The Rebel Prince

THE DEFIANT GESTURE



‘YOU VERY quiet,’ said Sólmundr, eyeing Christopher across the neck of his horse.

Christopher shrugged, tightened the girth on his saddle and snapped his stirrups into place.

‘You feel not good?’

‘I’m fine,’ he grunted, swinging into the saddle and pulling his horse around. ‘Stop acting the old biddy and saddle up.’

Sólmundr met Wynter’s eye. Christopher had been silent and prickly since the night before, and Sól, usually so easygoing, had nagged at the young man’s ill humour like an anxious hen. He was making Christopher worse.

The sooner Razi and I get them from camp the better, thought Wynter.

She tugged her saddlebags into place and glanced across to where Razi stood in conversation with Jared. The Lady Mary had refused Razi’s protection, as Alberon had known she would. To Wynter’s surprise, however, the priest had been remarkably open to the idea. Wynter was trying hard to be gracious about his intentions, but it was easy to suspect that this had less to do with Mary’s welfare, and more with the hassles of trailing a pregnant woman all the way home.

‘I shall speak with her again,’ said Jared. ‘Try and convince her of the sense of it.’

‘Please do,’ said Razi. ‘And do your best to convey my sincerity, won’t you? There will be nothing of the beggar’s taint involved. No unsavoury implications. The Lady D’Arden will have every dignity, and her child the best of care. You do believe me, Presbyter? You will press my case?’

Jared sighed and ran his hand across the gleaming whiteness of his scalp. ‘I’ll try,’ he said, ‘but it is vital I leave today. If I cannot convince her to stay, I must take her with me. There’s naught else for it.’ He tutted. ‘If only the Blessed Virgin had not made that damned journey on an ass, my Lady might feel less inclined to risk the same . . . oh, God forgive me for saying so!’ he said and blessed himself quickly, three times in a row. ‘She is an exasperating woman, though,’ he muttered. ‘I’m not so certain you’re wise in taking her on.’

Razi extended his hand. ‘Do your best,’ he said quietly.

Wynter paused in the act of tying her blanket roll, and stared as the priest gripped Razi’s dark hand and shook it. She did not know why, after all the things she had witnessed in the last few months, but this sight arrested her – a Midland priest shaking an Arab’s hand, their faces set in solemn accord.

The two men were caught in a slanting shaft of early light, and it rimmed them in gold, throwing their shadows long and misshapen against the sloping sides of the Merron quarters. As Jared released Razi’s hand and turned away, Hallvor emerged from the darkness of the tent behind them. She carried Sólmundr’s bright wool cloak in her arms, and as she slipped past Razi the sun glanced hotly from her bracelets and glowed in the fluid blackness of her hair before she crossed back into shadow.

It was a moment so vivid and so inexplicably sad that it stole Wynter’s breath.

Úlfnaor ducked from the other tent and waited while Razi watched the priest leave. Then the big Aoire smiled and bowed, offering his hand to Razi in farewell. The Merron gathered in a silent row behind them, their faces grave as the two men shook hands.

‘We shall see each other again,’ said Razi.

‘I want tell you thanks, Tabiyb, but there not ever to be enough words for it.’

Razi nodded silently and turned away, heading for his horse. Úlfnaor’s attention lifted to Sólmundr, who was just taking to his saddle. The Aoire met his friend’s eye and his face creased in wordless emotion. Sólmundr grimaced ruefully and shrugged. By his horse, Hallvor stood with his cloak in her hand, her dark eyes sad.

‘Sól, mo mhuirnín,’ she whispered, ‘tar ar ais gan mhoill.

’ Taking his cloak, Sólmundr leaned perilously low and pressed his forehead to hers, squeezing his eyes shut. ‘Slán, a stór,’ he whispered.

‘You to stay alive!’ shouted Wari suddenly, and Sól laughed, his forehead still pressed to Hallvor’s. He straightened and pulled his horse into line.

‘Don’t go hunting any Wolfs without me!’ he said. ‘It is for my son and I their heads are keeping.’

Úlfnaor and Wari nodded in dark understanding. Úlfnaor murmured a translation, and the other warriors grinned knowingly. Surtr made a cutting motion at his throat. Wynter frowned as she took to the saddle, glancing at Razi, who was pretending not to notice or understand. Christopher, hard-faced and silent, just waited expressionlessly to pull away.

‘Iseult?’ Wynter glanced down to find Hallvor smiling gravely up at her. ‘You take care of yourself, luichín, yes? You and your odd little tribe.’ Wynter nodded. ‘And do not forget.’ Hallvor tapped her temple, a wicked twinkle in her eye. ‘If Coinín ever gives you any trouble, hit him in the head, preferably with your boot.’

Wynter couldn’t quite bring herself to smile. ‘You will take care of the Lady Mary?’ she asked. ‘For as long as she remains in your care?’

Hallvor nodded. ‘I will protect her,’ she said. ‘I swear it.’

She squeezed Wynter’s hand, then stepped back as Razi clucked his mare past them, heading for the thoroughfare. Christopher pulled his horse into line behind him. He seemed lost in his own thoughts, and it was clear that he intended leaving without saying goodbye to his Merron friends.

‘Coinín,’ called Úlfnaor. The young man paused. ‘Fear óg thú, a Choinín. Tá neart ama agat.

’ Christopher nodded without looking back and went to kick on.

‘I will mind the little boy!’ called Úlfnaor. ‘You not needs to worry.’

Christopher reined his horse around, his eyes wide, and with a surge of painful understanding, Wynter realised that Úlfnaor had hit upon the source of his distress.

‘He’s so small,’ said Christopher urgently, ‘he ain’t got a chance against them.’

Úlfnaor shook his head. ‘They not get him.’

‘You need to watch them all the time, though. Watch Jean! Make him understand that if he does aught, we’ll remember it. Let them know that we are strong.’

‘I swears it,’ soothed the Aoire. ‘You not to worry.’

Christopher blushed suddenly, as if embarrassed by his outburst, and he straightened. Nodding curtly, he pulled his horse back around and glanced at Razi, who turned without further word and led the way between the tents. Wynter fell into place behind them, Sól, Boro and a cranky little pack mule trailing after. They followed Razi up the alley and out onto the road, where they fanned out behind him in unplanned unison, an unlikely squad of mismatched knights backing their Lord.

There had been no plans for ceremony, but of course the soldiers had gathered to witness the departure of the man upon whom they were all dependent. Alberon and Oliver were standing at the head of the slope, and they watched as Razi led his little entourage to the base of the hill. It was not possible that a crown prince would come to stand by a lord’s horse, squinting up at him like some common groom, so Alberon waited, his face bland, as Razi slid from his mount and trudged his way up the slope to kneel at his feet. Wynter scanned the crowd as Alberon gave Razi his blessing. She was appeased by the hopeful expectancy in the men’s faces. They had truly taken Albi’s words to heart, it seemed, and she could see no trace of sullenness or the repressed aggression of before.

It brought a mingling of unease and relief that the Loups-Garous were nowhere to be seen. Perhaps they were simply too ill to be bothered. Let them stay abed, she thought, discreetly scanning the tents behind her. Let them keep their damned faces away and allow us to depart in peace. But it was a futile wish and her heart twisted with bleak anger as she saw Jean, his clothes crumpled, his pale hair tossed, stagger to the edge of the road and sneer at the proceedings on the hill.

Neither Sól nor Christopher noticed the Wolf ’s presence, and Wynter faced front so that she would not draw their attention to him. The Wolves would not be a problem in any case. Razi was right: Alberon’s promises had tamed them, and they would do nothing now but posture. They knew that their future depended on Razi’s survival. Even they would not be foolish enough to risk their fortunes in avenging the death of a slave.

At the royal tent, Razi rose to his feet. The Royal Prince took a letter from his coat, looked at it for a moment, then handed it over. Razi took it with a bow. Then Alberon, ever impulsive, broke the air of solemn formality and pulled his brother in for a hug. His voice drifted faintly down the brightening air as he tousled Razi’s curls and, like a man years senior to his brother, said, ‘Take care of yourself, you damned pup.’

Wynter smiled at the exasperation on Razi’s face as he raked his hair into order and came striding down the hill.

As Razi took to his horse, Alberon met Wynter’s eye and smiled. He lifted his hand in fond farewell. Wynter nodded a bow. Adieu, brother. We shall meet soon.

‘Come along,’ said Razi, turning to face into the morning light. ‘Let us fly. Our time is gold.’

The soldiers had already begun to turn away, their minds drifting to the many chores that made up the military day. As the entourage urged their horses down through the dusty camp, Wynter saw Razi’s head turn to the silent darkness of the Midland quarters. He was, perhaps, hoping that the Lady Mary would show her face in farewell, but she remained decently secluded.

The supply tent was a hive of work as the cooks and rationeers began the complex process of feeding a camp of hungry men. From habit, Wynter let her eyes drift across the surface of the activity, watching for danger. At her side, Christopher did the same, his vigilance disguised by his usual careless slouch. She noticed something catch his eye, and he straightened slightly, following a movement in the crowd.

Anthony was making his careful way between the busy men, his little arms stretched out, his attention absorbed in not spilling the kettle of water he held poised before him. As soon as Wynter saw the little servant weaving through the heedless crowd, she startled and swung around to check for Jean. Her only thought was, I hope Anthony is on the hill before that cur sees him, but Christopher was alerted by her sudden turn in the saddle, and he turned to see the cause. Wynter’s heard dropped as he followed her gaze directly to the Wolf.

Jean was dull and listless, his energy obviously sapped by the lingering effects of the poison, and he was simply leaning at the corner of the tents, watching Razi’s progress through the crowd. He had no notion of the child, who was hidden from his view among the men on the far side of the road, and Wynter realised at once that he’d had no intention of causing trouble. But Christopher’s angry face caught Jean’s eye, and the Wolf couldn’t seem to resist the challenge in the young man’s expression.

Grinning, Jean pushed himself straighter and called something in Arabic. Whatever he said must have been wickedly crude, because Razi swung around to look at him, his face raw with shock. Jean laughed knowingly, that horrible cackle, and his eyes flitted from Razi’s scarlet face to Christopher’s. He winked lewdly. Razi snarled and immediately turned away, furious that he had allowed himself to respond.

‘Tóin caca,’ hissed Sólmundr and he, too, turned front, dismissing the Wolf with cool disdain.

Christopher, however, held the Wolf ’s eyes, and as his horse came level to where Jean was standing, Christopher ducked his chin and ran his fingers under his collar, pulling something bright from the neck of his shirt. Wynter knew what it would be before the silver teeth cleared Christopher’s collar, and her heart fell as he tugged Razi’s necklace out into the open and arranged it so that it lay gleaming against the dark fabric of his tunic.

Jean frowned, squinting, and Wynter saw understanding slacken the Wolf ’s face as he recognised the warm amber stones and the glittering silver fangs that now decorated his former slave’s throat. He lifted his eyes to Christopher’s, his smile gone. Christopher grinned. He pressed his scarred finger to the gleaming tip of a silver fang, then slowly extended his arm to point at Jean.

All the implications of this gesture crawled bright and clear across Jean’s face, and he stumbled backwards, horrified. Wynter knew he now understood exactly where the Wolves’ fortunes lay, and she understood, too, that this changed everything.

Christopher had just told Jean, You have no future. He had just told him, This is your fate. One day you too shall be an ornament hung around a slave’s neck.

Jean turned and stumbled away between the tents, and Wynter suspected that Christopher had just undone the only knot that had been holding the Wolves in place. The muzzle of their restraint had come loose, and nothing now remained to hold them in check.