The Rebel Prince

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.

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!’

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.

‘Your Highness?’ ventured Mary. ‘You wish something from me?’

Alberon jerked his chin at the folding chair. ‘Sit,’ he ordered.

Mary’s hands tightened briefly into a sudden, anxious knot. Then she seemed to force herself to relax, and, smiling, she curtsied in gracious welcome.

‘Your Highness,’ she said. ‘How happy I am to receive you to my quarters. Please, allow me to make you comfortable.’

She swept her hand to the rope-cot, as if offering a golden couch strewn with velvet cushions. For a moment, this struck Wynter as a rather pathetic, peculiarly female thing to do, but then she saw the discomfort in the men’s faces and she was filled with admiration. In the face of such courtly hospitality, how could any gentleman behave other than civilly?

Mary stood waiting, her arm out, her face politely expectant. It was a horribly shaky, desperately fragile form of self-defence, but Wynter thought it gave the Lady Mary a strange type of power, an undeniable dignity and an air of unbreakable self-worth.

Alberon fumed, his jaw working.

Oliver shifted his eyes to the wall.

Razi blinked. Then, to Wynter’s great pride, he pushed his sword back on his hip and bowed. ‘You are kind, Lady Mary,’ he said, ‘and we are most obliged. Will you not also take a seat?’

Mary nodded graciously and settled herself into her little chair. Razi lowered himself onto the low bed with as much dignity as he could muster. It took him a moment to arrange his long legs, but he managed to do so in the end, without looking too much an awkward fool. He gazed blandly at his brother. Alberon glared, his lips tight.

‘Protector Lady Wynter,’ murmured Mary, leaning back and looking up. Wynter, seeing her face properly for the first time, realised that she could hardly be more than nineteen or twenty. She bent to listen. ‘Would you like to sit, dear?’ asked Mary. ‘I am afraid there are no more seats, but we can pull Jared’s pallet from the corner there and you could use it as a cushion.’

‘No thank you, Lady Mary. I am perfectly happy to stand.’

‘You are certain? I am sure Jared would not mind.’

Wynter could only assume that Jared was the silently lurking priest. Smiling, she shook her head and straightened once more. She found herself standing almost to attention, her hand resting casually on her sword. Quite apart from the fact that she had no desire to sit on Jared’s possibly infested bedding, she felt the overwhelming urge to stand protectively at this woman’s back and stare down the very men she had come in with. Alberon looked from her to Razi as if they had both quite spectacularly lost their minds.

‘Won’t you sit down, your Highness?’ said Razi, patting the cot.

‘You must be the Royal Prince Alberon’s brother?’ asked Mary, leaning forward and touching Razi lightly on his dirty sleeve. ‘I should not like to be forward, but I would be so pleased to make your acquaintance. Should we ever be introduced.’

Wynter smiled. One would think oneself at a reception! ‘Should we ever be introduced’, indeed. She glanced to Alberon’s still glowering face and leaned to murmur into Mary’s ear: ‘I have the honour of being a member of the Lord Razi’s circle,’ she said. ‘As you and I are now acquainted, Lady Mary, I doubt anyone could take offence should I provide an introduction.’

Mary smiled up at her, no trace of irony in her expression at all. ‘I should like that very much, Protector Lady. If you think you could arrange it.’

‘My Lord Razi,’ said Wynter formally, ‘would you allow me the pleasure of introducing the Lady Mary Phillipe D’Arden? She would be more than pleased to make your acquaintance, should you desire it.’

The Lord Razi did not attempt to rise from his awkward seat, but he managed to contrive a little bow nonetheless. The Lady Mary dipped her head and Wynter introduced her formally. Razi shook Mary’s hand. Her cuff was terribly frayed, Razi’s stained with soot.

‘Pleased,’ he murmured.

‘I shall take it from your presence here, my Lord, that my dear Isaac found you at last?’

Razi’s big hand tightened in shock, and Mary’s face showed momentary pain and fear before freezing into a strained calm. ‘Your dear . . . ?’ said Razi.

Mary remained motionless, her eyelids fluttering, convinced, perhaps, that Razi was purposely inflicting pain, and unwilling to plead with him to stop.

‘Razi,’ murmured Wynter.

‘Your dear Isaac,’ said Alberon, drawing the lady’s eyes, ‘betrayed my trust in him and, instead of opening dialogue with my father as I ordered, abused his access to court in an attempt to assassinate my brother.’

Mary, still leaning forward, her arm stretched awkwardly between herself and Razi, shook her head mutely. Wynter said Razi’s name again, and he realised that he was crushing Mary’s hand. He released her and she withdrew with careful composure, discreetly opening and closing her fingers. He reached as if to check her hand, and she drew back.

‘Isaac would never do that,’ she whispered. ‘Never.’

‘Your Highness’s brother is mistaken,’ said the priest, his deep rumble surprising them all.

‘Mistaken?’ said Alberon, his tone dangerously low. ‘Mis—’ He strode abruptly around the cot and pushed Razi’s head aside, jerking his shirt down from his right shoulder. Razi yelled in protest, and the Lady Mary gasped at the ugly, knotted scar that marred his brown flesh.

‘Good God,’ cried Razi, shrugging his brother off and yanking his shirt back into place. ‘Albi!’

Alberon ignored him, all his attention on the priest. ‘Isaac threw a knife across a crowded room,’ he snarled. ‘He threw a knife.’

The words ‘threw a knife’ seemed to have some resonance for these people, and the priest deflated. He exchanged a stricken look with the lady. ‘Oh, Isaac,’ he said.

‘Do not feign shock,’ said Alberon. ‘Nor you!’ he snapped at Mary. ‘Courtly and all as he might have been, Isaac was no politician. He was just a damned soldier, and hopelessly infatuated with you, Lady! Do not sit there with your doe’s eyes and tell me you had no idea of his plan to kill my brother!’

Mary shook her head, her bruised fingers held to her breast, her eyes glittering with tears. Wynter stood very still, her posture and expression an unconscious mirror of Oliver, who was standing by the door with his hand on his sword, his face carefully neutral. She glanced sidelong at the priest. Like the Lady Mary, he seemed genuinely thrown.

‘Isaac . . .’ ventured the priest. ‘Isaac was very devout.’

Whatever he meant by this was lost on Wynter, but Mary closed her eyes in dismay. ‘Oh, Jared,’ she said, ‘no.’

‘You imply, perhaps, that he could not bear the thought of a Musulman on the throne? Is that your thought, Presbyter?’

The priest gazed at Alberon mutely. His eyes flickered to Razi.

‘Would you perhaps have encouraged these opinions?’ hissed Alberon.

The priest’s eyes widened and he stayed silent. Wynter wondered what it was that Alberon expected to hear from this man. A confession? In the priest’s position, Wynter would have had her tongue drawn rather than implicate herself. On the other hand, did Alberon really think it likely that a Midland priest and a devout Midland soldier would be open to the idea of a Musulman heir to the Southland throne? Did he really think it likely that they would have been anything but appalled at the thought? For the priest to deny such feelings would be patently ridiculous.

She stared at the priest’s terrified face and wondered just how much or how little he had had to do with Isaac’s fervent beliefs. She wondered if he would have been willing to compound them, had he known what a terrible death the poor man would face because of it.

‘We did not discuss the Lord Razi,’ whispered the priest at last. ‘It never seemed likely that he would be put in your place. It was so far from possible that your father would have been so—’ The priest cut himself short, but everyone knew what he meant to say. Stupid. It was so far from possible that Jonathon would have been so stupid. Alberon looked the man up and down, and Wynter could see it in his face: like her, Alberon was considering the possibility that Isaac had acted alone, on the spur of the moment, as a violent reaction to Razi’s sudden and unexpected accession to heir.

Razi’s deep voice drew her attention. He was staring at Mary. ‘His Royal Highness told me that Isaac was your squire, Lady Mary.’ His eyes flitted to Mary’s swollen belly. ‘I had not understood . . .’ he said softly.

The lady placed her hands on her stomach, as if to hide it, and drew herself up straighter in her chair. Wynter blushed for her. It must be terrible to have a man see one in that state. The poor woman should have been safely in her confinement by now – happily sequestered from sight, surrounded by her ladies and female relatives, knitting and sewing and preparing in joy for the arrival of her child – not stuck in this Godforsaken backwoods, surrounded by rough men, with not even a beaker of fresh tea to give her comfort.

‘This is my late husband’s child, my Lord,’ she said. ‘Please do not stoop to sully my friendship with Isaac. I could not bear it.’ Her voice was cold, but it trembled, and it was obvious that she was nearing the end of her self-control.

‘I am so sorry,’ said Razi. He leaned forward and squeezed her hand in sympathy. It had the effect of undoing the poor woman’s restraint somewhat, and her eyes overflowed. She shook her head, extricated her hand from Razi’s grip and pressed her fingers to her face until she got herself under control.

‘He was simply my friend,’ she said. ‘He was my friend.’

Razi glanced at the priest. ‘Presbyter, would you like to fetch the lady some tea? Or something to eat?’

The priest stared at him for a moment. He looked at Alberon, then Oliver, then his eyes went to the door. The sun had risen fully, and within the angular shade of the awning, the soldiers’ shadows loomed tall. The priest shook his head, and Wynter felt a small spark of admiration for him. He would not leave his Lady alone under these circumstances.

‘Oliver?’ said Razi. ‘Please arrange something for the lady.’

Oliver remained unmoving, waiting for Alberon to give his orders. Razi sighed, and looked to Alberon. The Prince returned his look with a disapproving shake of his head and crossed to take a seat on the cot instead.

Razi gaped at him. ‘Albi!’ he cried.

‘I shall ask Freeman Garron if he would be so kind,’ murmured Wynter, heading for the door before the brothers could descend into a repeat of their recent irritation.

Soldiers glanced at her when she came to the door, then looked away.

She gestured Christopher to her and he came, Boro trailing in his wake. ‘Freeman,’ she said quietly, ‘the Lady Mary . . .’ She paused in embarrassment, then leaned to whisper in Christopher’s ear, her cheeks burning even as she said the words: ‘The lady is quite heavy with child, Christopher, and though commendably restrained, I suspect suffering a good deal of mental distress. I wonder . . . do you suppose Hallvor might have something suitably soothing for her to drink? And perhaps something more substantial to eat than seems to be available to the camp?’

Christopher, his face close to her own, nodded. Their cheeks brushed for a moment as he pulled away. ‘I’ll see what I can do, Protector Lady,’ he murmured, bowing.

She watched him leave, glanced again at the soldiers, and ducked back into the tent.

The priest was speaking rapidly to Razi. ‘I am sorry for what Isaac did to you, my Lord. I can understand the light that it must throw me into, but I can assure you, I have come here in all sincerity to finish my Lord D’Arden’s work. I would do nothing to jeopardise it. Certainly, had I an inkling of how Isaac would act, I would have done my utmost to dissuade him. I hope . . .’ He looked anxiously at Alberon. ‘I can only pray that this has not put an end to our negotiations?’

Alberon regarded him coolly.

‘There . . . so many people are depending on . . . Phillipe himself gave his life for . . .’ The priest stuttered to a hopeless silence. ‘You have reason to think me guilty?’ he cried suddenly. ‘Isaac said something that would lead you to believe it? It is lies!’ He jarred to a halt again, frantic.

Innocent panic born of fear, mused Wynter, or wretched guilt? She looked to Razi. He, too, was assessing the priest, his eyes narrowed. Under their combined scrutiny, the man looked as if he was about to cry with fear.

Finally, Razi shook his head. ‘Isaac said nothing of you, priest. Only that Alberon was in negotiation with the Midlanders over the Bloody Machines.’ He paused, then pointedly switched his focus to Oliver. ‘Isaac did say that you had arranged his access to the palace, Sir Knight.’

Oliver’s face flared red and his spine stiffened. His eyes stayed firmly locked on the blank canvas of the far wall.

‘Which you had done, of course,’ said Alberon. ‘On my orders.’

Oliver’s eyes flickered to Razi.

‘Mind you,’ said Alberon, ‘none of my orders involved killing my brother.’

Wynter’s stomach went cold at that, and she looked at Oliver anew. Both Alberon and Razi sat motionlessly regarding him, their faces blandly inquiring.

Oliver remained still and silent, his eyes front.

‘Do you recall a man named Jusef Marcos, Sir Knight?’ Razi’s soft question elicited a stiff nod from Oliver. ‘He told me that the Prince sent him some orders. I suspect those orders came from you. Do you recall them?’

Oliver said nothing, just gazed straight ahead, his face immobile.

‘Do you recall what orders you sent to Jusef Marcos, Sir Knight?’ At Oliver’s continued silence, Razi sighed. ‘Oliver,’ he said tiredly, ‘did you tell Jusef Marcos to kill the pretender to the throne?’

At last, Oliver looked at Razi. His mouth drew down. He nodded. Wynter gasped in shock, but Alberon and Razi’s expressions did not change. Instead they remained seated side-by-side on the low cot, their elbows on their knees, their very different faces intent.

In stark contrast to their strange composure, it was all Wynter could do not to rip her knife from her scabbard and fling it at Oliver’s face. ‘You goddamned traitor,’ she cried.

‘How could I not?’ he said sadly. ‘The King would never leave himself without an heir. With my Lord Razi dead, Jon would have had no choice but to allow his Royal Highness to come home. With Razi dead, there can be no mortuus.’

‘And the attack on Simon’s men?’ asked Razi, his quiet voice hard, his jaw tight. ‘His murder, and that of my good friend Shuqayr ibn-Jahm? Was that also your plan, dear Uncle? Did you also order that? That I should be bound behind my horse? That I should be dragged until dead? That my head should be removed and kicked about and finally sent home to my father in a hessian sack? These too were your orders?’

Oliver shook his head. ‘Oh no, Razi,’ he whispered. ‘God, no. Not that.’

Alberon was on his feet before anyone could register it. Moving with deadly silence, he strode to Oliver and punched him hard in the temple, felling him as sure as if he’d stabbed him in the head. Oliver dropped to his knees, his face creased in agony and despair.

The Lady Mary jumped in shock, but to her credit, she did not cry out.

Alberon stood over Oliver, who knelt, dazed, at his feet. ‘Did I order it?’ he hissed. Oliver blinked rapidly, his hands hovering as if he had started to shield his head but forgotten to finish the action. ‘Did I order it?’ repeated Alberon quietly, and he punched again, sending Oliver to the ground.

Wynter bit back a protest. Despite her rage, it was shocking to witness Alberon’s violence, and frightening to see Oliver’s silent lack of resistance to the younger man’s attack.

Alberon leaned down to snarl quietly into the knight’s ear. ‘Answer me, you cur! Did I order my brother’s death?’

‘No, your Highness,’ whispered Oliver, his eyes averted. ‘No.’ He kept his hands up, anticipating another blow.

Alberon slapped his face. ‘You seditious mongrel,’ he said. ‘You faithless goddamned renegade. How dare you?’

‘Alberon,’ murmured Razi, ‘leave him.’ Alberon did not respond. ‘Your Highness,’ said Razi, ‘please, I beg you, leave him.’

Alberon straightened, his fists clenched, and Oliver pushed himself slowly to his knees. He looked up at Razi, his face a picture of sad regret. ‘My Lord,’ he whispered. ‘What else could I have done?’

‘Waited for your damned orders!’ hissed Alberon.

His words registered on Wynter, and she realised with a sudden chill that it was Oliver’s insubordination that had most angered the Prince. Shocked, she stared at Alberon’s scarlet face. It was suddenly very clear to her that if Oliver paid the ultimate price for his actions, it would be due more to his disloyalty to Alberon than his attempts to end Razi’s life.

Alberon continued to glower in silent rage, and it struck Wynter that, for all his usual bellowing and his obviously genuine anger, both he and Razi were going about this in a very quiet manner. She glanced to the shadows of the soldiers guarding the door. There had been no reaction from them. They seemed to have no idea what was happening within the canvas walls of the tent. Wynter straightened slowly, her heart tightening in understanding.

They mean to let him go, she thought. Good Christ, after what he has done, they will let Oliver go!

She looked to Razi in disbelief. He was watching Oliver.

‘You should have trusted me,’ he said sadly. ‘You should have known I would never . . .’ His voice trailed to nothing, and the two men gazed at each other in silence, both knowing that Razi had had very little say in his accession.

Oliver shook his head in genuine regret. ‘I am sorry,’ he whispered.

‘Do you not understand,’ asked Razi, ‘that I have no desire to usurp my brother? Do you not trust me to act with only his interests in mind? You do not have to protect him from me, Oliver.’

Oliver regarded Razi with glittering eyes, and Wynter knew what he was thinking. All Razi’s good intentions were as naught should the King remain set to put him on the throne. From any angle, Alberon’s position would be greatly strengthened by his brother’s death, and Oliver could not in all conscience kneel at Razi’s feet and offer his fealty if it meant Alberon’s disinheritance.

‘Sir Oliver,’ said Wynter. The man turned to her. ‘However it may seem, I assure you that the Lord Razi is his Royal Highness’s only hope of returning to the throne. The lord has risked everything in coming here, just as you have risked everything in support of your Prince. I beg you understand this, Sir Knight: without the Lord Razi you are doomed; his Royal Highness is doomed. In fact, I sincerely believe that this kingdom is doomed, sir, unless the Lord Razi lives to complete his mission in reconciling the King and his heir.’

The man she had known as Uncle looked up at her from where his beloved nephew had knocked him to the ground – this same man who had jogged around the parapets with Razi on his back, neighing like a horse and pretending to jump hurdles; who had cried as he carried Wynter back to the palace the day she’d fallen from that damned tree and broken her arm; who had swung Albi onto the back of his first horse and told him, ‘Ride boy! Don’t be afraid! Just ride!’ The very same man who had been her father’s great friend, who was the King’s cherished cousin, now spread his hands in apology for having ordered the death of her beloved Razi and shook his head.

‘Protector Lady,’ he said, ‘I did what I had to do.’

A shadow moved across the canvas and Alberon’s lieutenant made a perfunctory noise before pulling back the door-flap. His face froze at the sight of Oliver crouched by Alberon’s feet, his face blotched and swelling from the Prince’s blows, and he came to a terrified halt, not certain what to do. His eyes slid to the far wall, pretending not to see, and Oliver looked miserably across his shoulder at him.

‘What is it?’ growled Alberon.

The lieutenant, still frozen in place, his eyes focused on absolutely nothing, said, ‘R-reporting as ordered, sir . . . uh . . . your Highness. The changing of the pickets has come and gone, and still no supplies, sir . . . Highness . . . sir.’

‘Sir Oliver will be with you in a moment. Go and await him outside.’

The lieutenant dropped the door with unseemly haste, and Oliver gaped at Alberon, obviously hardly daring to believe his ears.

‘I should have you whipped to death, Oliver.’

Oliver nodded, his eyes wide.

‘I should hand you to my brother and allow him exact his vengeance upon you. Allow him drag you to your death, perhaps . . . play a little football with your head.’

Oliver shook his head. ‘That was not me,’ he whispered. ‘I would never . . .’

‘Get up,’ said Alberon. ‘Go tend to our men.’

Oliver got stiffly to his feet. He turned to leave.

‘Oliver,’ said Razi softly. The knight froze, his hand on the door. He looked reluctantly back.

‘I understand you had no choice,’ said Razi. ‘It is simply the world we live in.’

Oliver could not contain himself at that and he sobbed, his eyes overflowing. He shook his head. ‘I am so sorry,’ he whispered. ‘I’m so sorry.’

‘It is over,’ said Razi. ‘I have forgotten it. Go do your work.’ And he allowed Oliver to duck from the tent and walk away.