BOOK I IN THE MOOREHAWKE TRILOGY 10 страница
Christopher glanced at the sleeping Merron, then leaned across Wynter to whisper quietly down at Razi: ‘You know what?’ he whispered. ‘Leave him to it and let’s you, me and Iseult take ourselves home to the Moroccos. This is all just the same old song with a different set of notes, Razi. That’s all it will ever be. All your hard work, all the things you and Lorcan sacrificed, none of it has made one whit of difference in the end. You ain’t ever going to change anything here, Razi; it ain’t ever going to end! Ain’t you tired of it? Don’t you want some life? Don’t you want some joy?’ He glanced down at Wynter, then back to Razi, who remained silently motionless in the shadows. ‘Don’t you want something better than this, Razi?’ he asked softly. ‘Let’s go find something better than this.’
‘I cannot,’ said Razi.
Christopher growled and hung his head in aggravation.
Wynter ran her hand up his bare arm and he looked down at her, his pale face floating above hers in the dark. She resisted the urge to push his hair from his forehead in case he felt she was making a child of him. ‘This is a delicate situation, love,’ she whispered. ‘There are bridges burned between the King and his heir that only Razi can remake. Alberon has devised a wonderful plan to strengthen this kingdom, and Razi is his only means of persuading the King to listen. Without Razi’s influence—’
‘Wonderful plan?’ said Razi. He huffed under his breath. ‘My father’s kingdom is a miracle, Wynter. He has maintained its stability all this time, not by brute force but by diplomacy and by care. The tyrants that surround us may continue to shred and tear at their own people, and their policies may be vile beyond conscience, but my father has maintained the most cordial of relationships with them all. They make use of his port road; they benefit from the safe shipping lanes that he has established via his relationship with the Sultan. And while they may sneer at his ridiculous laws and at his scandalous humanism, they leave us be – because Father has ensured that they all profit by his continued presence on the throne and because he has never once posed a military threat to them.’ Razi shook his head. ‘Alberon will toss all that aside,’ he said. ‘He will give it all up, in the futile belief that violence will end violence.’
Razi paused. Wynter and Christopher waited in silence for him to continue. Wynter wished that she could see his face more clearly; she could get nothing from his soft, calm voice. ‘My father’s kingdom is a miracle,’ he whispered again. ‘I have no intention of aiding my brother in its destruction.’
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Wynter lifted herself to her elbow, shocked at the implication of her friend’s words. ‘Razi,’ she whispered, ‘you cannot mean to betray him?’
‘Betray him? Good God, Wynter. What would make you use such a word against me?’
‘Without your support, Alberon is dead, Razi. He is dead. You can’t be unaware of this!’
‘What Alberon proposes will destroy our father, Wyn. It will destroy everything! I cannot let this happen. But I will not betray him. How can you even . . . ? How can you even begun to have . . . ?’ Razi moaned in sudden desperate frustration and covered his face with his hands. He lay in total silence for a moment. Wynter was certain he had his teeth gritted, his eyes squeezed tight. Finally he pushed his hands back through his tangled shock of curls and took a deep breath. When next he spoke, his voice had dropped back to its calm, even tone.
‘Once I have found a way out of this, and I have the bloody fool back home and settled down, I shall begin to dissuade him. Particularly in relation to this damned marriage – does he honestly believe that Marguerite Shirken will breed him anything but vipers? He may as well simply hand this kingdom over to her and her spawn.’ He paused again, Wynter staring down at him, her heart hammering in her chest. ‘Yes,’ he whispered to himself. ‘Once I get him home. Once I have him settled, then I shall begin to make everything clear to him. Slowly and carefully—’ ‘Razi,’ said Wynter. ‘Alberon is not some fractious baby to be dismissed to his bed with a beaker of warm milk. He is heir to the throne of this kingdom, and he is making decisions as such. Why must you dance around him so? Talk to the man! Talk to him! Give him the respect of sharing your opinion.’
Razi twisted to face her. He went to speak, but Christopher shushed him suddenly, his attention on the door. One of the warhounds had growled again, this time with intent. The three friends stilled, listening carefully.
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The air had brightened, and they saw the misty shapes of the great hounds standing to attention outside the door. One of them trotted from sight, its long chain clinking gently. There was another low chorus of growls as the remaining dog-shadows lowered their heads. They were all looking in the direction of the Midland tent. Quietly taking their weapons, the friends pushed back their covers and crawled to the door. Behind them, the Merron women stirred.
Christopher crouched at the edge of the door and peered out. Wynter and Razi crept to his side, strapping on their swords. The Midland quarters were dark and motionless in the morning gloom. From this position, Wynter could only see the back of the tent. There were soldiers surrounding it, their faces bored, their attitudes weary, as if they’d been standing guard all night.
Hallvor came to kneel behind Wynter, her eyes on the soldiers. The healer gestured the dogs to her side and they came reluctantly. She leaned to whisper in Christopher’s ear. ‘Cén fáth na saighdiúirí, a Choinín?’
He shrugged and shook his head. ‘She wants to know what they’re doing,’ he murmured, but before Razi could answer, a cultured Midland accent rang out from the front of the tent.
It was a man, very affronted and annoyed. ‘What in the name of God are you doing?’ he demanded. ‘Have you lost your reason? Let me pass!’
Oliver’s voice drifted quietly across the air. ‘Get back inside, Presbyter, please.’
‘I must attend my Lady’s need! Tell your men—’ ‘Shut your face,’ said Oliver wearily. ‘Get inside, sit on your damned arse, and await the Prince’s pleasure.’
Wynter met Razi’s eye. ‘Let us go see,’ she suggested, and before Razi could speak, she ducked from the tent and out into the cold air.
MARY
ALBERON WAS tramping down from his quarters as Wynter rounded the blue pavilion tent. He was swaddled in a thick red cloak and his young face was tired, his brows drawn down. Now that she was outside and in the growing light, Wynter saw that Razi, too, was drawn-looking, his skin grey with fatigue. The brothers must have been up for most of the night, talking.
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Wynter glanced behind her. The Merron women had emerged, their swords drawn. Christopher gestured them to stand down and the warriors slipped discreetly into the neighbouring tent where their male companions lay sleeping.
There were more soldiers guarding the entrance to the blue tent, and Oliver stood just outside the closed door, speaking quietly to a lieutenant. Wynter, Razi and Christopher came to a wary halt at the corner. At their appearance, the soldiers came to attention, eyeing them suspiciously, and Oliver turned to see what had alarmed his men. His eyes dropped to Christopher and Wynter’s bared blades, then lifted meaningfully to Razi’s face. Razi spread his hands in a gesture of non-interference, and the three friends sheathed their weapons. Oliver tightened his jaw in irritation then turned his attention to the Prince, who was just coming up the main thoroughfare.
‘They up?’ grunted Alberon. Oliver nodded. ‘You say anything to them?’ Oliver shook his head. ‘Come on, then.’ The Prince went to duck in at the door and Oliver stayed him with a hand on his arm.
‘Highness,’ he murmured, ‘we can’t just crowd in. She has no maid, no type of chaperone at all, other than that . . . that fellow. It’s not seemly.’
Alberon sighed impatiently. ‘For Christ’s sake, Oliver—’ he began.
‘Highness, it is not seemly. This is not some camp-follower we’re discussing here; a certain amount of propriety, surely, must be maintained, even in the roughest of situations, and for a woman in her—’ ‘Oh, enough,’ groaned Alberon, flinging up his hand. He looked around him in desperation and saw Wynter standing at the corner with Razi and Christopher. ‘Protector Lady,’ he called, gesturing her over. ‘And you, too, Lord Razi, please.’
‘Wait here please, Chris,’ said Razi softly. ‘Do not try to come any closer. And, Chris, when you have the chance, it would be best to leave your weapons back at the tent as my brother has ordered. Do your best to persuade the Merron to do the same.’
Christopher nodded. Razi straightened his bed-crumpled shirt and crossed to his brother, Wynter following silently behind. She eyed the guards as she passed through their ranks. They were sneering at Christopher, and she had to push down her anger at the contempt in their faces.
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Suddenly Boro trotted in from nowhere, and all the soldiers stiffened, their sneers wiped away at the sight of the giant hound wandering free from his chain. Wynter saw the barest trace of dimple crease the corner of Christopher’s mouth at the alarm in the soldiers’ faces.
‘Ná bac faoí, a chú,’ he murmured. ‘Níl iontu ach amadáin.’
Whatever he’d said, Boro must have agreed, because he flopped to the ground, laid his head on his paws and closed his eyes, dismissing the soldiers from his sight. Christopher slouched against the tent-pole, the massive creature snoozing placidly at his feet. The soldiers turned their eyes front, and Wynter smirked in satisfaction at the colour in their cheeks.
She was startled by a hand closing on her arm and she turned to find Alberon frowning down at her. He flicked an irritated glance at Christopher and drew Wynter around so that she was between Razi and himself.
She found herself hemmed in, with Razi, Alberon and Oliver surrounding her. Each of them was considerably taller than her, and she had to look up into their faces like a child loomed over by adults. Unconsciously she stepped back, and Razi, at least, had the self-possession to give her some room. ‘What can we do for you, brother?’ she said uncertainly.
‘I have need to speak to the woman in this tent,’ said Alberon tightly. ‘She’s highborn and . . . and a little . . . delicate. Another female presence would do much for her peace of mind.’
Wynter quelled an amused snort. The thought of herself, head-to-toe dusty and dressed in men’s clothes, acting as a feminine buffer between a ‘delicate’ female and her male companions was just too amusing. She managed to nod politely. ‘I shall do my best,’ she said. ‘Who is the poor flower?’
‘The Lady Mary Phillipe D’Arden,’ said Alberon. ‘She—’ ‘Lady Mary?’ said Wynter, startled into remembrance, the words out before she could stop them. ‘Isaac’s Mary?’
‘Good God,’ moaned Razi, ‘Wyn!’
Alberon clamped down on her arm and dragged her closer, his eyes wide. She choked back a cry and forced herself not to struggle as his strong fingers bit into her flesh.
‘Alberon,’ she whispered, trying hard not to make a scene, ‘my arm.’
‘How do you know Isaac?’
Wynter hesitated, not certain how to explain her horrible interview with the poor tortured ghost, and how he had been so keen for Wynter to find the rebel camp and get a message to his ‘darling’ Mary. Her hesitance seemed to enrage Alberon and his brutal grip on her arm tightened even further. Wyn couldn’t help it; she winced and squirmed.
‘Albi,’ she whispered, ‘stop!’
Razi’s hand came between them. He grabbed Alberon’s fingers and squeezed so hard that the tendons in his hand stood out like knotted ropes under his skin.
‘Let. Her. Go,’ he said, staring into his brother’s eyes.
Alberon released Wynter and she stepped back, her arm numb.
Razi maintained his grip on his brother for just a second longer than necessary, then released him. He slid a look at Oliver. ‘Sir Knight,’ he murmured. ‘Take your knife from my back or I shall break your arm.’
Oliver looked to Alberon, who nodded his consent, and the knight slipped his little sleeve-knife back into its hidden scabbard.
Wynter glanced anxiously at Christopher. He was standing to attention just outside the awning, his hand on his belt-knife, his face uncertain. The guards around him were similarly poised, and Wynter realised that the entire confrontation had been so quick and so subtly enacted that the witnesses were not sure what had transpired.
‘The Protector Lady is innocent of any plotting, your Highness,’ whispered Razi. ‘I told you nothing of her communion with Isaac because I want her out of this. Do you understand, Alberon? I want Wynter out of this. She’s been through enough.’
‘You bloody fool!’ snapped Alberon. ‘What was I to think, after you had told me she knew nothing of the man? How am I supposed to trust you if you insist on playing games? What else have you kept from me?’
Alberon was flushed with rage, Razi darkly intent, and they were hissing furiously at each other across the top of Wynter’s head. She stood between them clutching her aching arm and looked up into their angry faces.
‘Do not manhandle me again, your Highness,’ she said quietly. ‘I will not take kindly to it.’
Alberon faltered. He blanched. His eyes fell to her arm. ‘Oh, sis,’ he whispered. ‘Did I hurt you?’
She turned to Razi. ‘And as for you, my Lord, perhaps we can dispense with the furtive politics? At least between the three of us, it would be refreshing not to stumble around each other’s lies.’
Razi’s lips parted in shock and his cheeks flushed ever so slightly, whether from anger or from shame it was difficult to tell. The brothers lapsed into a suddenly self-conscious silence. Wynter glanced at Sir Oliver, who was gazing blankly into space while his superiors settled their differences. Sometimes there was a lot to be said for courtliness. She turned once more to Alberon.
‘So, your Highness,’ she said. ‘What is it you wish us to do?’
The interior of the Midland tent was dim and stuffy, smelling of damp canvas and un-aired blankets. The two occupants did not show any concern at the group’s abrupt entrance. The priest simply lifted his head to regard them, and the lady did not look up at all. They were occupied in prayer, the lady kneeling at a delicate-looking prie-dieu, the priest standing behind her, his hands folded into his sleeves. Wynter regarded him cautiously as she ducked in the door. Within the frame of his dark cowl, his long, square-jawed face was as smooth and arch as a Comberman icon. He gave no discernible reaction to the unlikely combination of an Arab and a bare-headed woman at the Royal Prince’s side.
The lady continued her prayers, her lips moving gently, her eyes closed. It was obvious that she had made an effort to maintain a level of courtly presentation, despite her reduced circumstances. Her once rich gown was travel-worn and frayed, but she had taken care to keep it clean, and it was well brushed and neat. Her dark hair was carefully coiled and pinned beneath her skullcap, two heavy rolls of it decently hiding her ears. Her hands were respectably covered to the tips, only her ring-finger bared to show her status as a married woman. She was in every way a decent, God-fearing
Midland lady, and she was determined to be seen to finish her prayers no matter what was going on.
Alberon cleared his throat with quiet impatience, tapping his fingers against his thigh.
The lady continued to ignore him, her slender hands folded under her chin. She had a sweet enough face; a very acceptable court-face, in fact – heart-shaped, her little mouth a soft undemanding pink, her eyelashes long and delicately shading her cheeks. Wynter was sure that she would have had her pick of suitors before making what must have been a good match.
What had brought her here, though? To this musty tent in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by soldiers, with nothing but a rope-cot, a prie-dieu and a folding chair for furniture; no one but a stone-faced priest as chaperone.
Wynter hoped she would not be relegated too long into this woman’s company. On the whole, court women bored her terribly. The poor creatures’ lives were so narrow, their view of the world so horribly constricted that Wynter could rarely find anything in common with them. She did not wish to spend her time here discussing frivolities while her menfolk pursued the hard realities of life.
‘Lady Mary,’ prompted the priest.
The lady sighed; her lips tightened. She opened eyes of the darkest brown and looked straight ahead, staring at the canvas wall as if gathering something within her. She turned to look at Alberon. There was such weariness in her young face, such stony, hopeless pride, that Wynter could not help but feel sorry for her. Then the lady heaved herself to her feet and Wynter realised with horror that she was pregnant. Under her full skirts it was difficult to tell just how far gone she was, but a goodly seven months by the looks of it. Wynter glanced back up into the lady’s face, unable to hide her shock, and the lady made brief, expressionless eye contact before looking back to Alberon.
‘Lady Mary,’ he said. ‘I would speak with you. To that end, I shall be happy to introduce the Protector Lady Wynter Moorehawke. She would be more than pleased to make your acquaintance, should you desire it.’
Wynter curtsied slightly. She watched the lady’s expression, waiting for the usual Midland distaste at her father’s unique title. But to her surprise, the lady’s face opened slightly, and she seemed to lose some of her reserve.
‘Protector Lady?’ she asked. Her musical accent gave the title a lovely poetry. ‘You are the great Lorcan Moorehawke’s daughter?’ Wynter nodded, pleased, and the lady smiled in welcome, clasping her hands at her breast in the formal gesture of delight.
Alberon formally introduced the Protector Lady Wynter Moorehawke to the Lady Mary Phillipe D’Arden, and Wynter crossed to take the chaperone’s proper place at the lady’s left hand.
‘Thank you, your Highness,’ said Mary, her gratitude genuine. ‘What a pleasure!’
Alberon regarded her with pursed lips. There was a laden silence where his reply should have been. Mary’s eyes flicked uncertainly to Razi, then back. She glanced at Oliver. Both men were watching her with unreadable expressions.
Her face closed over again.
From this side of the tent, Wynter saw her companions anew, and the change in perspective was a little shocking. Razi’s dark face was rough with stubble, his clothes dishevelled. His hair, unruly at the best of times, was an uncombed mess. Despite his courtly posture and his smooth manner, he looked unpredictable and wild. By his side, Alberon was hard-faced and speculative, his silence a deliberate act of hostility. Oliver stood at their backs, solid, deep-rooted and darkly ready. He gave the impression of a man waiting to strike.
All three were at least a head taller than the two women before them, all armed, all staring across the barely furnished tent from a position of absolute power. The priest, standing out of Wynter’s line of sight, was an unknown quantity. Wynter felt a strange and unexpected rush of protectiveness towards the woman by her side.
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