘I am sorry.’
Alberon flinched and gazed down at Razi’s dark hand as if uncertain of what it was.
Razi squeezed his fingers. ‘I am sorry,’ he said again. ‘Of course I can never understand what you have endured.’
Alberon looked up into his brother’s face and slowly sank into his chair, apparently dazed.
His shouting must have alarmed his soldiers, because men began running up the hill towards them, their armour clattering in the dark, their panicked voices calling out, ‘Your Highness! Your Highness!’
Wynter and Razi sat back and carefully lifted their hands into sight.
Alberon put shaking fingers to his forehead.
Suddenly Coriolanus dug his claws into Wynter’s thigh. ‘Wolf,’ he hissed, his attention on the approaching men.
Wynter followed his gaze and saw the green light of a Wolf ’s eyes reflecting in the dark. She went to yell a warning, then realised with a shock that it was Christopher running alongside the soldiers, his sword drawn, his eyes phosphorescent in the night. In her arms, Coriolanus gathered himself for a cat-yowl of warning, and Wynter grabbed him, slapping her hand over his mouth. She clamped down hard, and his warning cry was reduced to a muffled mmmwwrraaaffff against her palm.
She leaned to whisper in his ear. ‘That Wolf is my friend, Cori. I am begging you to hush.’
Shocked, the cat met her eye. Wynter stared at him, pleading. He blinked. Slowly, she uncovered his mouth, and to her relief, he kept his peace.
Soldiers rushed into the ring of firelight, swords drawn.
Christopher, Sól and Hallvor followed on their heels, their weapons also at the ready.
Sólmundr called out to Razi: ‘Tabiyb! Cad é?’ He made to approach the table, and one of the soldiers shoved him away.
‘Back yerself orf! Yeh heathen savage!’
Sólmundr pushed the guard contemptuously backwards, and the other soldiers rounded on him with a roar. Christopher and Hallvor leapt to his defence. There was pushing and scuffling.
Razi remained motionless, his hands held up where the guards could see them.
‘Your Highness,’ he murmured, ‘your men are upset.’
Alberon blinked at him.
‘Albi,’ insisted Wynter, ‘your men.’
Alberon slowly turned to take in the scuffle behind him. His face cleared somewhat, and he seemed to gain focus just as Oliver ran into the light. The older man took one look at the Royal Prince, seemed to instantly understand the situation, and swept his attention to the soldiers.
‘Stand back,’ he ordered. ‘Come on now, split up . . . You!’ He pointed his sword at the Merron. ‘You were told to keep your damned weapons in your tent.’
Angrily, Sól went to speak, but at Razi’s warning look, Christopher intervened. He laid his scarred hand on the warrior’s arm, bowed slightly and addressed Oliver. Wynter’s heart swelled with pride at his smooth, courtly tone.
‘We had thought there was trouble, sir,’ he said, ‘and only came to assist. We regret if our actions seem ill-meant.’
Christopher sheathed his sword. Taking his lead, Sól and Hallvor sheathed theirs and drew themselves up into noble silence. The soldiers continued to jostle and push at the Merron, and Oliver roared at them to stand down. They pulled back with shuffling uncertainty, their eyes on their Prince.
‘You are dismissed,’ said Alberon softly. ‘There is no trouble.’
Christopher looked to Razi, who nodded. ‘Thank you, Freeman. The Prince is safe.’
Christopher glanced at Wynter. She held his eye, the cat clutched to her chest, her face carefully neutral. Christopher bowed to her, very slow and solemn. There was not a trace of his usual mocking amusement in the action.
‘At your service,’ he murmured. Then he led the other Merron back down the slope.
Wynter watched his slim back retreat into the darkness. Somewhere near the base of the hill, she saw a brief flash of twin phosphorescence as he turned to look at her, then he was gone.
Coriolanus whispered in her ear: ‘A touch more than just friends, methinks,’ he insinuated slyly. ‘Little wonder you smell of dog.’
‘Hush now,’ she said and scratched his thin shoulders until he purred.
Oliver dismissed the men then turned to regard his Prince. Alberon smiled wanly at him.
‘I lost my temper again,’ he said. ‘But there’s no damage done.’
‘You are tired, Highness. Even the strongest of warriors need to sleep.’
Alberon waved a dismissive hand. ‘Stop lecturing me, you old hypocrite, and get you to your own bed.’
Oliver’s eyes flicked to Razi. ‘The Prince works too hard,’ he blurted suddenly. ‘No man could possibly push himself harder!’
‘Oliver,’ warned Alberon.
‘If you only knew what we’d been through these five years, my Lord. If you had seen a fraction of the things the Prince has seen—’ ‘That is enough,’ said Alberon sharply.
Oliver snapped to rigid silence, and Alberon sighed and rubbed his forehead in weary exasperation. ‘Go to bed, Oliver,’ he groaned. ‘Go get some goddamned sleep.’
Oliver turned to go. Alberon called after him as he descended into the camp: ‘Oliver, if Anthony is still awake – only if he is, mind you – ask him to find us a little tea, would you?’
Oliver nodded without looking back and strode away into the dark.
There was a small moment of silence. Coriolanus purred. The fire crackled. Alberon sat looking into its violent flames, his expression distant.
‘It has been a long five years,’ he said eventually. Razi and Wynter stayed carefully silent. He glanced over at them. ‘For us all, no doubt,’ he said. They nodded. Alberon looked at Razi, his blue eyes very bright in the dancing light. ‘I will not see those five years happen again, brother. I’ve had enough talk; it is useless unless one has an iron fist to back it up with.’
Razi nodded. ‘Tell me about Lorcan’s machine,’ he said.
Alberon spread the second parchment and the two men stood leaning over the plans, absorbed. Razi said something and pointed to a section of the drawing, but his words were lost on Wynter. She remained rooted to her chair, gazing at Lorcan’s neat and distinctive handwriting, his wonderfully delicate drawings, his careful diagrams of the working parts. She had not expected this sudden rush of sorrow. It completely overwhelmed her.
Slowly, she reached and placed her finger on the parchment, lightly tracing the perfect, serrated curve of a cog wheel.
In her mind, she saw Lorcan. He was leaning over the plans for a water-carrying device, a quill behind his ear, his fingers stained with ink. His brows were drawn down in concentration, and his red hair tumbled all around him in the candlelight. He looked up, saw her, and smiled as he had always done. Hello, baby girl, he whispered. Can’t you sleep?
Wynter pressed her palm to the warmth of the paper. Da.
‘Your eyes are leaking, cat-servant.’
She put her free hand to her eyes and pressed hard.
‘My fur is quite damp.’
‘Hush,’ she said.
‘Wynter,’ murmured Razi, suddenly close by.
He crouched at her side. ‘Wyn,’ he said softly.
She shook her head, her fingers still pressed to her eyes. Razi put his hand on her back, warm and comforting. At his sympathy, Wynter felt tears surge dangerously, the kind of tears that she knew would not stop once released. She shrugged his hand away and swiped her face.
‘What is it, Albi?’ she croaked. ‘It looks . . .’ She cleared her throat. ‘It looks to be a matchlock? A gun of some type?’
Razi rose to his feet beside her, placed his hand briefly on her hair, then leaned back over the plan. ‘It seems more like – well, I am unsure what it seems like. A series of rotating matchlocks, perhaps? But if so, I cannot figure . . . where is the serpentine? I can see no spark-wheel, no flintlock. Albi, where are the damned flash-pans? It makes no sense.’
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