The Rebel Prince (15 page)

‘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

A
LBERON 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.

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.

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!’