BOOK I IN THE MOOREHAWKE TRILOGY 25 страница
Wynter crossed to Christopher’s side and took his hand. She leaned against him, looking down into camp.
‘This plan is madness,’ he said softly. ‘The King ain’t ever going to allow this all to just slip by. What king would? His heir threatening the throne, toppling his allies, restructuring his carefully established relationships? If Jonathon allows all that to go unpunished, he may as well just hand the boy his crown and have done with it.’ He shook his head grimly. ‘They ain’t going to succeed.’
Wynter glanced back at the brothers. They had taken one of Razi’s maps and were comparing it with Alberon’s, measuring the distances and frowning. ‘Razi is a remarkable diplomat,’ she whispered. ‘He simply has to persuade Jonathon to meet with Alberon and—’ ‘He won’t succeed!’ hissed Christopher, turning to her. She squeezed his hand and glared at him in warning to keep his voice down.
He turned his face to the insect-netting again, and they listened for some sign that the brothers had noticed. But the low conversation carried on behind them and, after a moment, Christopher tilted his head to her once more.
‘As soon as the King finds out that Razi lives, he’ll take up arms and he’ll kill the Prince, and that will be an end to it all. Razi will be forced to the throne, and we’ll be attending his funeral by Christmastide because there ain’t no way Jonathon’s beloved subjects will let his brown bastard live as heir.’
The cold possibility of this clenched itself around Wynter’s heart. Christopher held her eye for a moment before turning his face back to the camp. Behind them, there was the rustle of another map being unfolded. Alberon murmured something and Razi huffed in amusement. He made some dry remark and the two brothers chuckled.
Christopher’s hand tightened against Wynter’s and she drew his fist up to her heart. She stared blindly through the mist of the insect-netting as all the desperate possibilities of what might come to pass wormed their way through her mind.
At the beginning of all this, Alberon had no doubt believed that his father would back down. It must have seemed so unlikely that Jonathon would simply sweep his heir from him and begin afresh with Razi on the throne. Regardless of anything else, the consequences to the kingdom of such an act would have been apparent even then. By now, though, Alberon had to be aware of the hopelessness of his position. In his guilt over the Bloody Machines and his violent desire that they not continue in use, Jonathon had made the rift with his heir too public. He had taken things too far. Now, no matter what Razi did or said, how could the King ever permit Alberon return to the throne?
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Neither Razi nor Alberon were fools. Wynter knew that they both understood the unlikelihood of turning back this tide. Still, they seemed determined to forge ahead – Alberon in his steadfast belief that he could strengthen his father’s wonderful kingdom, Razi in the hope that he could reconcile all.
‘There is nothing else they can do,’ she whispered.
‘I know.’
‘This is their only chance.’
‘I know.’
‘I will not abandon Razi to do this alone, Chris.’
‘Oh God, lass! I know! Neither would I.’
She smiled. ‘I never suspected you would.’
Down in the camp, a muted trumpet called muster to dinner, and the two of them paused to listen to the distant clatter of men falling into line.
At the map-table, Alberon sighed. ‘I am clemmed,’ he said. ‘Will we tidy up in the hopes that someone may present us with a meal?’
Wynter listened, with her back turned, as the brothers folded maps and cleared away pens and folios. Christopher sighed and shook his head. He squeezed the bridge of his nose with his free hand, hopelessness and misery clear in every line of his face.
Wynter kissed his scarred fingers in sympathy. ‘Would you like to meet an old friend of mine?’ she whispered. At his surprised nod, she led him past the table to Alberon’s cot.
‘He’s asleep,’ she said, pulling back the insect-netting and sitting on the bed. ‘He’s not terribly well.’
Christopher hesitated at the sight of the cat. ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Uh . . .’ He glanced back at Alberon, then turned to face her and widened his eyes in secret warning. ‘I don’t tend to get on with cats,’ he said. ‘They tend to be . . . hmm . . . alarmed by me. Seeing as how your Southern cats are a touch more vocal than most, is it wise that I . . . ?’
He contorted his face in a ridiculous attempt at nonverbal communication, obviously concerned that Coriolanus might leap from his nest screeching ‘Wolf ’ at the top of his lungs.
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Wynter smiled. ‘Don’t worry, Christopher,’ she whispered. ‘Cori knows all there is to know about you. He will not be alarmed. Come here.’ She patted the cot and Christopher sat down. Without hesitation, he slipped his arms around her and put his chin on her shoulder, watching the sleeping cat. Wynter saw Alberon frown at this most uncourtly display of affection. She looked away from his disapproval and pulled Christopher’s arm a little tighter around her waist.
‘Poor wee thing,’ he murmured. ‘He’s naught but skin and bone.’
‘I should like to offer the Lady Mary my protection,’ said Razi suddenly, and they all turned to look at him in surprise.
‘Oh, Razi,’ said Wynter sadly. That was a hopelessly impossible kindness.
‘Don’t be a fool, brother,’ said Alberon, ‘she’s a Midlander.’ At Razi’s unreadable silence, Alberon sighed. ‘She is a devout Midland lady of court. She will no more accept your help than she would sail to the Moroccos and take up service in the harem of the Sultan.’
‘I intend merely to offer my protection, Albi. I expect nothing in return.’
‘I do not imply that you wish to make the poor thing your concubine,’ said Alberon with surprising gentleness. ‘I am simply pointing out the unlikelihood of her accepting even the most courtly of advances from a man of your colour, creed and . . . um . . . birth. That is all.’
‘She has nothing, Albi,’ said Wynter softly. ‘Her husband’s destruction has left her bereft of family and of fortune. She must be desperate for help.’
‘You would not think it to look at her,’ said Christopher, his voice warm in Wynter’s ear. ‘She’s a formidable little person.’
‘She has remarkable character,’ agreed Razi. ‘I should hate to think of her trekking home in that condition. And then, arriving to what?’
‘She would be returning home to nothing,’ observed Wynter. ‘Worse than nothing if the purge against her family still rolls on.’
‘And so I would like to offer her my protection, Albi. If you would only agree to shelter her here while I am away, I should—’
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‘I thought I had made myself clear on this,’ said Alberon sharply. ‘This is not the place for a woman in her state. You cannot simply offer her your protection, then hand her over into my care without a thought. Either she is your responsibility or she is not! Do not foist the consequences of your magnanimity onto me.’
‘I cannot take her with me over the mountains!’ exclaimed Razi. ‘Do not be ridiculous!’
‘Then why offer your protection at all! That’s nothing but words! If you’re—’
‘The Merron may protect her,’ suggested Wynter, ‘while they are here, at least.’
‘Oh, aye,’ murmured Christopher, reaching to stroke Coriolanus’s back. ‘There’s no way Úlfnaor would turn her aside, and should it come to it, Hally’s sat birth-vigil more times than we could count, I’d say. The lady would be safe in their keeping until the Lord Razi returns, and your soldiers needn’t fret over the possibility of having to help a baby come into the world. God knows, it ain’t what soldiers are useful for, is it?’
At the ensuing silence, Christopher and Wynter looked up. Razi and Alberon were regarding them with strangely startled expressions. Christopher faltered uncertainly. ‘Uh . . . that is, if the lady agrees, of course,’ he said. ‘It’s merely a suggestion.’
‘Of course she’ll agree,’ said Wynter. She leaned back, settling comfortably against Christopher’s chest, and smiled. ‘Don’t mind the brothers, love, they’re just surprised, that is all. The Kingssons are not used to seeing things so straightforwardly.’
Anthony announced himself at the door, and Alberon grinned in anticipation as the servant carried in a tray of dishes. ‘Food!’ cried the Prince. ‘Get off my bed, you two, and come sit for your meal.’
‘Anthony,’ murmured Razi as the little fellow set the table. ‘Would it be possible for me to wash first?’
Anthony nodded tightly. He was far more subdued than Wynter was used to, and she thought he seemed a little pale. She watched him from the corner of her eye as he placed the bowls on the folding table, but refrained from asking if he was all right.
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He set a basin and pitcher on Alberon’s bedside locker and Razi came across to wash his hands. Wynter smiled as Anthony sidled past, but he didn’t seem to notice her. Christopher, awaiting his turn at the washbasin, followed the little boy’s progress with a concerned frown.
‘Have we bread?’ asked Alberon, rubbing his hands and looking around hopefully. ‘No, we don’t. You’ve forgot the bread, mankin,’ he said. ‘Go get it.’
Anthony was in the process of hoisting a jug of water to the table. He poured an unsteady beakerful for Alberon, and Wynter realised that his little hands were trembling.
‘Anthony,’ repeated Alberon, already tucking into his porridge. ‘Didn’t you hear me? Run down to the supply tent and get some bread.’
At the words ‘supply tent’, Anthony made a desperate little noise and lost his grip on the pitcher. Razi watched in dismay as his dinner bowl overflowed with the water meant for his beaker. Wynter rose to her feet, her hands out to steady the jug, but Christopher was already there, and he lifted the pitcher from the child’s shaking hands. Anthony stepped back, his face crumbling, and his eyes filled with tears.
‘Hey, it’s all right, mouse,’ said Christopher, setting the pitcher down. ‘It’s naught but water.’ He stirred Razi’s bowl with his finger. ‘Look! You made soup. Razi loves soup, don’t you, my Lord?’
‘I generally prefer it with a spoon,’ muttered Razi darkly. Blushing, Christopher took his finger from the bowl. Razi looked to Anthony. ‘What the devil is the matter with you, child? Have you the palsy?’
Anthony took a big deep breath and straightened his narrow shoulders in an attempt to gain his equilibrium. Wynter felt sure he intended to speak, but his mouth just squirmed about instead and his tears overflowed down his cheeks to drip onto his apron.
‘Good Christ,’ protested Alberon, ‘all I wanted was some bread.’
‘I’m your servant!’ cried the child suddenly. ‘I’m yours!’ Everyone gaped at him, startled, and he flung his skinny little arm out, pointing insistently downhill and crying again. ‘I have nothing to do with Wolves, have I, Highness? They can’t make me do anything! Just because the soldiers won’t serve them! I’m just your servant, aren’t I! Aren’t I, Highness? I’m just yours!’
Christopher’s face went hard and cold, and he straightened slowly from where he had been crouched by the boy. Anthony wrung his apron between his fists and looked pleadingly up at him, mistaking his rage, perhaps, for disapproval.
‘But I don’t want to,’ he whispered.
‘You don’t have to,’ hissed Christopher. ‘You don’t have to do aught!’
‘Christopher,’ said Razi gently, ‘they only wanted him to serve their food. I’m sure that is all.’
‘But I don’t want to,’ whispered Anthony again. ‘Please. I’m your servant, Highness. I’m—’
‘Yes,’ said Alberon. ‘Yes, Anthony. Shush now. It is all right. I don’t need any bread, and you are my servant, no one else’s. So hush.’
Just then the strangest sound drifted up from camp – a low, keening moan.
Christopher’s eyes narrowed as he listened to it, his shoulders hunched. The first moan was joined by another and the two voices rose slightly, not quite becoming a howl before dying down. Immediately, the sound rose up again, three voices this time, like ghost-dogs mourning in their sleep.
‘Why are they doing that?’ whispered Anthony desperately, his eyes huge.
Razi met Christopher’s eye across the water-slopped table.
‘The slaves are dead,’ said Christopher. ‘The Wolves are lamenting their loss.’
‘I don’t want to be their Boy!’ cried Anthony. ‘That man said I must! But I don’t want to! He said I must, but—’
Wynter snagged his tunic, pulling him in. ‘Shush now,’ she said softly. ‘It’s nothing at all to do with you. The Prince is your master. That is an end to it.’
‘Will these deaths be a problem?’ snapped Alberon. ‘Will they seek revenge?’
Razi shook his head. ‘David has too much at stake to run amok over this,’ he said. ‘He feels secure in your protection and will not be foolish enough to jeopardise his future.’ His eyes flickered to Christopher’s livid face, then back to Alberon. ‘It is over,’ he said, picking nervously at his cuff. ‘I am certain of it.’
Christopher just stared at the terrified little boy and said nothing.
THE DEFIANT GESTURE
‘YOU VERY quiet,’ said Sólmundr, eyeing Christopher across the neck of his horse.
Christopher shrugged, tightened the girth on his saddle and snapped his stirrups into place.
‘You feel not good?’
‘I’m fine,’ he grunted, swinging into the saddle and pulling his horse around. ‘Stop acting the old biddy and saddle up.’
Sólmundr met Wynter’s eye. Christopher had been silent and prickly since the night before, and Sól, usually so easygoing, had nagged at the young man’s ill humour like an anxious hen. He was making Christopher worse.
The sooner Razi and I get them from camp the better, thought Wynter.
She tugged her saddlebags into place and glanced across to where Razi stood in conversation with Jared. The Lady Mary had refused Razi’s protection, as Alberon had known she would. To Wynter’s surprise, however, the priest had been remarkably open to the idea. Wynter was trying hard to be gracious about his intentions, but it was easy to suspect that this had less to do with Mary’s welfare, and more with the hassles of trailing a pregnant woman all the way home.
‘I shall speak with her again,’ said Jared. ‘Try and convince her of the sense of it.’
‘Please do,’ said Razi. ‘And do your best to convey my sincerity, won’t you? There will be nothing of the beggar’s taint involved. No unsavoury implications. The Lady D’Arden will have every dignity, and her child the best of care. You do believe me, Presbyter? You will press my case?’
Jared sighed and ran his hand across the gleaming whiteness of his scalp. ‘I’ll try,’ he said, ‘but it is vital I leave today. If I cannot convince her to stay, I must take her with me. There’s naught else for it.’ He tutted. ‘If only the Blessed Virgin had not made that damned journey on an ass, my Lady might feel less inclined to risk the same . . . oh, God forgive me for saying so!’ he said and blessed himself quickly, three times in a row. ‘She is an exasperating woman, though,’ he muttered. ‘I’m not so certain you’re wise in taking her on.’
Razi extended his hand. ‘Do your best,’ he said quietly.
Wynter paused in the act of tying her blanket roll, and stared as the priest gripped Razi’s dark hand and shook it. She did not know why, after all the things she had witnessed in the last few months, but this sight arrested her – a Midland priest shaking an Arab’s hand, their faces set in solemn accord.
The two men were caught in a slanting shaft of early light, and it rimmed them in gold, throwing their shadows long and misshapen against the sloping sides of the Merron quarters. As Jared released Razi’s hand and turned away, Hallvor emerged from the darkness of the tent behind them. She carried Sólmundr’s bright wool cloak in her arms, and as she slipped past Razi the sun glanced hotly from her bracelets and glowed in the fluid blackness of her hair before she crossed back into shadow.
It was a moment so vivid and so inexplicably sad that it stole Wynter’s breath.
Úlfnaor ducked from the other tent and waited while Razi watched the priest leave. Then the big Aoire smiled and bowed, offering his hand to Razi in farewell. The Merron gathered in a silent row behind them, their faces grave as the two men shook hands.
‘We shall see each other again,’ said Razi.
‘I want tell you thanks, Tabiyb, but there not ever to be enough words for it.’
Razi nodded silently and turned away, heading for his horse. Úlfnaor’s attention lifted to Sólmundr, who was just taking to his saddle. The Aoire met his friend’s eye and his face creased in wordless emotion. Sólmundr grimaced ruefully and shrugged. By his horse, Hallvor stood with his cloak in her hand, her dark eyes sad.
‘Sól, mo mhuirnín,’ she whispered, ‘tar ar ais gan mhoill.
’ Taking his cloak, Sólmundr leaned perilously low and pressed his forehead to hers, squeezing his eyes shut. ‘Slán, a stór,’ he whispered.
‘You to stay alive!’ shouted Wari suddenly, and Sól laughed, his forehead still pressed to Hallvor’s. He straightened and pulled his horse into line.
‘Don’t go hunting any Wolfs without me!’ he said. ‘It is for my son and I their heads are keeping.’
Úlfnaor and Wari nodded in dark understanding. Úlfnaor murmured a translation, and the other warriors grinned knowingly. Surtr made a cutting motion at his throat. Wynter frowned as she took to the saddle, glancing at Razi, who was pretending not to notice or understand. Christopher, hard-faced and silent, just waited expressionlessly to pull away.
‘Iseult?’ Wynter glanced down to find Hallvor smiling gravely up at her. ‘You take care of yourself, luichín, yes? You and your odd little tribe.’ Wynter nodded. ‘And do not forget.’ Hallvor tapped her temple, a wicked twinkle in her eye. ‘If Coinín ever gives you any trouble, hit him in the head, preferably with your boot.’
Wynter couldn’t quite bring herself to smile. ‘You will take care of the Lady Mary?’ she asked. ‘For as long as she remains in your care?’
Hallvor nodded. ‘I will protect her,’ she said. ‘I swear it.’
She squeezed Wynter’s hand, then stepped back as Razi clucked his mare past them, heading for the thoroughfare. Christopher pulled his horse into line behind him. He seemed lost in his own thoughts, and it was clear that he intended leaving without saying goodbye to his Merron friends.
‘Coinín,’ called Úlfnaor. The young man paused. ‘Fear óg thú, a Choinín. Tá neart ama agat.
’ Christopher nodded without looking back and went to kick on.
‘I will mind the little boy!’ called Úlfnaor. ‘You not needs to worry.’
Christopher reined his horse around, his eyes wide, and with a surge of painful understanding, Wynter realised that Úlfnaor had hit upon the source of his distress.
‘He’s so small,’ said Christopher urgently, ‘he ain’t got a chance against them.’
Úlfnaor shook his head. ‘They not get him.’
‘You need to watch them all the time, though. Watch Jean! Make him understand that if he does aught, we’ll remember it. Let them know that we are strong.’
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