The Rebel Prince

THE MUSIC OF MEMORY



‘WHERE ARE you going?’ Christopher caught Wynter by the elbow, stopping her from following Oliver down the alley.

She flicked a glance to Razi. He had drawn Úlfnaor aside and was engaged in a low, secretive conversation. ‘I want to ask Oliver something,’ she whispered. ‘I will only be a moment.’

‘You ain’t going on your own. I’ll come with you.’

‘No, love,’ she said, laying her hand on his chest. ‘The Loups-Garous may still be out there and I do not want you to have to face them. I will be all right.’

He frowned at her in irritated disbelief. ‘Are you deranged?’ he snapped. ‘Come on.’

He shooed her up the alley, and they made their way into the noise and waning sunshine of the thoroughfare. By the supply tent, there was a dark patch of ground where the young Haun had died. Already the sharp outline of his blood had been smudged by the passage of feet and the drifting of dust from the busy road. Scuff marks showed where the soldiers had dragged his body away. Wynter came to a halt, staring down at these fading signs of violence, and released a shaky sigh.

Christopher took her hand, his eyes on the bloodstain.

‘Good Frith, lass,’ he breathed, ‘you came so close.’

Wynter squeezed his fingers gently, then let go. ‘Come on,’ she said. They skirted the blood and hurried after Oliver, who was just striding away from his lieutenant, on his way back to Alberon’s tent.

‘Sir Knight!’

He turned, surprise clear on his face. ‘Protector Lady.’

‘Sir Knight.’ She came to a halt before him, gazing up into his face. ‘You will do your best to open dialogue between the Prince and Lord Razi?’

He nodded. ‘Aye, Protector Lady. I shall.’

‘It is vital, sir. You understand? You must not play politics with this.’

The knight stayed silent for a moment, reading her face, and Wynter knew that her suspicions had been right. Oliver was still in two minds as to Razi’s usefulness to the Prince and was in no way certain that he would repair communications between the brothers.

In an appeal to their history, Wynter softened the formality of her tone and lowered her voice: ‘Listen to me, Oliver,’ she said. ‘I believe I understand why it is that our fathers wanted the machine forgotten. I suspect they used it before, to end the Haun Invasion.’

Oliver frowned. ‘With respect, Protector Lady. If that were the case, I should know of it, but I had never seen nor heard of these machines before Jon—’

‘Listen to me, Oliver. I suspect they also used it . . .’ Wynter hesitated. She looked back at the wide patch of darkness on the ground.

Oliver’s eyes followed hers and he stared in confusion at the bloodstain. ‘Also used it for what?’

‘Where were you when the Haun were defeated?’ she whispered.

‘I was up North. Jon sent me North to fetch his father home.’

‘And when the Lost Hundred were expelled?’

Oliver was silent for a moment. ‘I was still in the North, mopping up the last of the Combermen,’ he said slowly. ‘The late King left me there to help finish things up. I didn’t get home until well after the Hundred were gone.’

Wynter met his eye. He began to understand.

‘Oh no, Lady!’ he said, appalled. ‘The Hundred were just sent east. That is all. They were simply . . .’

His voice trailed away and they gazed at each other. Wynter could see memories falling into place for him, connections being made, things clarifying. His eyes grew wide in horrified comprehension. She reached behind her and took Christopher’s hand. He held gently on. I am here.

Oliver went to speak and Wynter shook her head, willing him not to articulate what they were both thinking.

‘Lorcan,’ he managed finally. ‘Lorcan was destroyed when I got home. I thought it was because of your poor mother . . . I must admit I got very impatient with him after a while. He lay in his bed for months. He spoke to no one. He was . . .’ Oliver moaned in despair and guilt. ‘Sweet Christ,’ he whispered. ‘I was only fourteen. How was I to understand?’

‘And the King?’ asked Wynter. ‘Our present King. How was he?’

‘My God,’ said Oliver, remembering, ‘my God.’

‘How was he?’ she whispered again.

‘I thought it was because of his father,’ cried Oliver. ‘Though they never got on, sometimes it happens that way: a son mourns for what he never had – I had thought he was grief-stricken on account of the late King’s death.’

‘He was in a bad way?’ asked Christopher softly.

‘Jon was drunk for almost two months,’ said Oliver. He glanced defensively at Christopher. ‘Not falling down, you understand, but just . . . he did not stop drinking for . . .’ He trailed off and shook his head again. ‘My God.’

‘Neither the Lord Razi nor the Prince seem aware of this, Sir Oliver. I believe it may aid reconciliation between all parties if these things were made clear.’

‘Might help them understand their da a little better, all right,’ murmured Christopher.

‘It will be a delicate business,’ said Wynter, ‘approaching sons with such a secret. Particularly one their father never wanted them to share. We will need to be very gentle.’

Oliver looked at her kindly. ‘Wyn,’ he said, ‘Lorcan was a most wonderful man. Whatever the circumstances of this terrible . . . this terrible act, I should not like you to think that he—’

Wynter snapped a hand up, cutting him off. ‘I do not need you to defend my father, Sir Knight.’

Oliver drew himself up and blinked to silence.

‘You may talk to the Prince,’ she said harshly. ‘I shall talk to my Lord Razi. Between us we will get this done and that will be the end of it. We can all return to the palace, no more to speak of this, and life will simply continue on.’

Oliver stepped back, his face set, and bowed. ‘I shall do my best, Protector Lady. Please God, by tonight the lord and the Prince will be in communication once again.’

He turned away.

Christopher squeezed Wynter’s hand and she shut her eyes. Please, love, she thought, don’t say anything. She did not think she could bear him trying to defend her father. She did not think she could bear questions. To have to open her mouth and articulate all the terrible things she now suspected Lorcan of having done was beyond her power. But, to her great relief, Christopher did not speak. He just maintained a patient, waiting silence, and Wynter loved him for it. She loved him more for every minute he was alive.

‘Gérard was listening,’ he whispered.

She snapped her eyes open to see the dark-skinned Wolf step from the shadow of a tent and hurry to catch up with Oliver. He swerved around in front of the striding knight and bowed smoothly. Oliver kept walking and Gérard walked backwards, keeping pace.

‘You aim to reconcile the Prince and the Pretender, sir? ’ asked Gérard. ‘Would that be wise? I fear the Prince would be livid with you if he thought you’d sided with the upstart contender for his throne.’

Oliver replied coldly, still striding forward, ‘If you value your teeth, you will remove yourself from my path.’

Gérard stepped aside with exaggerated grace and allowed Oliver to sweep past him. He watched as the knight climbed the path and disappeared into Alberon’s quarters; then the Wolf turned and smiled from under his eyes at Christopher.

‘So your master still keeps you, does he, pup? You must have some wondrous skills to have stayed in favour so long – and you nothing but a cripple.’ Gérard licked his teeth and looked Christopher up and down in a way that made Wynter want to cut the eyes from his head. ‘Oh aye,’ said the Wolf. ‘I’d wager you have learned many a way to please. I’ve no doubt al-Sayyid rattles your bells whenever he chooses.’ Gerard chuckled. ‘I’ve always said there’s no better music than that of slave bells, sounding out their rhythm in the dark.’ With that he tipped a gracious bow to Wynter and strolled away into the dying light.

‘Scum,’ hissed Christopher. ‘Scum!

’ Wynter took hold of his clenched fist. Her throat was so tightly packed with rage that it took a moment before she could speak. ‘They are only words, love,’ she managed. ‘Just words.’

Christopher tore his hand from hers and spun to go. His angry face grew even darker at the sight of Jean blocking the path. Unaware of Wynter and Christopher, the big, broad-shouldered Wolf was crouched by the supply tent, face to face with Alberon’s little servant, Anthony. As they watched, the Wolf leaned close and murmured into the child’s ear. Jean’s voice was inaudible to Wynter, but at his words the already frightened little boy turned white and his body went rigid with terror. Still whispering, Jean smiled and ran his fingers through the silky fineness of the boy’s hair.

With a low sound of fury, Christopher darted forward. But even as he and Wynter rushed towards him, Jean rose to his feet, pinched the child’s cheek and wandered off in the direction of the Wolves’ quarters. Anthony was left staring at nothing, his cauldron of water held stiffly before him, his little chest rising and falling in rapid, terrified breaths.

‘What did he want?’ snarled Christopher, dropping to his knees beside the child.

Anthony yelled in fright and jumped back, slopping water from the cauldron.

‘What did he want!’ shouted Christopher.

Wynter laid a restraining hand on Christopher’s arm. ‘It is all right, Anthony,’ she murmured. ‘Freeman Garron does not mean you harm.’

But the little servant took another step back, his eyes fixed on Christopher. His terror seemed only increased by the fury on the young man’s face. Christopher did not seem to even notice the poor child’s distress. ‘Tell me what he wanted!’ he cried, grabbing Anthony by his narrow shoulders. ‘You have to tell me!’

Wynter tightened her grip on Christopher’s arm and crouched down. ‘Anthony,’ she said. It took him a moment to tear his gaze from her friend. ‘It is all right,’ she said again. ‘You may go.’

The boy fled, heedless of the water he was slopping over himself, running frantically for the hill and the safety of Alberon’s tent. Christopher went to lurch to his feet, meaning to follow him, but Wynter pressed down on his arms, halting his rise. She looked into his dangerously tinted eyes.

‘It is all right,’ she said firmly. ‘The boy is safe.’

Christopher growled at her without any recognition, and she took his knotted fists in her hands, squeezing them tight.

‘It is all right, Christopher,’ she repeated. ‘Come back now.’

He frowned uncertainly. Blinked.

‘Come back to me,’ she said. ‘I need you.’

Christopher suddenly breathed deep. His eyes cleared as they stared into hers. His fists relaxed.

‘Are you with me, love?’ she whispered.

He nodded. Up on the hill, the little boy had made it to the Prince’s tent. They watched him run into the protective shadow of the awning and disappear inside – a tiny figure barely large enough for the cauldron he carried. Wynter squeezed Christopher’s scarred fingers one last time, and together they rose to their feet and made their way back to the Merron quarters.



Wynter told Razi about the young Haun’s scars and her theory on the Bloody Machine. Razi was quiet for a very long time after.

In the silence, Wynter gazed down at her hands. To her surprise, they were clasping and unclasping as of their own accord. She clenched them tightly together, forcing them to be still, and squeezed hard so that her knuckles gleamed brightly in the firelight.

Sitting across from her, his face intent, Christopher waited for Razi to speak. On the other side of the fire, the Merron sat quietly. Though they were trying hard not to eavesdrop, they had been intrigued by Wynter’s low, intense conversation, and they kept glancing furtively across the flames, their curiosity impossible to hide.

‘I shall have to see his body,’ whispered Razi at last.

Wynter nodded absently, watching as her filthy nails dug into the backs of her hands. It had been very easy, in the end, to say the words. It was such a simple sentence, after all, and so quickly over: I think our fathers killed them all. But when she had finally said it, she had felt a pain in her chest, a sharp, tearing sensation, and now she felt nothing.

She spread her hands, watching the firelight play across her grimy fingers. Her nails had left pale half-moon indents in her skin. Wynter regarded them with interest, then tried to fit her nails back into the exact position again, pressing hard. Would it take a lot of pressure to break the skin, she wondered? She dug her nails deep, frowning in concentration.

‘Iseult!’ snapped Christopher, and she glanced up at him, startled. ‘Stop that!’ he hissed.

‘I shall have to see his body,’ murmured Razi again. He scrubbed his hands on his trouser legs and nodded. ‘Yes. After all . . . those scars could have been from anything. You are not a doctor, darling. Perhaps the poor fellow had the smallpox. Perhaps he was mauled by a bear. Perhaps he . . .’ He stopped talking, and his hands stilled. He looked up into the star-strewn sky. ‘Perhaps,’ he said desperately. Then he seemed to give in. ‘Oh God,’ he whispered.

Christopher looked down at Boro, his mouth unsteady. The dog grinned at him and Christopher scratched between his ears. ‘Good boy,’ he whispered.

The night was very still, just the muffled sounds of the surrounding camp, the crackling fire, the snoring of the other warhounds audible. Sólmundr and Hallvor were sitting with the other Merron, grave and withdrawn: after dinner, the soldiers had caught them hassling the Loups-Garous’ slaves down by the river, and the two of them had been returned to their quarters in shame. Úlfnaor had been furious with them. He had made them apologise to David Le Garou and forced them to fetch the Wolves’ spilt water. They had been tense and silent ever since.

Music came drifting from somewhere deep within the camp, a guitar strummed low. Wynter glanced dully at Christopher. He too heard the music, and she saw his face soften at the sound. He shut his eyes, tilting his head to listen as gentle memories played across his face.

‘Maidin Ór,’ he whispered.

Across the fire, Úlfnaor smiled in recognition of the tune and murmured something in Merron. Hallvor glanced fondly at him. Surtr nodded in time with the music, tapping his fingers.

‘Go h-álainn,’ he sighed.

Suddenly, Frangok asked a sharp question and the Merron lost their warm good humour and straightened slowly, their expressions hard. Frangok snapped the question at Christopher. His face drew down in pained understanding, and he groaned, dropping his head into his hands.

‘Oh,’ he breathed, ‘the scum.’

‘What is it?’ mumbled Wynter.

Christopher shook his head.

‘It Maidin Ór,’ snapped Sólmundr. ‘It Merron song! It Merron! Who teach it to coimhthíoch?’

‘I did,’ whispered Christopher, ‘when I were a slave. I taught Pierre to play it on my father’s guitar.’

Sól sank back in shock. ‘But why, Coinín?’ he cried. ‘It Merron song, we not ever—’

‘Because I liked it!’ hissed Christopher, glaring across at him. ‘I liked it, and I used play it, and he made me teach it to him! All right? Is that all right, Sól? Can you accept that?’

At Christopher’s taut anger, Sólmundr softened instantly and held up his hands, his face gentle.

‘Shhhh,’ he said. ‘Shhhhh, a luch. Ná bac faoí . . . it all right.’

Christopher’s face darkened and he bowed his head again. He dug his fingers into his hair and squeezed hard, as if trying to hold himself together.

‘You not to worry, luichín,’ rumbled Úlfnaor. ‘No one blame you. It not your fault that those caic steal everything they see.’

The music continued to float gently around them and it was as if the entire camp had paused to listen, so quiet had the night become. Somewhere out there, the blond Wolf sat and played that lovely tune, and Wynter had no doubt that this terrible pained reaction was the very reason he had chosen it. She imagined him glancing up from the strings to look at David Le Garou, the knowledge of what he was doing clear in his grin, and she wondered if he was still playing Aidan Garron’s guitar.

At that thought, anger blazed hot and clear and sharp within her, and she welcomed it. It felt good. It felt much better than her previous muffling fog. Razi sat at her side, his hands clenched, his face dull, and Wynter glared at him.

‘When shall we act?’ she asked.

‘Soon,’ he whispered. ‘Give me time.’

‘For what? The Haun have gone back to their leaders, bearing the message Alberon wished. What use have you for the Wolves now?’

Razi sighed and shut his eyes. ‘Please, Wyn,’ he said.

Christopher looked up from between his hands, his face hard. She met his eye, rage to rage. ‘Soon’ was not enough.

The music ceased without warning, cutting off in mid-chord, as if the guitar had been snatched from the player or dropped from his hand. It was so abrupt an ending that everyone sat frowning for a moment, waiting for it to start again. Christopher straightened, staring out into the quiet night. The silence stretched on, and the sounds of the camp filtered in to fill the void. Hallvor glanced at Sólmundr, sidelong, from the corner of her eye. Sólmundr studiously did not look her way.

With a warning growl, the warhounds stood up, and the Merron snapped to attention, following the hounds’ gaze.

‘Stand down your dogs,’ said a familiar voice. ‘I must speak to my brother.’

Wynter and Razi got to their feet as Alberon stepped into the light. His face was drawn, his red cloak bundled around him as if for comfort. Oliver, just visible in the shadows at his back, eyed the assembly with caution, but Alberon only had eyes for his brother.

‘Razi,’ he said hoarsely, ‘do you know?’

‘Wyn told me,’ whispered Razi.

Alberon shook his head. He drew his cloak even tighter and stayed at the edge of the light. ‘Jesu,’ he whispered. ‘To have slaughtered them all. Even women, Razi . . . even little children. I cannot conceive of such a wicked act. It is no wonder Father struggled so hard to hide those machines.’

With a whine, Boro trotted across to the Prince. The Merron straightened anxiously and Oliver tensed, but Alberon, ever a lover of dogs, just glanced down and fondled the hound’s sharp ears. He seemed to lose himself for a moment in this innocent activity; then he took a deep breath.

‘Razi,’ he said at last. ‘What are we going to do? How am I ever to bridge this rift?’

‘We must talk,’ said Razi quietly.

Alberon glanced with uncertainty at the ring of attentive faces sitting around the fire.

‘Not here,’ said Razi.

Alberon nodded. ‘Come on,’ he said and wearily gestured Razi to his side.

Wynter and Christopher went to follow, but Razi held his hand out to still them.

‘Stay,’ he said.

They leapt to object and Razi snapped at them, ‘Stay, goddamn it.

’ Wynter drew herself up in frozen disbelief. He would deny her this? After all they had been through, he would leave her out in the cold? ‘Razi!’ she cried.

But Razi strode past without another word, and she watched in useless rage as he followed his brother out into the dark.



‘Cad a rinne tú? ’

Christopher’s incredulous whisper scratched the surface of a dream, so that one minute Wynter was gazing into her father’s face – impossibly young and streaming with rain, as he screamed, ‘Stop them! For Christ’s sake, Rory! Stop them!’ – and then she was struggling awake, her hands clutching the empty blanket where Christopher should have been.

She lifted herself onto her elbow, looking all about her.

Christopher was at the door of the tent, a black shadow dimly outlined against the faint glow of the dying camp fire. Someone was with him, just a dark shape at first, until he spoke and Wynter recognised Sólmundr’s distinctive throaty rasp. The warrior murmured something low in Merron, and Christopher exclaimed in shock.

Sól clapped a hand to his friend’s mouth. ‘Shhhhhhh, a luch,’ he said. ‘Shhhh.’

Wynter made out Christopher’s nod, and Sólmundr carefully removed his hand from his mouth. She peered around the tent; it was empty but for her. Razi must not yet have returned. She reached for her tunic.

After Razi had left, the women had discreetly retired to the Merron quarters, leaving Christopher and her alone. Wynter had thought nothing of it, and she had simply stalked into her tent and lain down, taut as a bowstring, her head filled with anger. But then Christopher had lain down beside her, put his arms around her and pulled her gently to him, and she had instantly come undone. Before she knew it, she had been sobbing into his chest, great shuddering lungfuls of breath, long gasping sighs; too grief-stricken to stop, too overcome to speak.

‘It ain’t what Lorcan was, lass,’ he had murmured. ‘It ain’t what he was. You know that. He were a lovely man.’ She had shaken her head, bawling silently against the fabric of his shirt. ‘Maybe it was the King that done it,’ he said. ‘Maybe it was the King’s da. You ain’t ever to know, lass, because the King ain’t ever likely to tell you, is he?’ She had clung tighter, drawing him in, wanting him close, and he had stroked her hair. ‘Lorcan was never anything but good to you,’ he whispered, rocking her gently. ‘Ain’t that all you need to know? He was never anything but good to you.’

She had tumbled into sleep like that, weeping inconsolably, with Christopher holding her close. Now her nose and eyes burned with the aftermath of it, and the bed was cold because Christopher had left her to go whisper at the door. She pushed back the covers and dragged her cloak around her, shivering at the intrusion of night air. Good Christ, it was damnably cold.

‘Chris,’ she whispered, jerking on her boots and getting to her feet. ‘What in God’s name are you two doing?’ Christopher didn’t answer, and she went to the door, suddenly nervous. The small space in front of the Merron tents was empty. Christopher was gone.