The Rebel Prince

MAPS AND PLANS



‘IS GREYMOTHER here too, Albi?’ asked Wynter, her voice low in deference to the sleeping cat.

Alberon shook his head sadly. He reached and scratched Coriolanus’s head. ‘I tried to get her to come, but she preferred to take the last of the kittens and go into hiding. Cori had already fallen foul of the poison, and he was simply too weak to keep running. When I sent Oliver and his men ahead, I had them take the poor fellow with them. He has survived it all, poor thing, but as you see, he is not terribly well.’

‘Oh, Albi. Why? Why did the King do it?’

Alberon twitched a smile. ‘I was quite relentless in my hunt for his wonderful machine, Wyn. I simply would not back down.’

Wynter traded a startled glance with Razi. Wonderful machine? That could only be a reference to her father’s infamous Bloody Machine. Were they finally to learn what it was?

Alberon, still occupied in gently scratching the top of Coriolanus’s head, went quietly on: ‘The cats knew every inch of the palace, just like the ghosts. I’m afraid to say that I was constantly questioning the poor creatures. They told me nothing of use, but in the end, Father felt he had no choice but to do away with them. I suppose he found it preferable to poisoning me.’

He looked up into her eyes. Your fault! thought Wynter. All your fault! But Alberon’s smile was so sad, his big hand so gentle on Cori’s fragile back, that she couldn’t bring herself to say it.

Razi, apparently lost in thought, was sprawled in his chair, idly flicking the curled edge of the bigger scroll with the tip of one finger. It was a perfectly casual gesture, but Wynter knew that he was trying to see what the parchment contained. Alberon sat back. The wry amusement in his face told Wynter that he knew exactly what his brother was up to.

‘You sent Oliver ahead?’ asked Razi softly. ‘That is an interesting slant to the tale.’ Alberon’s expression hardened and Razi glanced up to meet his gaze. ‘Court gossip has it the other way around. It is said that Oliver is the one who plotted treason, and that you took his lead, following after him when Father condemned him for it.’

The corner of Alberon’s mouth twitched. ‘Oliver is a knight of the realm, brother, and I the heir to the throne. Who follows whom in that ranking?’ Razi tilted his head in acceptance of this point, and Alberon went on. ‘I sent Oliver ahead to set up this camp and to prepare for my negotiations. He has risked everything for me. Risked his title, his lands, his life and those of his men. Because he believes in me – his Royal Prince – and in my plan for this kingdom’s future. Do not mistake him, Razi; he is ever loyal to our father and to this kingdom, and he is ever faithful to his pledge as a knight. I shall hear no word said against him.’

‘You had better be very vocal in defending him on your return home, then, your Highness. Otherwise you have condemned the poor man to slow death as a traitor to the crown.’

‘Oliver knows what it is to risk his life for the throne, Razi. He is a warrior born. Both he and I would gladly lay down our lives for this kingdom.’

Wynter frowned at this, annoyed by the implication that Razi would not be willing to do the same, but Razi himself did not change his expression of careful detachment, and so Wynter kept her peace.

Alberon spread his hands in abrupt dismissal of the topic. ‘Do not fret yourself over it,’ he said, rising to his feet. ‘Those who stand with me here will never regret it. I shall make certain of that. Our father himself will one day bless their names, you wait and see. Now . . .’ He took a scroll and spread it on the table. ‘Hold that side,’ he ordered, then slammed the pitcher and beakers down on opposite corners to keep the parchment spread. ‘Look.’

Razi spread his hand on the corner nearest him and looked coolly down at the scroll. Wynter hoisted the sleeping cat to her shoulder and shifted to get a good look. Coriolanus mewed softly in his sleep but did not wake.

To Wynter’s disappointment, it was not one of her father’s intricate plans, but a wonderfully executed map of the Europes, detailed with mountains and rivers and political divisions. The delicate bays and peninsulas of the Moroccos coastline embroidered the lower borders, while the scattered coastline of the Northland territories decorated the top. Beautiful little gold-leaf castles represented the seats of power in the various European kingdoms, and a gold palace icon symbolised the qasabah of the Sultan of the Moroccos in Algiers.

Wynter gazed at the ornately drawn white-topped mountains that ringed Jonathon’s kingdom. She looked at the long, straight ribbon of the port road, stretching a remarkable one hundred and eighty-seven bandit-free, well policed miles. Her gaze followed its natural progress out into the channel of peaceful blue wavelets that stretched between Marseilles and Algiers. The only pirate-free shipping lane in the entire Mediterranean Sea, made possible by the unprecedented combination of Moroccan and Southland fleets working together as one. Once again, Wynter marvelled at Jonathon’s remarkable achievement in preserving this small, unusual land in the midst of the violence and hatred that currently ravaged the kingdoms surrounding it.

We have come very close to losing it, she thought sadly. So very close. This small island of tolerance. This little flame of hope in the dark.

She ran her finger across one of the many Here Be Wolves legends that dotted the tumultuous Gibraltars, and gazed at the long, dark border of the Haun territories, now once again gnawing at the fragile borders of Italy and the Venetian States. Wynter’s heart squeezed with anxiety. It was all so unstable, all such a threat.

‘Abdallah ash-Shiekh,’ said Alberon, leaning on the table and staring keenly at his brother.

Razi, who had been regarding the map with uncharacteristic wistfulness, glanced up in surprise. ‘The Sultan of the Moroccos?’ he said. ‘What of him?’

‘He is having problems.’

Razi nodded uncertainly. ‘Some,’ he said. ‘Much the same types of trouble Father has been having. The large numbers of dispossessed Musulmen and Jews pouring in from the Northern inquisitions have put a terrible burden on the Moroccan economy. They have nowhere to live, they have little to live on . . . they are angry. The persecutions that they have suffered in the Europes have caused an upsurge in anti-Christian feeling that the Sultan is finding hard to argue against. It is a delicate situation. But Alberon, none of this is news to you, surely? I understand that communications here were very poor, but I diligently sent Father the most detailed reports, and on my return he seemed well aware—’

‘Why did you not inform us of the attempts to depose him?’

Razi frowned, obviously searching his memory. ‘There have been no attempts to depose the Sultan.’

‘The Corsairs, Razi. The Slawi Corsairs in Fez and their allies among the radical imams. I have absolute proof that they are determined to take power! But because you did not mention it, our father chooses not to believe me!’

There was a long moment during which the brothers regarded each other in silence.

‘Are you going to tell me that you did not know about it?’ asked Alberon, his eyes still on Razi. ‘You who has spent the past five years at the heart of the Sultan’s court?’

The implication of Alberon’s words slowly dawned on Wynter. ‘Albi,’ she whispered. ‘You do not think Razi purposely withheld this information from your father?’

‘Perhaps you underestimated how important the information was?’ asked Alberon. ‘Is that it, brother? I must confess, I cannot see how one could come to such a conclusion – but, still, I am prepared to accept that you might have?’

Wynter stared at her old friend, willing him not to make the accusation she knew was poised on his tongue. Her heart clenched when he spoke again.

‘Or perhaps,’ he said, ‘you were persuaded to stay silent?’

‘Alberon Kingsson,’ she hissed, ‘you ignorant pup.’

Alberon did not so much as glance her way.

‘Tell me, brother,’ he insisted, still leaning across the table. ‘I am most interested to hear your explanation. Knowing that the future of our kingdom depends on the support of the Sultan, why is it that you concealed this mortal weakness at the heart of the Moroccan court?’

‘Someone has misled you,’ said Razi very quietly.

‘I think not!’ cried Alberon, slapping his hand down onto the map. ‘According to my sources, the Sultan’s court is hopelessly divided, and it is only a matter of time before our father’s most powerful ally is dragged from his throne and cast aside. Tell me I am wrong, Razi. Sit there now and dare to tell me that I am wrong, when I have documents proving it, and a contingent of ambassadors on their way here ready to attest it.’

‘You are wrong.’

Alberon held Razi’s gaze for a long, intense moment. Then his face softened and he reached across to pat his brother’s hand. ‘All right,’ he whispered. ‘All right, brother. I believe you are honest. You have obviously been misled; but I believe you fully believe that which you have told our father.’

Razi sat back, his face rigid, his eyes full.

‘Alberon . . .’ hissed Wynter, almost speechless with rage.

‘Alberon, I swear it to you . . . I swear it, I will kick your . . .’

Alberon reached across to squeeze her hand, and she tugged it free with a snarl. He chuckled.

‘Do not be angry, Wyn. Razi understands, don’t you, brother? I had to be sure of his integrity. Here,’ he tapped his head, then slid his hand to his heart, ‘as well as here. Tell her, Razi. It is simply what men like us must do.’

Razi averted his eyes. He coughed into his hand. ‘It is . . . it is simply the world we live in,’ he said hoarsely. ‘One can never be certain.’

‘Aye,’ breathed Alberon. ‘One must be certain.’ He shifted the beakers slightly and gazed down at the map of his father’s kingdom. ‘And so,’ he said, ‘one must make strong that which one has discovered to be weak.’

‘There are no weaknesses in the Moroccan court, Alberon. I can assure you, Sultan Abdallah ash-Shiekh is as strong as ever. He has no—’ ‘Hush now,’ murmured Alberon, waving his hand. ‘You will see. Tomorrow, if my informants finally arrive, I shall be able to prove to you that you have been misled.’

‘I assure you, brother—’

Alberon looked up. ‘That’s enough now,’ he snapped. ‘You have proved yourself to me; you do not need to go on.’

Razi blinked. His jaw popped. Wynter saw him push some dark emotion down behind his eyes.

‘The Northlands,’ said Alberon, tapping the huge expanse of land that comprised Shirken’s kingdom, ‘and Princess Marguerite. She is the key.’ He turned to Wynter. ‘What is she like?’ he asked.

‘An unrelenting tyrant,’ she said tightly.

Alberon laughed. ‘I have no doubt you think so. But that is not what I meant. I meant what does she look like, sis? Paintings can only tell one so much, and one wonders, doesn’t one, how such strength would manifest itself in a woman.’ He looked fondly at Wynter. ‘She would have something of your look, I imagine? A certain fierceness about the eyes? That keen watchfulness not usual in a woman?’

‘I am nothing like her,’ hissed Wynter. ‘It appals me that you would suggest it.’

Alberon grinned, amused at her ferocity. ‘Oh, don’t be tiresome, Wyn. In her letters, Marguerite constantly reminds me of you: her directness of speech, her single-mindedness.’

In her letters. Wynter exchanged a glance with Razi.

‘You have been in regular correspondence with the Royal Princess?’ asked Razi.

‘For many months now.’

‘To what purpose?’

Alberon just smiled slyly and reached for Marguerite Shirken’s folder. There was a watchful silence from Razi as the Prince undid the ties and quickly leafed through the sealed parchments.

In the silence that accompanied Alberon’s examination of Marguerite’s letters, Wynter was ashamed to find herself battling wounded feelings. She had to admit, she was stung beyond any political rage by Alberon’s communication with Marguerite Shirken. Over the past five years, Alberon had never once replied to Wynter’s many personal notes and letters, and she had assumed that they had been lost in the upheaval of the insurrection. But this seemed unlikely now, considering his apparently rich communion with the Northland Princess. She cradled the sleeping cat and stroked his brittle shoulders. She told herself to grow up. So Alberon had not answered her letters. So what? She was no court moppet, willing to take offence at every perceived slight. Alberon had been a prince at war. He would have had no time for the frivolous scribblings of his lonely little sister. He had bigger things to consider, she thought.

She looked beyond the firelight. The camp was lost to darkness, the mountains surrounding them invisible in the night. I know my place, Lorcan’s patient voice whispered in her memory. I know my place. Wynter had always thought she understood that, had always thought she knew exactly what it meant to put one’s self second to matters of state. Now she was not sure. She was not certain she had the depths of selfless calm that had allowed her father to accept his lot in political life. Down below, the Merron camp fire winked at her like a knowing orange star. We know what that’s like, it seemed to say. We know how you feel.

‘For Christ’s sake, sis! Wake up!’

Wynter came back to herself with a start. Razi and Alberon were staring, Razi concerned, Alberon impatient.

‘Tell me of Gunther Shirken,’ Alberon demanded, as if for the third time. ‘I understand he is ill? His mind is unsound?’

‘You are tired, Wyn,’ said Razi softly. ‘Would you like to lie down?’

Alberon regarded her curiously, as if seeing her for the first time. ‘Are you tired?’ he asked. ‘Because . . .’ He gestured to his tent, as if offering her the chance to retire.

She shook her head.

‘It has been a terrible journey, Alberon,’ said Razi. ‘You have no idea. Wynter, perhaps you should consider—’ ‘I am fine.’ Wynter drew herself up, cutting Razi short. ‘King Shirken is an old man, Albi, and my father always claimed that he had a skewed view of this world. But his health is good and he is in firm command of himself. He is in no way of unsound mind. Why do you ask?’

Razi rolled his eyes in defeat and gave up, switching his attention back to the conversation.

Alberon dived straight back into it. ‘Marguerite tells me that her father is more and more unbalanced,’ he said. ‘His legitimate purges have turned to persecutions. His renewed inquisitions are causing unrest. She tells me that the Northlands is on the brink of ruin.’

Wynter hesitated, momentarily overcome with memories of the North. The awful inquisitions, the terrible mass executions. It took her a moment to push these images down. ‘Certainly, Shirken is a rabid cur,’ she said. ‘In truth, I cannot understand how he has survived this long without bringing his country to its knees. While we were there, my father did a tremendous amount of work healing old wounds, but he feared that it was a frail kind of stability. His great worry was that Shirken’s tyranny would push his people into a civil war that would break the Northlands apart.’

‘Disastrous,’ murmured Razi.

Wynter and Alberon nodded in agreement. Shirken’s kingdom was the Southlands’ strongest ally in the Europes, and the North’s primary defence against the Haun. Without Shirken’s stabilising influence, Jonathon’s fragile Northern border would be impossibly compromised.

Alberon tapped his fingers against Marguerite’s sealed papers. ‘So Marguerite’s fears are well founded, then, and her father’s excesses are a cause for concern.’

Wynter frowned. ‘It is not just the King’s excesses, Albi. The Princess herself is an appalling tyrant. In our time there, she called for the most outrageous of purges, her motives often obscure and deeply rooted in her hatred of any differences. You would not believe the things I’ve seen there. Simply . . . simply appalling things.’

Once again Wynter paused. She shook her head, remembering the Northland Princess in all her finery, her beautiful clothes, her famous pearls glowing from every tight coil of her hair. She had always looked so magnificent, but always there had been that terrible smell off her. Wynter knew it still – had smelled it only recently – the fat, scorched, oily stench of human beings burned at the stake. She would never forget that smell, nor its enduring association with Marguerite Shirken.

‘She is an evil person,’ she whispered. ‘I have never met anyone with a heart so black.’

Alberon was very quiet for a moment. ‘I see,’ he said. ‘You . . . you are certain of this, Wyn? Father told me that Lorcan kept you very much apart from court life while you were there – a commendable decision, of course, considering your sex.’

Wynter’s voice was colder then she wished it when she said, ‘One can see a lot from the background, Alberon. Sometimes more than would be considered appropriate.’

‘You were very young though,’ he said, as if he himself were years her senior. ‘It is possible that you have misread the situation?’

‘I grow weary of your implications that Razi and I are somehow incompetent and untrustworthy, your Highness.’

Alberon grimaced apologetically. ‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘I have grown too used to soldiers.’

Wynter accepted his apology with a nod, though she was not certain what he might have meant by it. Alberon ran his fingers across Marguerite’s personal seal.

‘She has managed to conceal this aspect of her nature from me,’ he mused. ‘Such guile. Nevertheless, such things could perhaps be gently curbed as time went by. The influence of a good man and all that.’ Wynter looked sharply at him. Alberon glanced at Razi. ‘You cannot deny her value as an ally, brother.’

‘She has made moves towards an understanding?’ asked Razi.

‘The strongest of such.’

Wynter straightened, a horrible light beginning to dawn. ‘Alberon,’ she said. ‘You cannot mean . . . ?’

She turned to Razi, unable to articulate her despair.

He remained calm, leaning back in his chair, his hand on the map, his eyes on his brother. His voice was soft and devoid of emotion when he said, ‘Father would never conscience such a marriage, Albi.’

Alberon smiled sadly, drummed his fingers, shrugged. ‘What must be done, will be done,’ he said. ‘He will see the sense of it eventually.’

‘Marguerite would never take on a husband!’ cried Wynter. ‘She would never relinquish the power of her throne to a man and put herself into a position of secondary importance. That is something she has always made clear. She . . . she is misleading you, Alberon. You . . . and in any case, your father is right! He has always said that the Shirkens must be kept just so!’ She thrust out her hand, palm out, in an imitation of Jonathon. ‘Their policies are too destructive, their rule of law too . . . just too damned awful to be so closely associated with! It’s a trick! It’s a terrible trick! She’ll see you ruined!’

Coriolanus whined querulously and squirmed in her arms. ‘Calm thyself, cat-servant,’ he hissed. ‘I am quite horribly pinioned!’

‘Marguerite is not about to trick me, Wynter,’ said Alberon. ‘She needs me too much. Nor is she about to hand over the power of her throne to me. She is fully determined to rule. But she has learned the lessons of the Irish Pirate Queen, who had grown old with no heir and now sees her once united court squabbling over her succession. Marguerite is not about to make the same mistake.’ Alberon patted Shirken’s letters. ‘We have drafted a treaty, and will be bound as much by it as by the marriage vow. Marguerite will rule her country, free of an influence from me; as I, eventually, shall rule mine. We do not have to meet but occasionally, to parley terms and the like. And in due course, I have no doubt we will breed an heir or two. But Marguerite and I intend our relationship to be that most courtly of things, Wynter – a political marriage.’

Wynter gazed at him, stunned. On a political level, this was sheer brilliance. A completely courtly, utterly calculated and unprecedented alliance: the rulers of two kingdoms, equal in power, joined by marriage. But that Alberon should even consider such an alliance with a tyrant like Marguerite was dreadful beyond thinking. It was sickening. It made Wynter’s skin crawl.

Alberon quirked a knowing eyebrow at her. ‘The Royal Princess Marguerite is her kingdom’s only hope of survival, Wyn. If her father has become as unbalanced as she claims—’ ‘But Shirken is not unbalanced! He is no more mad than—’ ‘Stop now, Wyn. Stop. I have only your word against Marguerite’s. The word of an outsider viewing things from the edge, versus that of someone at the very heart of the Northern court. In my position, who would you listen to? You were three months travelling home. In that time do you not think it possible that Shirken may have slipped back into frenzy?’

Wynter frowned and sat back. Alberon nodded in approval. He reached over and patted her arm. ‘Come now, sis,’ he said, his tone soft again, and gentle. ‘It’s only a political thing. We all knew I would never marry for love.’ He ducked his head and smiled up at her. ‘Love is what mistresses are for,’ he whispered.

Wynter looked down at the hand Alberon had laid on her arm and all her rage sank under a weight of sorrow. Despite what Alberon thought, Wynter’s outrage up until that moment had been a political one. Now the full implications of what he was planning sank in and she truly understood the depths of the personal sacrifice he was about to make. What Alberon said was true; they all knew it only too well: no royal could ever hope for a love match. Even so, marriage to Marguerite Shirken was very far from what Alberon could have expected for himself. The King had always made nods towards engaging one of the Sultan’s eldest daughters. It would have been a politically expedient match, and Wynter had no doubts that Jonathon would have a least tried for some soft and willing girl, intelligent and not at all a trial to the senses.

The thoughts of Albi with that viper instead, ‘breeding heirs’ as Albi put it, made Wynter shudder. She looked to Razi for support, but Razi was suddenly miles away. He was staring into the fire, his face indescribably sad, and Wynter knew he was remembering his own recent chance at a love match. Embla. That beautiful, gentle woman who had so willingly sacrificed it all to flames of a different kind.

Wynter squeezed her eyes shut.

A long silence ensued. When Wynter eventually looked up, she was surprised to find Razi staring at Alberon. The piercing expression on Razi’s dark face brought Wynter slowly upright in her chair.

‘You are very quiet, brother,’ said Alberon softly.

‘You intend to aid Marguerite Shirken in overthrowing her father’s throne.’

‘Razi!’ Wynter gasped, disgusted that he would even think it. But Alberon only shook his head in bewildered admiration, and Wynter knew at once that Razi was right.

‘Oh, Alberon,’ she moaned, ‘no.’

‘By God, Razi,’ said Alberon. ‘I have been depending on your bringing your words to my assistance – but I had forgot quite how incredible your mind is. What a statesman you must be. With you by my side, I shall be so strong. You must—’ Razi slapped his hand down on the table. ‘You are plotting the usurpation of a king.’

‘I am doing what is best for this kingdom.’

‘Alberon!’ said Wynter. ‘Such an act undermines the very fabric of what it means to be a ruler born! You cannot knock a king from his throne simply because you do not like his rule of law! Why, if we all thought thusly, there would be chaos!’

‘Oh, come along, sis!’ he cried. ‘You sound like an ignorant peasant. You cannot, surely, still be so naive? Most royal families are less than three generations old and you know it! Our own great-grandfather wrest this kingdom from William of Comber. Our historians now call it a legitimate reclamation of title, but let us for one moment admit it for what it actually was, shall we? Two men with big sticks pummelling each other over land – and the man with the biggest stick won. A king only remains a king for so long as he can outsmart, outrun or outfight his opponents, Wynter, and that is the bare and honest truth of it.’

Wynter was speechless. To discover this unabashed cynicism in her royal friend was shocking. It was no less than treason even to express such beliefs – indeed, in some royal courts it was actual blasphemy! Yet she found herself unable to offer a reasonable argument against Alberon’s unflinching candour.

He patted her hand and glanced sideways at Razi. ‘Don’t ever tell Father I said that,’ he whispered.

‘I think he might already suspect it for himself,’ said Razi.

Alberon nodded, apparently oblivious to the dry irony in his brother’s voice. ‘Yes, yes indeed. He of all men would be so aware of it. I still find it impossible to bear: after all Father has done to improve the lot of this kingdom, that he should almost have been brought down by those who wish a return to the terrible ways of old.’

‘The elite of this land come from far simpler times, Alberon, and are not used to the loss of power and wealth that Father’s vision foists upon them. It will always be difficult to convince men of power that the payment of fair wages is better than slavery and that all men have the right to equality under law. Father has always known that his reforms would be the cause of trouble with some.’

‘There is nothing the aristocracy fears more than a confident, well educated populace,’ murmured Wynter, quoting her own father’s favourite saying. ‘Your father has only ruled for fifteen years, Albi. It will take time for him to win over those who still believe in the old ways.’

‘Win over . . . or root out,’ said Alberon darkly. ‘There can be no in between.’

‘Which brings us neatly back to the point, Alberon. Our sister is right. The usurpation of one king weakens them all. I cannot condone your plans. Tyrant or not, mad or not, Shirken must be supported against sedition.’

Alberon withdrew his hand from Wynter’s and sat back. ‘Feel free to discuss the immorality of sedition all night, brother; it will not change the fact that Marguerite is determined to take the Northland throne. She will attempt this with or without my support. Without my support she may fail, and if she fails, her kingdom will be ruined and the Europes will fall into disarray. Where will our father’s wonderful plans for the future lie then?’ At his brother’s silence, Alberon nodded tightly. ‘So, I am determined to ensure the rest of the Europes shall not suffer for Marguerite’s actions – in fact, I hope to use this opportunity to improve the lot of many.’

‘What do you intend to do?’ asked Wynter.

‘The Haun are my primary concern here, sis. If Marguerite cannot take the throne by political means and must recourse to war, I fear that the Haun will take advantage and attempt an invasion while her armies are divided. And that,’ he said, rising grimly to his feet, ‘is where I intend to come in.’