The Rebel Prince

A WOMAN'S PLACE



THERE WAS an uncertain silence after Oliver’s departure.

The Lady Mary and the priest remained very still, as if frightened to draw attention to themselves. Mary sat erect, her hands knotted in her lap, her eyes on Razi.

Wynter stared at Alberon. ‘You cannot mean to trust him?’ she said.

Alberon tutted, and Razi sighed and rubbed his forehead with his hand. Wynter looked from one to the other in disbelief.

‘He has proved himself disloyal!’ she cried. ‘He has betrayed the King, he has acted behind your back and he has tried to kill Razi!’

Alberon snapped his attention to her. ‘In what way has he betrayed the King?’ he said. Wynter dropped her outstretched hand. Alberon glared at her. ‘In what way has Sir Oliver betrayed the King, Protector Lady?’

‘Albi,’ said Razi softly. ‘She did not—’ ‘No one in this camp has betrayed the King. I would charge you remember that! Bad enough these men have had to risk all to support me, without my very allies sullying their names!’

‘Your Highness,’ said Razi again, ‘please. She did not mean it.’

‘He ordered you dead!’ cried Wynter, unable to contain herself. ‘Are you insane?’ She turned to Alberon. ‘He ordered Razi dead! Tell me that means something to you!’

‘Wynter!’ Razi’s voice was sharp now and he slapped his hand on the cot. ‘That is enough!’

She clenched her hands, enraged beyond words, and Razi’s face softened. ‘Keep your voice down,’ he said gently. She shook her head at him. They could not possibly plan to ignore this? It was not possible that they would.

‘Oliver did what he felt he must to protect the Prince’s position as heir,’ said Razi. ‘He felt he had no choice . . . I shall not condemn him for it.’ His eyes flickered to the Lady Mary, and he looked suddenly drained and lost. ‘We’ve all done terrible things in our time.’ He heaved himself to his feet. ‘What now, your Highness?’

Alberon gestured grimly to the priest. ‘I must discuss details with Jared, here.’ He looked his brother up and down. ‘Go shave your face and comb your hair, Razi; you look like hell. Wynter, you will tend the Lady Mary. I shall send breakfast.’ He was already ducking out the door as he spoke, his voice drifting off. Jared followed him.

Razi remained standing for a moment, his face blank with exhaustion. Then he shook himself. ‘Stay here, darling,’ he said. He smiled. ‘We’ll be going home soon . . . Lady Mary? Is there anything I can do for you? Any comforts you might need?’

Mary just stared at him, her hands clasped at her stomach. Razi nodded, bowed and headed tiredly for the door. He was about to duck outside when Mary spoke.

‘What did you do to him?’ she asked. Razi came to a halt, his hand tightening against the canvas wall of the tent. ‘Isaac,’ clarified the lady. ‘What did you do to him?’

Oh, no, thought Wynter. Don’t. Don’t tell her.

Razi turned his head only a little. She saw him hesitate. Then he turned to face the lady and looked her in the eye. Wynter felt Mary stiffen by her side, her small hands clenched.

‘I had him tortured,’ said Razi.

Mary shook her head in horror.

‘I had him tortured,’ said Razi again, his voice too loud. ‘It was vile.’ He held Mary’s appalled eyes, as if to punish himself with the look in them. ‘He died,’ he said. Then he ducked outside and the tent-flap fell into place.

Wynter stood behind the lady’s chair, waiting for tears and searching her mind for suitable platitudes, but when Mary spoke, her voice was curiously steady and distant.

‘Poor Isaac; I always suspected that he had feelings for me.’

He called you ‘darling’, thought Wynter. He said to tell you that he had stayed true. I do not think I shall ever tell you that. I think it might break your heart if you knew it.

‘It was not for revenge that he was tortured, Lady. You understand that? To have done that to another person . . . it is so far from what Razi is. I wish I could make you understand how far.’

Mary remained silent. Wynter stared down at the lace cap settled neatly on her glossy black hair, overwhelmed with sympathy for her. ‘Lady?’ she asked gently. ‘Do you think it likely that Isaac acted alone?’

Mary nodded. ‘I suspect so. Poor Isaac was unbendingly loyal to my husband, but he was no reformer. I’m afraid that your Lord Razi’s dark skin would have been enough to appal the poor fellow . . . and the thought of a non-Christian on the throne!’ The lady shook her head. ‘I can just imagine his outrage.’ She looked beseechingly at Wynter. ‘It is true that Isaac was no humanist, Protector Lady, but I hope that you can believe me when I tell you he was a good man.’

Wynter nodded. ‘I understand,’ she said.

‘The inquisition took Phillipe the very week that he had planned to journey here. Jared knew I would not be safe, and so he came for me and took me with him. Phillipe’s fellows were meant to meet us on the trail. They never appeared, but Jared knows they are still active. They await news of this negotiation – so eager for change.’

Mary paused, her thoughts running away with her.

‘Do you think they will effect that change, Lady?’

‘Oh yes,’ breathed Mary. ‘Oh yes. With your Prince’s machines they can do it. I have no doubt.’

The Prince’s machines.

‘Lady?’ asked Wynter, her mouth dry. ‘Will it be a change worth effecting?’

Mary looked up at her. ‘Protector Lady, anything would be better than the current situation. My husband’s plans have robbed him of his life, and they have left me with nothing. I doubt that even one member of my family remains alive. But I still believe in the reform, Protector Lady. I must. For if you could only know what it is like there . . .’ She shook her head. ‘A change must come,’ she whispered.

Wynter looked from the lady’s dark, earnest eyes to the swell of her pregnancy, appalled at how little the poor woman had left. What on earth would become of her, now that Tamarand’s purge had robbed her of all she was?

Mary ran her hand across her belly. ‘This only became apparent on the trail,’ she said softly, ‘silly child.’ She tapped the fullness beneath her skirts. ‘What a time to come into this world.’

At last, Mary’s voice cracked, and Wynter came from behind her chair to sit on the cot, looking into her face. She took Mary’s hand. The satin of the lady’s gloves was soft, the grimy lace at her fingertips very fine.

‘Isaac stayed behind, while Jared and I fled, and when poor Phillipe was finally released from the inquisitors and set to burning in the executions square, Isaac threw a knife across the crowd and risked his own life to end Phillipe’s pain. It was only then that he joined us. Brave Isaac. He made the endless journey here so much easier to bear,’ she whispered. ‘He had a way of lightening any situation.’ Finally the tears came, slow and soundless, rolling unheeded down Mary’s pretty face. She glanced at Wynter. ‘My husband was very much older than me, Protector Lady. Isaac was . . . he was a very dear friend.’

‘I am so sorry,’ whispered Wynter. She went to speak again, then hesitated. She wanted to justify Razi’s actions somehow, wanted to reveal his true nature to this seemingly gentle person, but she did not know how.

‘It is a burden to him,’ said Mary suddenly. Wynter frowned, not understanding. Mary wiped her face with her gloved hand. ‘Your friend, the Lord Razi, he carries his deeds as a terrible burden.’

She said it in sympathy, not judgement, and Wynter felt her face crease up, tears threatening. She nodded.

‘Poor man,’ said Mary. ‘I suspect it sears him.’

Their attention was drawn by the calling of men outside the tent, and they looked over to see the soldiers moving away, no longer needed now that the Midlanders had been proved loyal.

‘And so we are left,’ sighed Mary, ‘while men shape the world.’

Wynter frowned, anxious to be out there. Her hands opened and closed in frustration. Mary eyed the sword at her hip and her dusty men’s clothing. ‘You are not a person used to this woman’s waiting, Protector Lady. This isolation will madden you.’

‘It does not madden you, Lady Mary?’

Mary smiled. ‘What difference would it make if it did?’ she said dryly.

A shadow crossed the tent and Wynter rose to her feet at the distinctive shape of Christopher and Boro coming to the door. ‘My friend is here,’ she said. ‘I suspect that he has brought food and some tea for you, if you should like?’

The lady brightened and Wynter hesitated. ‘He is Merron, Lady.’

Mary’s expression fell and she seemed to shrink a little. She glanced to Christopher’s shadow, obviously frightened.

‘He is a good man, Lady. He will not harm you.’

Christopher’s shadow came to a halt by the door. He cleared his throat and called softly through the canvas: ‘Lass?’

Wynter rolled her eyes. Just because the soldiers were gone did not mean he could be so lax, goddamn it.

Mary eyed Christopher’s slim shadow, Boro’s giant shape hulking threateningly by his side. The dog’s breathing was disconcertingly loud as he snuffled along the door.

‘One . . . one hears stories,’ said Mary faintly, ‘of Merron and what they do.’

‘Do not worry,’ said Wynter, opening the flap and letting Christopher in. Thankfully, Boro contented himself with peering in at the door and did not try to invade the lady’s domain.

Hallvor stood a little distance away, clasping her elbows, her grave face watchful. Wynter lifted her chin in greeting, then ducked back inside, dropping the door in Boro’s curious face. The big dog whined in aggravation and his huge shape plopped to the ground, a long, panting shadow barring the threshold.

‘What’s prickled our lad?’ asked Christopher, nodding a perfunctory greeting at the Lady Mary. ‘He looks like a mule kicked him.’

‘Where is he?’

‘He tried to wander off towards the river, but the Merron ain’t having none of it. Sól has grabbed him and sat him by the fire. He’s planning on getting some tea and porridge in him. Razi ain’t got a hope of declining.’

He waited for an explanation, but Wynter just nodded, avoiding his eyes.

‘Alberon’s big manly knight was sobbing his heart out behind the tents,’ he continued. ‘The soldiers near turned themselves inside out pretending not to notice.’

‘The Lord Razi and Sir Oliver had a misunderstanding,’ mumbled Wynter.

‘Iseult!’ he cried, almost spilling the tea with frustration. ‘Don’t do that to me!’

Wynter glanced into his anxious face. Christopher’s eyes were huge with desperate inquiry, but she could remember his rage the day they had found out about Shuqayr. She remembered the hard brightness in his eyes when he had said, If it turns out that Alberon ordered his brother dragged to his death, and had a football made of his head, I will kill him. Whether Razi wants me to or not. Wynter was certain that he would feel the same about Oliver. Christopher would go for the man, and, Razi or not, that would get him killed.

She took the steaming beakers from his hands. ‘They had a misunderstanding, Christopher. In the heat of the moment, Oliver said some horrible things. He instantly regretted it, but it hurt both of them. It is over now. They are reconciled, and it would do no good to rehash what was an unfortunately low exchange.’

She felt Mary’s eyes hop from one to the other of them, but she trusted that the woman was wise enough to hold her tongue. Christopher continued to scan her face.

‘Let me introduce you to the Lady Mary,’ she said gently, and Christopher relented with a sigh.

Mary was regarding him with a nervous type of curiosity and surprise. Wynter was familiar with the Midland idea of what a Merron would be. No doubt Mary had been expecting some looming great hulk of a creature, more hair than man, leering and making crude suggestions, battering people over the head left, right and centre. Christopher must have been quite a surprise: slim-built, small in stature and clean-shaven, he hardly conformed to the fables. Still, he lived up to the Merron reputation of being uncouth when he crossed without invitation and crouched at Mary’s feet, openly eyeing her pregnant belly.

‘How far gone are you?’ he asked.

Mary’s eyes widened in shock and she flung a panicked look at Wynter. Wynter sighed in exasperation. She’s not a God-cursed brood mare, you fool.

‘Lady Mary Phillipe D’Arden,’ she said. ‘Please allow me to introduce, insofar as he will permit the nicety, my very good friend Freeman Christopher Garron. Forgive his manners, he’s incorrigibly dubious.’

Christopher grinned wryly, tickled at Wynter’s use of their old private joke. He extended his hand. The Lady Mary automatically went to take it, then faltered at the sight of it. Christopher waited, and after a moment Mary tentatively closed her own small hand around his horribly mutilated fingers.

‘It’s all right,’ he said softly. ‘You ain’t about to hurt me.’

The lady looked into his face, searching; then she tightened her grip and firmly shook his hand.

Christopher glanced around the tent, wrinkling his nose at the musty smell. ‘How long has it been since you were out and about?’ he asked. At Mary’s blushing silence, he sighed. ‘This ain’t exactly a cosy harem, is it, Lady? Come on!’ He leapt to his feet and extended his hand to help the lady up. ‘T’aint good to sit about with a baby in your belly . . . all the waters head for the feet and you end up looking like an African Oliphant.’

‘Christopher!’ moaned Wynter.

He ignored her. ‘Come on, Lady,’ he said encouragingly. ‘There’s women in the Merron group. Their healer is a woman. They’ll be your entourage if you decide that you fancy a stroll.’

Mary gazed up at him, uncertain, her hand hovering as if trying to make up her mind.

‘They are admirable women,’ said Wynter, surprising herself with the depth of sincerity behind her words.

‘Though incorrigibly dubious,’ confided Christopher solemnly.



Once free from the shadow of the awning, the lady closed her eyes, lifted her face to the sun and inhaled deeply. ‘Oh, my,’ she said, a look of almost painful pleasure on her face. ‘Oh, my goodness. Oh, how lovely.’ In the broad light, Wynter was shocked at how unhealthily pale she was; how dark the patches beneath her eyes.

Mary put her hands to her cheeks as if doubting the fresh air upon them. ‘Oh, my,’ she said again. Wynter’s heart twisted for her. The poor woman must have been cooped up for an intolerable length of time.

Razi was sitting by the Merron fire, a beaker of tea languishing in his hands, his thoughts miles away. Sólmundr glanced up as they led Mary from her tent. He grinned approvingly at Christopher, who was carrying the lady’s little folding chair. ‘It nice day for to eat outside,’ he rasped, and went back to turning sorrel-cakes against the hot stones of the fire.

Soma and Frangok were making their way back from the river, dripping waterskins hanging ponderously from their shoulders. The soldiers of the camp were leering and whistling. The women ignored them, but Wynter took cold note. She would have a word with Alberon as soon as she could, and the same men would be dipping their heads and saying ‘ma’am’ to the warriors before the day was out. Hallvor eyed Mary as she approached, her lips pursed in professional concern.

‘Lady Mary,’ said Christopher, ‘this is the Merron healer. Her name is Hallvor an Fada, Iníon Ingrid an Fada, Cneasaí.’

Christopher grinned at Mary’s strained look. ‘You can just call her Hallvor,’ he said. ‘But I’m afraid that she ain’t got any language but Merron and Garmain.’

‘Freeman Garron would be happy to translate for you,’ suggested Wynter. ‘But as luck has it, I speak tolerable Garmain. I can just as easily translate if you . . .’

‘Thank you kindly, Protector Lady, but I can speak Garmain very well. I shall be glad to effect my own communications.’ Mary curtsied to Hallvor. The healer nodded gravely, and they shook hands. The lady introduced herself in Garmain.

‘It is my pleasure to meet you,’ replied Hallvor. ‘I am certain that your people have provided you with excellent shelter and care, but the Lady Iseult seems to think you might appreciate my aid, and so without meaning any insult to your protectors, I place my skills at your service.’

Hallvor’s flawless Garmain astounded Wynter. Until now, she had never understood a word the healer had spoken. She was ashamed to admit it, but hearing Hallvor’s familiar, smoke-husky voice communicating with such grace and skill elevated the healer in her eyes. It felt as though Wynter was seeing Hallvor properly for the very first time. She listened in wide-eyed silence as the healer introduced Mary to the other Merron. They all seemed to have similarly fluent if pleasantly accented Garmain. Sólmundr rose to his feet, his usual broken drawl transformed into a hoarse courtliness very reminiscent of Wynter’s father’s voice. Watching the warrior grin his gap-toothed grin and shake the lady’s hand, Wynter found it deeply moving, and inexpressibly sad, to realise that all along she could have had the chance to truly understand these people, if only she had opened her mouth to Sól all that time ago, and discovered this shared language.

Wari and Úlfnaor returned from tending the horses. The Lady Mary curtsied low to the kindly smiling Aoire, and without any further ceremony, she was included in the Merron breakfast.

Hallvor unfolded the lady’s chair and, with a significant glance at Wynter, plopped it down beside Razi. He looked up, registered Mary’s presence with a shock, and went to leap to his feet. Mary waved him down.

‘Sit, sit,’ she said, getting herself settled. Once seated she leaned forward, as if to examine Razi more closely. ‘How are you?’ she asked softly, gazing into his face.

Her concern seemed to undo him a little, and Razi winced and shook his head. Oh don’t, his expression said, please.

Mary nodded in understanding. She thought for a moment. ‘I heard once,’ she said, ‘that you were studying to be a physician?’

Razi nodded tiredly.

‘How interesting,’ said Mary. ‘I assume you know of Padua? It is my favourite city, you know. My family lived there for three years when I was a child.’

Razi’s face opened in surprise. Mary smiled, and soon they were involved in a soft discussion that made Wynter’s heart ache with gratitude and fondness. Her eyes met Hallvor’s. The healer winked in maternal conspiracy and turned back to her work.

‘Lass.’ Christopher plucked at her sleeve and gestured her away from the fire. ‘Talk to me.’

They rounded the corner and came to a halt in the passage between the Midland tent and the large army supply tent beside it. The camp was fully awake now, men scurrying about, the air heavy with camp-fire smoke and dust. The sun was bright but brittle, and the shadows between the tents were cold. Wynter shivered, hugging her elbows and peering out at the soldiers coming and going on the main thoroughfare. Christopher handed her a warm sorrel-cake and she ate it absently.

‘Have some tea,’ he said.

She shook her head, sucking the bitter grit of the cake from her teeth and gazing up the hill to Alberon’s tent. ‘I need to go talk to the Prince,’ she said. ‘Now is a good time, while Razi is distracted.’

‘What are you going to talk to him about?’

Christopher’s tone of voice made her glance at him. His narrow face was hard and wary.

‘I want to find out about my father’s machines,’ she said. ‘I want to understand Albi’s plans for them.’

‘Razi told you his plans for them. He told you that they won’t work.’

Wynter held Christopher’s eye. There was a moment of silence between them.

‘I want to make up my own mind about that,’ she said.

Christopher shook his head in sad disbelief. ‘Surely you ain’t going to side against our lad?’

‘Christopher.’ She put her hand on his forearm, but at the look on her face he twisted his arm and pulled it gently from her grip. ‘Chris, this has nothing to do with how I feel about Razi. This has to do with bigger things. Surely you can see that?’

He remained silent, his face set, and Wynter sighed. ‘The world is not simple, Christopher,’ she said, ‘and I am going to talk to the Prince.’ She went to move away and Christopher put his hand on her elbow. She paused, not looking at him.

‘I’ll walk with you,’ he said.



There was smoke coming from the ventilation holes at the top of the Haun yurts. The first in line was quiet and lifeless, just like yesterday, but Christopher murmured that there were at least three Haun in there. Wynter smiled wryly – he must have been sniffing about in the night, getting the lay of the land. Her heart once again swelled with warm pride; her man was the best kind of sly.

They walked slowly, side-by-side, their eyes on the Haun crouched outside the second yurt. One of them was the young man of the day before, and with him was his companion and another older man. The two senior Haun were occupied with boiling something over the fire. The young man seemed in the process of changing his clothes. He had already removed his many layers of colourful jackets and vests, and as Christopher and Wynter came level with him he was just untying his undershirt. Wynter politely glanced away as he slipped free of the garment, but her eyes snapped immediately back at the sight of his scars. Christopher almost stopped walking in shock, but they both recovered themselves in time and simply slowed their pace, their eyes uncontrollably drawn to the young man’s back.

The scars were old, puckered and stretched with time. Their shapes had distorted as the young man’s body had grown from what must have been that of a very small child at the time of his injury, to his present age of perhaps twenty or so. His stocky body was firm and closely muscled, as if he had worked hard all his life, but his strong back was marred with a row of ugly puncture wounds, starting just above the waist of his trousers at his left hip and continuing up to his right shoulder. Four in all, they were deep, evil-looking holes, as if a cruel giant had held him down as a child and neatly drilled his back with a sharpened stick.

The man put on his clean shirt, and as he tied the stays his eyes lifted to meet Wynter’s. She immediately averted her gaze and passed on by.

‘Good Frith,’ whispered Christopher, ‘how did he survive that?’

‘Excuse me!’

The cultured voice stopped their progress, and they turned to find the young man advancing on them. He drew on a jacket as he came, his focus on Wynter, his black eyes and his broad-featured face politely unreadable. He looked Wynter up and down as he came to a halt, his attention particularly drawn to her hair. When he spoke, she was impressed by the smooth courtliness of his manner and his remarkable Southlandast, only very faintly tinged with an accent.

‘Lady Green-eyes,’ he said, ‘I am struck by the colour of your hair. It is magnificent.’

Wynter blushed. Christopher snorted softly in disgust.

The young man smiled and made a motion with his hand. ‘And those unique eyes,’ he said. ‘Like translucent jade. How unforgettable.’

His face was as blandly polite as before, but there was something in this man’s voice that Wynter did not like, and she felt herself grow tense.

At her side, Christopher huffed. ‘Ain’t you a poetic wee thing?’ he said.

The Haun’s eyes flickered his way, then back to Wynter. ‘Unique eyes,’ he repeated softly. ‘Even among your own kind, I would say. Defining.’

Wynter’s heart had begun to beat a little quicker, and she raised her chin, a suspicion growing.

‘Am I to take it that you knew my father?’ she asked. ‘Is this what you are implying?’

The man grinned suddenly and it reminded Wynter of the little orange cat that, a lifetime ago now, had led her through the passages at home. Like this man, its grin had been filled with hatred, and its disdain for her had been so deep that it had never even offered her its name.

‘The Protector Lady Moorehawke,’ said the Haun. ‘Of course.’

At her name, the older Haun suddenly rose to their feet, their faces wary, and their dark eyes hopped tensely between Wynter and the young man.

‘How is your father?’ he whispered, leaning in. ‘Nice and comfortable, I am sure. Lauded as the warrior who rid the Southlands of the Haun threat. What do they call him? A hero like himself must have some wonderfully descriptive name. Moorehawke the Great, perhaps? Moorehawke the Undefeated? What about Moorehawke the Bloody? What about Moorehawke the Butcherer of Children?’

Without thinking, Wynter slapped the man’s face, and his head rocked sharply back. His friends rushed to his side, gabbling, and drew him away. He grinned as he went, his hand to his cheek, his eyes on Wynter. Christopher glowered after him, but Wynter turned away to hide her unexpected tears, trembling with shock and distress.

Next thing she knew, she was stumbling along, guided by Christopher’s firm hand on her elbow. ‘But what did he mean?’ she said. ‘What did he mean?’ She went to turn back, but Christopher tightened his grip and kept her moving forward, heading for the slope and Alberon’s tent. After another moment of mindlessly following, Wynter dug her heels in and jerked to a halt.

‘I must know!’ she cried.

Christopher held tight to her elbow and pulled her close, staring into her eyes. ‘It was a war, Iseult,’ he whispered. ‘Things happen during a war. That lad was on the losing side. He ain’t likely to write a sonnet lauding the winners’ good character now, is he?’

‘But he’s talking about my father! It’s not true! I can’t believe it!’

‘Lorcan was a soldier, lass! What did you think he did in battle? Throw buns at the enemy?’

‘Why would a child have been in battle, Christopher?’

He frowned at her in sympathetic confusion, and Wynter knew that he would never understand. Christopher came from a world where the inquisition threw babies onto their mothers’ execution pyres. He had been adopted by a race for whom the word ‘soldier’ meant only death and torment and pain. He was looking at her now across the chasm of their differences, and she had no doubt that he was thinking, Why would a child not have been in battle?

‘Iseult,’ he said gently, ‘whatever your questions may be, that man is not the one to give you your answers. He’s too full of hate.’ Christopher smiled at her and pushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear. ‘You don’t want to see your poor da through that fellow’s eyes, do you, lass?’

A cough behind them startled Wynter, and she realised with a jolt that she was standing in the main thoroughfare of the camp gazing into Christopher’s face as he murmured to her and stroked her hair. She stepped sharply backwards. The passing soldiers seemed to slide knowing glances at each other. The Combermen, lounging beneath their awning, seemed to eye her with leering contempt. At the head of the slope, Anthony was watching from the shadow of the Prince’s tent.

Her face burning, Wynter turned to face the man who had coughed.

‘Presbyter,’ she croaked, ‘how fare you?’

The priest was eyeing her with alarm. Are you mad? his face said. Have you no sense? His gaze flickered to the grip that Christopher had on Wynter’s arm, then up to meet the young man’s eyes. Christopher lifted his chin in defiance, and to Wynter’s surprise the priest’s face filled with pained sympathy.

‘Don’t be an arrogant fool, boy,’ he whispered. ‘You have nothing to give her but despair.’

At his gentle tone, Christopher’s defiance seemed to melt from him and, frowning uncertainly, he let Wynter go. The priest nodded. Up above them, Anthony turned and disappeared into Alberon’s tent.

‘I must tend my Lady Mary,’ said the priest and, bowing, he left them.

‘I . . .’ said Wynter, staring after him. ‘I must go talk to the Prince.’ Christopher nodded and made to accompany her up the slope. Wynter stayed him with a hand on his arm. ‘I must talk to him alone, Christopher.’

Christopher’s cheeks flared red and he stepped back, his face stiff with embarrassment. ‘Of course,’ he said.

‘He will not speak to me with you there,’ she explained softly.

He nodded, his eyes averted.

‘Will you wait for me?’

He nodded again. His determined silence was what made up her mind. After all Christopher’s quiet gestures of love – the sending of the scóns, the courtly bow, his gentle acceptance of her way of life – how could Wynter ever deny her feelings for him? How could she ever have considered denying them?

‘Chris?’

He glanced at her. When she stretched up to kiss him, he drew back in alarm, his eyes darting to the hill. ‘Don’t, lass,’ he said.

Wynter gripped his tunic at the chest and tugged him near. ‘You listen to me, Freeman Garron. I am telling you now, I love you.’

Christopher shook his head, doubt and concern visible in his clear grey eyes. ‘You don’t have to say that,’ he whispered.

‘I love you,’ she insisted, her face very close to his. ‘To court I shall always be the Protector Lady Wynter Moorehawke. To Razi and Alberon I shall always be Wyn – Razi’s baby, Albi’s little sis. These things are what I am, Christopher, and I am proud of them. But I am also your Iseult. You are the only man to whom I shall ever be thus, and I shall never let that go. We shall find our place,’ she promised. ‘I’m not yet certain how we shall find it, or where it will be, but wherever it is, we shall be together, Christopher; and whatever we are doing, it will not involve me sitting in a tent waiting for my menfolk to change the world.’

Christopher grinned at that, his wicked, lopsided grin, and, in clear view of the scandalised camp, Wynter kissed him, full and slow on the mouth. His hand found its way to her waist, and he made that delicious mmmm sound in his throat that always weakened her knees.

‘Wait for me here?’ she whispered.

He nodded, smiling, and with one last solemn kiss Wynter parted from him and made her way up the hill to Alberon’s tent.