The Rebel Prince

EMPTY WORDS



ALBERON TOOK his seat and did not look at his brother. ‘Tell the Haun to come up now, Sir Oliver; Monsieur Le Garou and I are ready to speak with them. Lord Razi, you may stay, or you may go. It makes no odds to me either way.’

‘Alberon . . .’ whispered Razi.

But Alberon looked to David Le Garou and said, ‘How shall we handle this, Monsieur? Do you prefer to speak, or shall I?’ and that was it. Razi was out in the cold, watching from a distance as his brother went about his business.



The Haun came – eager, fawning, and utterly thrown. Their linguist translated Le Garou’s news with frozen shock, and the older men’s subsequent efforts to cajole and deny flowed around Wynter as a stark contrast to Razi’s broken silence. He simply sat through it all with his eyes on the table, his face weary. He seemed utterly spent.

At some stage Coriolanus crawled onto Wynter’s lap, and she cradled him with absent protectiveness as the Wolves leered at her from the corners of their eyes. Oliver hovered in the background while Alberon put the panicked Haun in their place. The knight was as poised and imposing as ever, but he looked exhausted, and sometimes, in spite of his courtly detachment, Wynter caught him glancing at Razi or at Le Garou, his face naked with misery.

The Haun left at last, and Alberon rose to dismiss the Wolves. He grinned crookedly, reached across the table, and to Wynter’s dismay, shook David Le Garou’s gloved hand.

‘So,’ he said, ‘we are done.’

‘Our bargain is sealed now, Prince?’ asked Le Garou. ‘My pack will rest easy in your protection?’

Alberon’s face hardened a little and he tightened his grip on the Wolf ’s hand. ‘Do not cross me, monsieur, and I shall endeavour not to cross you.’

Le Garou smiled his sharp smile and held the Prince’s eye. ‘I shall not cross you, Prince,’ he said. His eyes dropped briefly to Razi, as if dismissing a spot of dirt on the table; then he turned to his men. ‘Go direct the boys to set up our quarters.’

They bowed. ‘Yes, Father,’ they said, and Wynter saw Le Garou soak up the title, closing his eyes to it as to a lover’s caress.

‘Yes,’ he whispered. ‘Father. At last.’

Alberon frowned in distaste at this, and Wynter saw him unconsciously rub his hand on his trousers. ‘Sir Oliver will direct your men as to where they can camp,’ he said. ‘And, Le Garou, your followers will behave around the Haun, you understand? There will be no triumphalism.’

Le Garou bowed. ‘None at all,’ he promised, smooth as buttered oil.

Oliver led the Wolves from sight and Alberon stood in silence for a moment, listening to their retreating footsteps. Wynter held Coriolanus close, waiting for Alberon’s anger; waiting for the moment he would turn on Razi and let loose on him all the rage of a prince whose authority had been slighted. She actually jumped when Razi was the first to speak. He kept his voice very soft and did not look up at his brother.

‘The Wolves have six riders in the forest,’ he said.

Alberon glanced coldly at him. ‘To what purpose?’ he asked, crossing to retrieve Marguerite Shirken’s papers and seating himself at his battered little writing table.

‘Self-protection,’ said Razi.

Wynter waited while Alberon uncorked his inkwell and set up his quills. Perhaps there was a chance Razi could work his way back from this? If he was quiet and respectful and of use? Alberon untied the diplomatic folder, chose a letter and broke the seal. He scanned the document, then moved on to the next. ‘They are of danger to my men?’ he asked.

Razi lifted his eyes to Wynter, and she gazed hopefully at him. ‘I doubt they are a threat,’ he said. ‘Not at the moment.’

‘Good,’ said Alberon, scanning another letter, his tone leaving no doubt that he was concentrating on things infinitely more important than his brother’s opinion. Laying the document aside, he snapped the seal on the next. Sitting in the crosswise slash of light cast by the door, the sun in his pale hair, his face hard with regal detachment, Wynter thought he had never looked more like his father. He had never looked more like a king.

‘Alberon?’ said Razi.

‘I am busy now, brother. We shall talk later.’

‘Alberon, I should be grateful if the Loups-Garous were quartered as far from my tent as possible.’

Alberon lowered the parchment and looked at Razi at last. ‘Your diplomacy only goes so far, is that it, brother? You cannot bring yourself to—’

‘Albi,’ said Razi softly. ‘The damaged property the Wolves spoke of was my friend, Christopher. The vandalism to which they refer was the removal of his fingers.’

Alberon’s face opened in shock and he regarded Razi for a moment with pure and untainted sympathy. ‘Jesu, Razi,’ he breathed.

‘He has borne my tolerance of them all these years, brother. Do not force him to endure their close proximity now; not when it is clear that his patience may never be rewarded.’

Alberon dropped his eyes to Marguerite Shirken’s letter. She had written in dark-red ink, and the neat script put Wynter in mind of blood. Perfect little instances of blood, laid side-by-side in marshalled rows. The impossibly neat aftermath of a mass execution.

‘Marcel!’ shouted Alberon suddenly, his unexpected yell making Wynter jump again.

The lieutenant came to the door, and Alberon spoke without looking around: ‘Go now, and within the earshot of Le Garou, tell Sir Oliver that I have decided to spare those Wolves that are lurking in the forest. If Sir Oliver is lacking enough to look puzzled, tell him that the Prince has no further need to keep his knowledge of the Wolf spies secret.’

‘Aye, your Highness.’

‘Marcel.’

‘Aye, Highness.’

‘Make certain that the Wolves are quartered as far from the Lord Razi’s tent as is physically possible.’

Marcel flicked a curious glance at Razi, saluted, and left.

Razi shut his eyes in gratitude. ‘Thank you,’ he whispered.

But Alberon had already turned back to his reading. He did not bother to dismiss his brother; just sat in busy silence until Razi got to his feet.

Wynter hoped she might be allowed stay; had resolved herself to gentle persuasion once Razi had left. But as soon as Razi moved to go, Alberon said, ‘I am busy, Protector Lady Moorehawke.’

‘Will you not spare me a little of your time, your Highness? There is surely . . .’

‘Perhaps you can visit later,’ snapped Alberon, his eyes on the letter. ‘When I have time to spend on the nicer things.’

Wynter glanced at Razi, who was waiting by the door. He gestured bleakly that she come along. Gently, she deposited a reluctant Cori at the foot of Alberon’s bed and rose to leave.

She had only just passed Alberon’s table when he cursed low and furious and shot to his feet.

‘He is not an envoy!’ he cried, brandishing Shirken’s letter. ‘That Merron snake! He is not an envoy! She says here that she has been forced to entrust her representatives to . . . see here,’ he indicated a section of text and read aloud, ‘to the care of a man I am not certain I can trust. A churlish knave, one leader of the Merron, named Úlfnaor, Air . . . Aeeur . . . curse it, I cannot pronounce that bloody name! In any case, listen to this: I am most concerned by this man, but have been left with no choice and must hope that he does not live up to his people’s reputation of treachery and deceit. I have . . . Wait, where is the next? Yes, listen . . . my envoys are a handsome pair, twin brother and sister, the most becoming of God’s creatures. Certainly, my dear, when you behold them you shall not fail to know they were sent by me. They are blond as God’s blessed sunlight and their demeanour is quite wonderfully courtly and refined – one can only pray to God’s divine grace that these same manners will influence the savages with whom they are forced to travel. As it is, I fear it likely that this Merron cur will do away with them entirely and set himself up in their place . . . for no better reason than he will have the chance to act the lord and so be showered in trinkets on his arrival.

’ Alberon looked up from the paper and his face said it all.

‘Which he did!’ he exclaimed. ‘He did! You saw him! Acting the nobleman! Good Christ! I shall have his goddamned pagan head for it! Listen to this: My dear, these two envoys are most trusted and beloved of me. Should worst come to worst, I beg you take leave to avenge their mistreatment on my behalf. This mission has been a calculated gesture of faith from me to the Merron. I pray that they are sensible and accept my generous trust in them. Should they, once again, prove incapable of civilised behaviour, I shall be left with no option but to react. A sensible ruler, after all, can only stretch her tolerance so far.

’ Alberon stared at Wynter and Razi in disbelief. ‘I cannot believe it!’ he said. ‘That he thought he could get away with it!’ He started for the door, his face thunderous.

‘Alberon,’ tried Wynter, her voice scratchy with shock. ‘Perhaps there . . . there may have been . . .’ She jerked to a panicked silence.

Ashkr and Embla: it could only be them to whom Marguerite was referring. The beautiful, gentle and ultimately doomed pair whom the Merron had cherished for their entire lives – then sacrificed in the most savage manner. Wynter closed her eyes at the memory. Every single thing she wanted to say seemed wrong. Shockingly, her strongest impulse was to shout, No! She lies! They did nothing! But no matter how willingly Ashkr and Embla had gone to the grave, it did not negate the senselessness nor the brutality of their passing, and Wynter could think of nothing to say that would not paint the Merron in an impossibly dark light.

She looked to Razi. His face was cold and set. As he lowered his chin and moved to let Alberon out the door, Wynter knew he was about to reveal the Merron’s crime and use the distraction to return to his brother’s confidence. She could not bring herself to condemn him for it. After all, Embla had been his lover – no, more than that – she had been the woman he loved. Razi had every right to take his revenge. But looking up into his dark face, Wynter wished that it was not so. To her shame, she found herself wishing that somehow the Merron might walk free of the consequences of those horrible and pointless killings back in the forest.

For a brief moment, Razi’s cold eyes met hers. Wynter lifted her hands, she clasped them: please. Razi looked away. Her heart sank. But, just as it seemed certain that he would let Alberon stride past and summon his guard, Razi clenched his fist, squeezed his eyes shut, then put his hand out to stop the Prince in his tracks.

‘I think I know the people to whom Marguerite refers,’ he sighed. ‘The brother and sister she speaks of in her letter.’

Alberon’s eyes widened in anger. ‘For godsake, man!’ he cried. ‘Why did you not—’

Razi met his eye. ‘They were ill when I met them,’ he said. ‘The same disease for which I treated their leader’s right-hand man. I attended them myself, but there was naught to be done for them.’

Alberon deflated slightly. ‘Oh,’ he said.

‘Úlfnaor attempts negotiation with you only because he was entreated to do so by the envoys themselves. Before they died, they bid him to take their place. He comes to you in the innocent belief that he has been granted right of parley.’

‘Oh,’ said Alberon again. He looked down at the papers in confusion.

Wynter stared ahead of her, afraid to look at Razi in case some twitch of expression or some tic of posture might give away her shock at his smooth and believable lies.

‘Marguerite has misrepresented Úlfnaor to you,’ said Razi. ‘She portrays him as a savage and a brute, but I suspect that he is neither of those things. Try not to be offended by his manner. He behaves as a lord because to his people he is a lord. In his own way, Úlfnaor is a nobleman, and I do not think that you have cause to distrust his intent.’

This must have come perilously close to Razi offering his opinion, because Alberon seemed to remember that he was no longer accepting advice from his brother, and he dropped his eyes to the grip Razi had on his arm. Razi carefully removed his hand, and Alberon simply stood in expressionless silence until Razi bowed and turned to leave. Wynter followed stiffly on his heels. At the edge of the tent’s shadow, just before they stepped out into the cold sunlight, Razi turned back once more.

‘If you like, your Highness, you can send my word to Princess Marguerite. You can tell her that I can attest to the fact that her envoys were treated with all the care and devotion she could ever have hoped for. You can assure her that I was witness to this, and that they were tended to with great dedication and with much love, right up until the day they died.’

Alberon did not move or reply, and after a moment Razi nodded and walked away. Alberon glanced at Wynter.

‘What he says is true?’

She nodded dumbly, her neck stiff. Alberon looked down again at Shirken’s paper, obviously confused at the differences between his brother’s story and that of the Princess.

She makes a toy of you, thought Wynter. She uses you to her own end. But she said nothing, because sometimes the truth was easier to take when you were allowed see it for yourself. Alberon wandered back into his tent, and Wynter watched him return to his little writing table and sit. He spread Marguerite’s letter on the table, smoothed her blood-red writing beneath his hand, and once again, he began to read.

Without a word, Wynter turned from him and followed Razi down the hill.