HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS

OLIVER’S SWORD came down to tap Christopher’s hand. ‘You would do well to unhand the lady,’ he said softly, and he pressed the flat of his sword against Christopher’s arm until he had pushed the young man’s hand from Wynter’s waist.

Christopher stepped back, arms spread, and Oliver gestured with his sword that he should back away from Wynter. Christopher looked at her, uncertain. She saw the surprise in his eyes when she didn’t immediately defend him, and her heart dropped.

On the trail it had been so easy to forget their differences. They had been just Christopher and Iseult, and for what had felt like the longest time, that had been all that mattered. There had never been time to discuss this return to court life, and Wynter had always assumed that Christopher would simply adapt to it. In a sudden rush of panic and regret, she realised that they had left far too many things unsaid, and now it was too late. She stared at him, her face a cool mask, the memory of their last kiss still ghosted upon her lips, and she prayed that Christopher would play along until they had time to talk things through. But Christopher’s clear grey eyes hardened, his chin lowered, and Wynter’s heart squeezed in alarm as she realised that he was going to say something both of them would regret.

Alberon’s dry laugh saved them. Wiping his eyes, he looked Christopher up and down in tolerant amusement and addressed Oliver in Southlandast.

‘Go easy on him, Sir Knight,’ he said. ‘These fellows have not the sense of propriety one might desire. The poor savage probably thinks he’s gaining favour by protecting Razi’s woman – forgive my crudeness, Wyn.’

‘Alberon...’ warned Razi.

‘Oliver, why don’t you take him out to those others,’ continued Alberon. ‘Get them something to gnaw on and somewhere to squat down until I am ready to deal with them.’

‘Alberon...’ said Wynter quietly.

‘Actually,’ interrupted Christopher, uncovering his face, ‘this savage would prefer to stay, until the Lord Razi tells him otherwise.’

There was a moment of strained silence as Alberon registered the fact that Christopher spoke perfect Southlandast.

‘Freeman Christopher Garron is my Second, your Highness,’ said Razi, ‘my bodyguard. As well as a very good friend.’

‘A friend,’ said Alberon. The Prince regarded Christopher coolly, his clothes, his bracelets. His eyes faltered on Christopher’s horribly mutilated hands, then rose smoothly to his face. ‘Your Southlandast is excellent, Freeman Garron.’

‘Thank you, your Highness,’ said Christopher flatly.

Bow, thought Wynter. Bow, damn it. But, of course, he didn’t.

‘Do the others speak Southlandast?’ asked Alberon. ‘It seems underhanded to conceal the fact if they do. I had expected to deal with the Princess’s messengers via Garmain; ’twas a surprise to find these folk speak only Hadrish, and so poorly at that. Though, perhaps...?’ He looked uncertainly at Christopher, doubt evident in his expression. ‘Perhaps you are their translator?’

Christopher glared, that dangerous pride rising in his face. ‘I have no doubt that the Merron lords speak Garmain with every fluency,’ he said. ‘They chose to speak Hadrish out of deference to the Lord Razi. He speaks neither Garmain nor the Merron tongue, and the Merron would consider it below their dignity as noblemen to indulge in a conversation that one of their party could not understand.’

If Alberon felt the sting of that he did not let it show. ‘I see,’ he said. He glanced back at Razi, spent a brief moment in contemplation, then turned to Oliver. ‘Go out now and thank the Merron leader for his duty to my brother. Tell him that I am pleased. Find accommodation for him and for his entourage... make it good accommodation.’

Oliver hesitated. He glanced at Christopher, then murmured, ‘There are no accommodations, your Highness.’

Alberon sighed. ‘Just double up the men, somehow. Commandeer some tents. I want those people settled by nightfall, Oliver. I have no desire to set them above their station, but if they are to stay, I want them where I can see them. You, Freeman, go with Sir Oliver. Keep an eye on your people; report back to him if there is discontent.’

Christopher stiffened. ‘I ain’t no spy,’ he hissed.

‘Christopher.’ Razi’s quiet voice drew everyone’s attention to him. ‘It would probably be wise that you help the Merron get settled.’ Christopher held his eye. ‘The Protector Lady and I will be safe,’ said Razi, smiling gently. ‘Thank you, friend.’

Christopher flicked a glance at Wynter, and she nodded to let him know that she would be fine. She tried to soften her face, tried to smile and seem warmly grateful like Razi, but she had the horrible feeling that she looked as though she were haughtily dismissing a servant. Christopher compressed his mouth, staring at her. Then he gave Alberon one last suspicious glare, bowed stiffly and stalked out the door. Wynter did not turn her head to watch him exit the tent.

Oliver loitered unhappily, his eyes hopping from brother to brother.

‘Shoo!’ said Alberon with a smile. ‘Out! I shall write you a full report by morning.’

Oliver gave him a tight-jawed look, bowed and left, leaving Wynter, Razi and Alberon alone.

The three of them stood still for a moment as the light within the tent flickered and danced with the movement of the men outside. Dust filtered through the open door, hazing the air as the soldiers retreated. Two long shadows fell against the canvas as Alberon’s personal guard took position at the awning. It grew quiet.

The little boy-servant came and peeped in at the door. Alberon smiled at him.

‘Small-ale, Anthony, please. Some cheese and... is there bread?’

The boy nodded, and Alberon waved him away. They listened to him scamper off, then Alberon turned to his family. ‘How shall we do this?’ he asked softly. ‘So many things...’ He looked to Razi. ‘I should like to finish my negotiations, Razi. Before we go back. I had always planned to bring it to him, a fait accompli, and there is still much to do. Though all is nearly ready.’

Razi stood with his back to a small dark-wood folding table. He reached behind him and placed his fingertips on the scarred surface, as if to anchor himself. ‘The King did not send me,’ he admitted. Alberon’s face immediately lost its warmth. Razi pressed on. ‘Father has told me nothing of you, nor of what you have done. I have come in secret, without his permission, in the hope that I may reconcile you to each other... before this goes beyond repair.’

Alberon shook his head in what Wynter could only interpret as grim disapproval. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘Well, well. So, you play the politician even with me, do you, brother? I had hoped you would leave such games behind you in the Moroccos. I had hoped that you at least would talk to me as a man – straight and true.’

‘I play no games, Alberon. I merely—’

‘You merely opened your mouth to me, and your first sentence was a lie,’ interrupted Alberon. Razi went to object and his brother lifted his hand to silence him. ‘No,’ he said. ‘No more now. I understand that you have spent years speaking from two sides of your mouth, Razi, and our father owes you much for it. But you will break that habit now, understand? You are here with me now. You are on my side. There is no more need for two faces. We go forward from here together, as men, honestly and without falsehood.’

Razi frowned unhappily and clamped his lips shut, as if biting back a reply.

‘Good man,’ whispered Alberon, his face softening. ‘Good man. We will all do so much better with just a little less guile.’ He slid a half-smile at Wynter. ‘Speaking of which, what brought you to drag our poor little sister along? Thought I might need my socks darned; did you?’

‘Alberon,’ snapped Wynter, ‘what exactly are you doing here?’

Alberon grinned. ‘My!’ he cried. ‘How very direct of you, little sister. How decidedly uncourtly. You have no idea how much that refreshes me. Perhaps your stay with Marguerite has taught you something of candour? Perhaps she has shown you what it can truly mean to be a ruler?’

‘Only if being a ruler means bludgeoning your people into submission and burning all dissenters at the stake.’

‘Sometimes that is what it takes, Protector Lady. I have come to understand that a real leader needs to know when to leave the pretty words aside and hammer his opposition into line. If you are not with me, you are against me, correct?’ Alberon nodded to himself. ‘Correct,’ he said.

Seemingly carried away with the force of his thoughts, he began to pace, his head down, his expression intent. ‘Until recently, I was not certain that my father truly knew what this kind of strength meant... but now!’ Alberon smiled in admiration. ‘ Mortuus in vita! That was a kingly act. I would not have thought him capable of it – to disinherit his only legitimate heir. Of course, he would have been better to simply have had me killed – but, as ever, he continues to turn his face from the final stroke. I’m telling you, if I were a king and my son stood against me, there would not be a tree left standing till his charred corpse and the corpses of all his supporters had been dragged down the mountain and strung up along the port road.’

Wynter met Razi’s eye as Alberon strode up and down between them. The expression on her friend’s dark face was a mirror image of the confusion in her heart. Was Alberon actually berating his father for not yet having killed him?

‘Your death, though,’ said Alberon, pointing at Razi. ‘A sly trick, but genius nonetheless! What better ruse to break me than the contrived slaughter of my brother? If anything would bring me down, that would! The old man knows me, Razi, I’ll give him that. Damn near broke my will.’

‘But that was no ruse!’ cried Wynter. ‘Albi, that was poor Shuqayr! It was Shuqayr! And Simon De Rochelle and all his men! Those murders were real, Albi. They really did those awful things! And they did them thinking that Shuqayr was Razi! Oh, Albi! The things they did to that poor man. If you only knew.’

‘Shuqayr?’ Alberon came to a sympathetic halt. ‘That tall Arab boy you knocked about with? The apothecary’s boy? I am sorry, Razi. Truly. He seemed a good fellow.’

Razi said nothing. Just stood with his back to the little table, staring at his brother, his face closed up like a book.

‘They did it because they thought Razi wanted your throne, Albi,’ said Wynter. ‘They did such terrible things to that poor—’ ‘Oh, aye,’ interrupted Alberon. ‘Aye – that would be it.’ He crossed to the door of the tent, and Shuqayr’s terrible death seemed to slip into the background for him as he looked down into the camp. ‘My people would do anything to protect me,’ he murmured, his eyes roaming the neat tents, now pink-tinted in the failing light of evening. ‘I have much support from court, as you can tell. Though they are yet to know the nature of my misunderstanding with Father, they are utterly determined to keep you from power.’ He looked at Razi over his shoulder. ‘Not that I ever doubted you, brother. Though God knows, the gossips have you leaping across banquet tables and shoving weeping guards aside in your haste to get to my throne. I know it has never been in your nature to strive for such power. You are not a man destined to be a king. Do not take insult from that. I do not mean it as such. We cannot all be kingly men.’ He turned back to thoughtfully surveying his camp. ‘Indeed, where would we be if that were the case? Incessantly battering each other over the head while our kingdom went to ruin.’

He smiled, his eyes slipping to Wynter. ‘You are ever the sly hand though, bringing our sister with you. No doubt you thought her presence would soften my resolve? I’m sorry, Wyn, but I’m afraid you must resign yourself to camp rations and a hard pallet for a while longer. I await my last representatives – the curs are days late – and I shall not be leaving till my work is done.’

Wynter bristled at that. God knew she was used to court men assuming she was naught more than a bit of fluff to dandle or protect, but after all she’d been through, to hear this attitude coming from Alberon was just too hard to take.

‘I came here of my own volition, Alberon Kingsson,’ she said stiffly. ‘It was only by chance fortune that Razi and I met up. I risked all to get here. I abandoned my poor father to his deathbed to come seeking you.’

At the mention of Lorcan, Alberon’s face fell. He blushed, opened his mouth to speak, but could find nothing to say. Wynter realised with a sudden flare of anger that her father had utterly slipped his mind, and all her courtly restraint flew out the window. Alberon stepped towards her, and she flung her hand up, halting him in his tracks.

‘Alberon!’ she cried. ‘What are you doing? You have the kingdom in an uproar! You have your father crazed with anger and fear. Those supporters you are so proud of? They are lying dead in streams and ditches on this very mountain! They are swinging in cages all along the port road! And those who are free have dedicated themselves to trying to kill your brother!’

Alberon stepped back, his eyes wide, and Wynter advanced, jabbing her finger at him like a common scold. ‘Everything our fathers have worked for is about to fall apart, Alberon! And you, goddamn you, you are at the very heart of this turmoil. Do not stand there, your Highness, and talk to me of kings and kingly acts, when you seem wilfully determined to uproot all the good our fathers have done, and turn this kingdom to the same pit of carrion in which the rest of the Europes currently wallow!’

She came to a halt, painfully close to tears, and for want of words, punched Alberon on the chest.

‘Wynter...’ he said gently. ‘Wyn...’

He went to take her hand, and she tugged it from his grip. Stepping back, she impatiently swatted the tears from her face. Why had she cried? Now he would think her an incorrigible girl, and would feel obliged to comfort her. The conversation would be hopelessly diverted.

‘Wyn,’ he said again, ‘you must know that I have no desire to undo our fathers’ work.’ She looked up at him in surprise. ‘Everything I do is for the betterment of this kingdom. Surely you cannot doubt that? My only desire is to build upon the foundations that our fathers have laid. It is simply a case of... Wyn, there are some things you simply do not yet know.’

‘Then educate us,’ said Razi quietly. ‘Please, your Highness. Help us to understand.’

Alberon turned to look at him, his face sad. ‘Razi,’ he said, ‘must you still play the courtier?’ At Razi’s lack of comprehension, Alberon sighed. ‘Call me brother, for Christ’s sake. At least while we are alone.’

Razi looked uncertain. His eyes slid to the shadows of the guards standing just outside Alberon’s tent, and Alberon followed his gaze, frowning.

Just then, a small voice piped up, and Alberon’s servant announced himself at the door. Alberon smiled fondly in the direction of the boy’s voice.

‘Good chap, Anthony,’ he called. ‘Set up at the map-table, there’s a boy, then come fetch the pillow from my bed, that the Protector Lady may have some comfort.’

The little lad squeaked, ‘Aye, your Highness,’ and Alberon turned to Razi again.

‘Come, Razi,’ he said softly. ‘Let us eat our supper outside, shall we? We can sit side-by-side in the sunset, you and I: the heir and his loyal brother talking peaceably together for all my men to see and marvel at. What say you? Do you feel up to the fresh air?’

There was a moment of wordless communication between the two men, then Razi nodded. Alberon grinned. ‘Good man,’ he whispered.

‘And you, Protector Lady?’ He bowed with a courtly flourish and offered Wynter his arm. ‘Would you do me the honour of adorning my table?’ She hesitated, unwilling to be made little of. ‘I promise,’ he said, sparkling a sly smile, ‘I shall leave no question unanswered.’

Wynter took his arm. ‘In that case, your Highness,’ she said, ‘I shall be pleased to oblige.’

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.

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