The Rebel Prince

SUPPER



‘ANTHONY! DID you take this from the men?’

‘And risk thee clapping me in irons? Indeed I did not, your Highness. They gave it up to thee as a gift.’

Alberon leaned over the little pot of stewed meat and inhaled gratefully. ‘Who caught it?’ he asked.

‘Who dost thou think?’

‘Surely not?’ laughed Alberon, turning to grin at the little servant, who was busy plumping a threadbare pillow into the crook of the chair he had reserved for Wynter. ‘Not the Italians again?’

‘Aye. Again. There’s none can beat them.’

‘Good Christ,’ said Alberon. ‘There’ll not be a boar left alive by the time we head home. Where are they?’

‘Loitering at the base of the hill this last twenty minutes, pretending to haul wood and hoping for a word of praise.’

Alberon strode across to the head of the slope. The boy patted the cushion and glanced shyly at Wynter. ‘Protector Lady,’ he said. ‘I have made it all comfortable for thee.’

His bashful courtliness and use of formal speech had Wynter unconsciously smoothing out non-existent skirts and nodding in gracious thanks as she took her place at the table. In his beautifully tailored scarlet long-coat and freshly polished boots, Razi looked far more the part, and the wee servant waited with tense anxiety as the Lord Razi surveyed the rock-hard cheese, tiny portions of unleavened bread and scoopful of boiled meat that were being served for dinner.

‘There’s onions in the stew, my Lord,’ he said hopefully.

Razi gazed at him for a moment, then turned to Alberon, who was watching two men drag a wood-cart around the base of the hill. ‘You set a generous table, your Highness,’ called Razi. ‘I am most grateful for your hospitality.’

Alberon glanced wryly at him, but the young servant drew himself up with surprised delight. He enthusiastically lifted the jug of small-ale. ‘May I pour thy drink, my Lord?’

Razi eyed the rather thick-looking concoction, and Wynter hid a smile at his strained expression. ‘You may,’ he murmured and the little lad poured with careful ceremony.

‘Thank you,’ smiled Wynter as her own beaker was filled. She took a sip and eyed Alberon, who was standing, hands on hips, watching the two men. His face was grave as he took in their ostentatiously slow progress.

‘Did all the men get a little meat, Anthony?’

‘Pickets and all, Highness. All equal.’

‘You are certain? None was left out?’

‘No one left out, your Highness. ’Twas two full-grown boar, plenty to go around.’

‘And the guests?’

‘All but them newcomers, your Highness. They having arrived after ration-up.’

‘Very well,’ whispered Alberon. Then he stepped forward and lifted his arms.

‘Eduardo and Phillip di Oliva!’ he yelled. ‘Is no boar safe from your spears?’ The two men at the base of the hill grinned and paused to shade their eyes. ‘If it’s true that a soldier walks further on a full belly then you two have, once again, lengthened our stride!’

Alberon’s strong voice carried far across the sleepy camp and, at once, an answering cheer rang back from the darkening tents. He cut an impressive figure, gilded in evening light, his strong arms raised over his head, his pale hair rimmed with the last of the dying sun. Razi and Wynter watched carefully as his men gathered in the purple shadows of the thoroughfare and gazed up at their prince, smiling.

‘The Italians have filled our cook-pots once again!’ he called. ‘What say you, men? Once we are safe returned to my father’s palace, and settled again within the arms of our families, do you think perhaps that two swarthy brothers might find themselves granted licence to hunt and provender for my father’s kitchen?’

There was a roar of approval and several good-humoured catcalls from the gathered men. The two Italians at the base of the hill pucked each other and grinned in delight. Alberon nodded to them, smiling, and they bowed.

‘Now shift that wood, you laggards! Or I’ll have ye tarred.’

More laughter, and the camp quieted as the men returned to their dinners and their work. In the civilian quarters, smoke was drifting from the roof-holes of the Haun shelters. The Combermen were seated in the shadows of their awning, their figures intermittently outlined in the dim glow from their pipes. The Merron were busy settling themselves down. Wynter discreetly craned her neck, trying to catch a glimpse of Christopher, but all she could see was Wari crouched outside the main door of their borrowed tent, blowing a fire to flame. Alberon stood for a moment, his eyes on the blue Midland pavilion. He shifted his gaze to the Merron tent, then he sighed. Tiredly, he ran his hand across his forehead and turned to smile at his guards.

‘You may go eat now,’ he said. ‘I shall not need you again till morning.’

The men’s eyes slid warily to Razi, and Alberon chuckled.

‘Charles,’ he said, and one of the men snapped to attention. ‘You may fetch the Lord Razi his weapons; also those of the Protector Lady. They shall be my protection for tonight.’ The men’s eyes widened in ill-concealed alarm, and Alberon chuckled again. ‘Go,’ he said, and the soldiers reluctantly obeyed, glancing over their shoulders all the while, their disquiet obvious on their faces. Alberon watched them retreat down the hill.

‘Your men love you,’ said Razi softly.

‘They have risked all for me, and for my father’s kingdom. They are men of gold.’

Alberon watched as his soldiers approached the civilian quarters; then he crossed to sit at the table. Wynter thought he seemed spent suddenly, all his sparkle gone.

‘Light the candles, will you, Anthony?’ he sighed. ‘And have someone bring wood for the brazier. I do not want the Protector Lady to get cold.’ He glanced up when the boy hesitated. ‘There are no more candles?’ he asked.

‘I can look for some, your Highness, but . . .’

‘Never mind. Go on now, get that fire built, good lad. It will give us light enough, along with the heat . . . Oh, Anthony?’

‘Aye, your Highness?’

‘Make certain that Sir Oliver eats tonight.’

‘Aye, your Highness.’

The boy left them, and there was silence between the friends as they watched Alberon’s guards clatter up the hill with Razi and Wynter’s weapons.

‘That chop-fingered savage didn’t want to give ’em up,’ muttered one of the soldiers, handing over the weapons. ‘He’s a right difficult cur, that ’un.’

Wynter leaned out and saw Christopher standing at the base of the hill, a pale spectre in the rapidly falling twilight. She discreetly lifted her hand. All is well. He stood for a moment watching her, then he padded away into the shadows. Wynter tried to follow his progress, hoping to see him return to the safety of the Merron tents, but he was lost almost as soon as he turned from her. When she faced back to the table, Alberon was watching her closely.

‘You seem well in with the Merron,’ he said.

Wynter found herself momentarily lost for words, certain that any attempt to define her relationship with the Merron would betray her feelings for Christopher. Alberon frowned at her silent discomfort. He glanced down at the shadows where Christopher had been standing.

‘I . . . I would not say we are well in with them,’ ventured Wynter, bringing Alberon’s thoughtful frown back to her.

Razi huffed. ‘The Merron have been useful, that is all. We crossed paths on our journey here. I treated one of their warriors and they gave us shelter.’

Alberon dismissed his lingering men and waited for them to leave before speaking again.

‘You called that thief your friend,’ he said.

‘Christopher is not a thief,’ corrected Wynter.

‘Freeman Garron is not one of them,’ said Razi. ‘Do not make that mistake, Alberon.’

Alberon regarded the two of them carefully, his eyes hopping from one fierce expression to another.

‘So you have no allegiances to those people?’ he said at last.

‘None,’ said Razi firmly.

‘That is good, brother. There is no place in our world for them.’

Wynter’s heart went cold at that, but if Alberon’s harsh words chilled his brother, Razi certainly gave no sign of it. He simply shrugged his shoulders as if the Merron’s fate was of no concern to him.

‘When you addressed your men, you said my father’s palace,’ murmured Wynter. Alberon nodded. ‘Are we to take it that you do not stand against the King?’ she asked.

Alberon tutted, waving his hand dismissively, as if the answer to the question was too obvious to articulate.

‘He believes that you do,’ said Razi.

Alberon rolled his eyes. ‘Father and I have disagreed,’ he said. ‘That is all.’

‘Disagreed?’ said Wynter. ‘Disagreed? Is that what you call this? Alberon, the kingdom is rocked to its core!’

Alberon smiled at her in galling amusement, and Razi laid his hand on hers, squeezing gently to silence her. His voice was carefully neutral when he said, ‘I must agree with our passionate sister, Alberon. This would seem a touch more than a disagreement. People are dying because of it.’

Alberon lost his smile. ‘People have been dying these last five years, brother. Did you forget that?’

‘Of course not,’ said Razi.

‘Perhaps death is easily disregarded when you have not been the one wading through the blood of the fallen?’

‘Alberon, I do not deny that the insurrection was bitter fought. I am simply pointing out that this current rift between you and our father is doing nothing to heal the kingdom’s wounds.’

‘This kingdom has no hope if Father continues rejecting my plans, Razi. He must be brought to see sense. He must! Or else all we have endured has been for naught. We may as well have laid down our arms as soon as those damned troublemakers set their faces against his reforms.’ Razi went to speak and Alberon threw up his hand in a now familiar gesture of dismissal. ‘You will help me convince him,’ he said. ‘You have always been the one with the words, Razi. You will make our father understand how sensible my ideas are. You will bring him to see reason. We cannot rule this kingdom as lambs, Razi! Not as lambs! We must do it as lions, or we shall not rule at all!’

‘I cannot see that your father has ever been a lamb,’ murmured Wynter. ‘Not in any way that endangered his throne.’

Alberon huffed bitterly as if to say, What would you know of it.

If Razi had anything to add to this, he bit it down as Anthony returned and began setting a fire in the brazier. The three of them sat in silence as he did so, and Alberon took the opportunity to demolish his paltry meal, draining his beaker of small-ale and pouring himself another. ‘Eat,’ he ordered, pointing at Wynter’s plate. ‘Don’t waste what is so hard won.’

Wynter made a grudging attempt to gnaw at the bread, but not even her great hunger could combat its hardness, and so she crumbled it in with her meat, hoping the juices would soften it.

Alberon’s lips tightened as his brother neither ate nor drank, but simply fidgeted with his beaker as he waited for the little servant boy to leave. ‘Have you gone religious on me in your time away?’ he asked abruptly.

Razi looked up at him, startled, and then down at the beaker. ‘No, I . . . it’s just . . .’

Wynter frowned. ‘Small-beer never did agree with him, Albi,’ she said. ‘Particularly unfiltered. Surely you remember?’

Alberon tutted with sudden impatience and snatched the beaker from Razi’s hand. ‘Bring the Lord Razi some water, Anthony,’ he said. He grimaced disapprovingly at Razi. ‘You’ll not find any cold sherbets here, brother. Let alone a concubine to serve them up to you. You would do well to toughen up.’

‘Alberon!’ cried Wynter.

Razi was silent and motionless for a moment. He nodded his thanks as Anthony poured him some water. ‘I shall try to live up to your Highness’s example,’ he said.

Alberon sighed. ‘Do not get surly now. I do not mean to be short with you. It simply galls me that you would turn your nose up at the same stuff as sustains my men. You are among warriors now, Razi. You must learn to win them over.’

‘Razi is no court fop, Alberon. Do not be so—’ Once again Razi placed his hand on Wynter’s and squeezed gently to silence her. ‘How do you mean to strengthen our father’s kingdom, Albi?’

Alberon grinned, his face transformed with sudden delight. ‘Ah, now we get to it!’ he said, shoving back his plate and leaping to his feet. ‘Finish your meal,’ he called, heading for the door. ‘Let Anthony clear the table.’

The tinder in the brazier caught flame and Anthony sat back as the fire roared abruptly to life. At the door to his tent, Alberon paused and looked over at Wynter, his face illuminated in the blaze, his eyes shining with grave delight. ‘I have a lovely surprise for you, Wyn,’ he said gently. ‘You will be so happy.’ He ducked inside and disappeared from view.

Wynter glared after him, angry at his unfathomable attitude towards his brother and thrown by his unpredictable changes of mood. Razi kept his hand on hers, his eyes on the dark rectangle of the door.

‘My Lord?’ Anthony hovered at Razi’s elbow, waiting for his dishes. Razi did not seem to hear him, and Anthony glanced at Wynter. She smiled tightly, ate the few mouthfuls of bread and meat on her plate and nodded for him to clear her place.

‘Razi,’ she murmured. ‘Eat your meal. Let the child finish his work.’

Razi mechanically complied, and the young servant pottered off with the dishes, leaving the pitchers and beakers behind. Wynter shrugged her cloak up around her neck and watched as his little figure disappeared into the dusk.

She waited until he was well out of earshot, then murmured tightly, ‘Alberon has no right to speak to you that way.’

‘He has spent years at war,’ said Razi, his lips barely moving. ‘He does not think that I can understand.’

‘I cannot tolerate it. If he persists—’

‘Hush now, Wyn.’

Razi was intensely focused on the door to Alberon’s tent. Wynter turned her attention there too, tilting her head to catch any noise from within. There was nothing but silence. They waited. The fire popped and crackled as it took hold of the bigger logs, and Wynter found herself glad of the extra heat. The thin mountain air had grown rapidly colder with the loss of the sun.

Soon the weather will turn, she thought, and there will be no hope of feeding even this small number of men. It is perfectly obvious that his supplies are already starting to fall low. Alberon must surely know that his time is running short.

If Alberon was aware of this – and how could he not be – it certainly didn’t show in his demeanour. He seemed nothing but doggedly determined to succeed. Glancing at Razi’s intent face, it occurred to Wynter that, despite Alberon’s tiresome needling of his half-brother, much of his confidence was rooted in Razi’s ability to sell his plan to their father.

She leaned in, meaning to make this point to Razi, but a low muttering from within the tent silenced her. Alberon’s voice came gentle and low through the canvas, and Wynter met Razi’s eye as they heard him say, ‘Come now, do not be ill-humoured. It is only outside, and I promise . . . you will be pleased.’

Slowly, Razi sat upright, alarm clear in his face. There was someone else in there! Wynter remembered Alberon’s sleeping area – half-obscured by heavy netting, the neat bedding dressed in shadow – and she turned in her seat, her eyes wide. Alberon came to the door of his tent, his face glowing with that mischievous delight so familiar from their youth. Under his left arm, he had Marguerite’s folder and two rolls of bulky parchment; in his right arm, a bundle of cloth.

‘Clear the damned table,’ he laughed, struggling with his poorly balanced scrolls. Razi jumped up, shoved the pitchers and beakers aside, and wiped the table clear of crumbs and grease. Alberon threw his papers carelessly on top. Then he gently hoisted the cloth bundle in both arms and, grinning, deposited it into Wynter’s lap.

The bundle moved and Wynter had to prevent herself from leaping to her feet in alarm and dashing it from her. Her first thoughts were that in a fit of his old puckish devilment, Alberon had put a sack full of rats on her knee. But then the bundle sighed with a familiar, haughty impatience and Wynter stilled, her hands up, hardly daring to believe it. The cloth was shrugged aside and a grey-furred head emerged. Wynter’s vision blurred with tears as huge, gold-green eyes blinked up at her.

‘Coriolanus?’ she whispered.

The cat gazed at her for a moment, frowning. Then he rolled his eyes. ‘Oh,’ he said wearily. ‘’Tis but thee. Pfffft. For this, he-who-is-heir drags me from a warm nest.’

‘Coriolanus!’ She grabbed the disgruntled creature under his scrawny shoulders and held him up to the light. He let out a small whine of genuine pain and Wynter saw with dismay how thin he was, how threadbare his once sleek fur had become.

‘Unhand me, girl,’ he hissed, and she lowered him gently onto her lap. He lay panting for a moment, his heaving ribs horribly defined in the flaring light of the fire. Then he slid a glance to Wynter and grimaced. ‘Great Hunter,’ he gasped. ‘I had quite forgot what a grabbish little human thou were.’

‘Sorry,’ she whispered, smiling down at him, her hands poised. She could not believe he was still alive. She had returned from the North to find them all gone – all those sleek, self-possessed friends of her childhood, fallen victim to an inexplicable purge; killed on the murderous order of the King. But here he was, Cori, her favourite, the smoke-coloured companion of her happy youth.

He closed his eyes for a moment to gather himself, then sighed. ‘Thou mayst pet me,’ he said graciously. ‘If thou wishest. I should be quite happy to allow it.’

‘Thank you.’ Gently she ran her hand from his shoulders to his tail, just as he had always liked it.

‘Mmmmmm,’ he purred.

Wynter gazed at Alberon, her eyes quite uncontrollably full of tears as her old cat-friend stretched and stiffly curled himself on her knee. Thank you, Albi. Thank you so much.

Alberon smiled and nodded, his own eyes very, very bright.

Coriolanus sighed again and settled his chin down against his chest. His spine was a well defined serration beneath Wynter’s palm, his poor body a thinly covered collection of bones. ‘Great Hunter, girl,’ he murmured, already almost asleep, ‘what hast thou been doing? Thou smellest most strongly of dog.’ And he drifted off, perfectly content, his rusty purr in warm harmony with the crackling of the fire.