SCONES AND TEA

FRANTIC FOOTSTEPS ran towards them, accompanied by the clatter of metal. Anthony rushed from the dark, a steaming kettle held out before him, his little face bright with anticipation. He slid to an excited halt, saw the fragment of blackened tape and lost his smile. He stamped his foot, all his solemn courtliness lost in childish disappointment.

‘Oh, no!’ he cried. ‘You’re finished. You did it without me again!’

Alberon laughed and got to his feet, brushing off his trousers.

‘But you promised!’ cried Anthony.

‘Next time,’ said Alberon, ruffling Anthony’s hair on his way back to the table. ‘Now, mind your manners, mankin, and pour the Protector Lady some tea... such as it is.’ He lowered himself into his chair and wearily began to fold the scrolls.

Wynter took them from him. ‘You’re making a damned mess,’ she said softly, furling them and neatly securing the ribbon bindings.

Alberon smiled gratefully at her and slumped back. Razi drifted over, his attention on the blackened tape, which he was turning over and over in his hands. Anthony slammed the kettle down by the brazier, cleared the table and began sulkily washing out the beakers. Alberon regarded him with tired amusement.

‘An explosive element, ignited by percussion,’ murmured Razi, turning the tape again. ‘Unbelievable...’ He sniffed it and touched it to his tongue, frowning thoughtfully at the taste.

‘I believe the active ingredient is obtained by some foul exercise involving aqua fortis, some type of alcohol and – your favourite toy, Razi – mercury.’

At the mention of mercury, Razi’s eyes lit up and Wynter grinned fondly at him. She was instantly back in St James’s fantastic laboratory, Razi’s small, brown face alight with wonder as he demonstrated the magical liquid metal rolling in droplets around the bottom of a vial. ‘See?’ he had lisped, holding the vial first to Wynter’s, then to Albi’s wide eyes, ‘’tis water-metal, ’tis most amazing water-metal. See how it does flow?’

‘Mercury,’ breathed the now adult Razi, holding the tape up in awe, as if his beloved quicksilver might roll from it and drop into his lap.

‘Excuse the intrusion, my Lord,’ said Anthony, laying the table with the freshly washed beakers. He carefully poured tea from the steaming kettle. ‘Mind now,’ he said, ‘’tis righteous hot.’

Alberon took a grateful sip and his eyes widened in disbelief. ‘Anthony,’ he gasped, ‘this is fresh tea!’

Anthony, not quite recovered from his childish pique, sniffed piously. ‘’Tis that,’ he said. Wynter smiled at the unspoken not that you deserve it in his tone.

Alberon inhaled the steam and groaned with pleasure. ‘Oh, tea,’ he said. ‘Oh, blessed tea... where on earth did you get it? We haven’t had fresh for nigh on a fortnight.’

The little servant looked a touch uncomfortable. ‘I...’ he said. He glanced downhill. ‘’Tis a gift,’ he said. ‘Along with these, your Highness.’ He took a little parcel from his apron and unfolded a square of cloth onto the table. It contained six sweet-scented griddle cakes, still gently steaming. Wynter recognised them as the distinctive Merron scòn.

‘The chop-fingered fellow gave them to me,’ said Anthony. ‘He’s down the bottom of the hill. Him on one side of the road, Sir Oliver on the other, both of them staring up at thee and nary a word passed between them.’

Christopher, thought Wynter in alarm. She prayed that her friend had not been so foolish as to send a message with this gift. Please do not say that they are for me! she thought, willing the little servant to keep his mouth shut. Now was not the time to reveal the nature of her feelings for Christopher. Alberon’s reaction would undoubtedly be stormy, and Wynter did not want tonight’s delicate balance disrupted.

Alberon stared at the scòns, then across at Wynter. He frowned, and she swallowed hard.

He’s guessed, she thought. One look at my face was enough to give me away. Oh, curse you, Christopher Garron. Curse you and your damned pride. Let us simply screech our attachment from the rooftops, shall we? Dance the allemande together down the camp road? Announce our betrothal to the whole damned army. She felt her cheeks flare red with embarrassment, and was instantly angry with Alberon for making her feel that way about Christopher, and with Christopher for attempting to force her hand.

The little servant leaned and murmured in Alberon’s ear. ‘The Merron thief had me choose a cake at random, your Highness. I stood and watched him eat it. Stood with him for over three minutes to make sure he didn’t push his fingers down his throat or any such thing. I am beyond certain that they are safe to eat.’

‘I see,’ said Alberon. He licked his lips, gazing at the scòns with an entirely different expression now he knew they were not poisoned, and Wynter realised with a searing pang of guilt that Alberon had no notion of their significance for her.

It had all been in her head. She sat rigidly expressionless, appalled by the fact that, when confronted with this warm and subtle gesture of affection, her first feelings towards Christopher had been of anger and of shame. She glanced at Razi, who was smiling fondly at the little pile of cakes. Without putting down his precious tape, he took his beaker of tea and raised it in a silent gesture of thanks to the darkness at the base of the hill.

‘Are you well, sis?’ asked Alberon. ‘You have gone terribly pale.’

‘I am fine.’ She turned to look him in the eye. ‘Why has Marguerite chosen the Merron as her envoys, Alberon? The woman has nothing but contempt for them. Why would she trust them so?’

Alberon frowned at her. ‘Do not be dense, Wyn. Who better to convey her secret messages? What person in their right mind would suspect a bunch of God-cursed Merron pagans of carting Marguerite Shirken’s papers for her? Besides,’ he said, taking a scòn, ‘even if they dared to spy, what harm could fellows like them do? Everyone knows the bloody savages can’t read. Good Christ, these are good! What are they made of?’

‘Chestnut flour,’ said Razi quickly. He kicked Wynter under the table, and she bit back her questions about the Merron.

Razi leaned forward and placed the strip of tape on the table between himself and Alberon. ‘The Haun and the Combermen,’ he said. ‘You plan to frighten them with this invention? In the hopes that they will let Marguerite be? If so, you may need to show them more than just a drawing and a flash of noisy light, brother. I suspect they would need to see the machine for themselves to truly understand its power. Do... do you have this weapon in your possession?’

Alberon chuckled. ‘If only I did,’ he said. ‘But Father has the one remaining machine. No, the Combermen have their own very specific reasons for being here. As for the Haun, they answered my call to parley in the smug belief that they hold a secret power over me; meanwhile they are humouring me, hoping to deepen the rift between Father and me. They have come here planning to gape at Lorcan’s wonderful designs, feign alarm at their potential – then toddle off home to their leaders, all the while laughing up their sleeves at their own secret plot. They think they have settled an alliance in Algiers that will destroy the Sultan. But tomorrow – or however soon my damned envoys arrive from Fez – I intend to jerk the rug out from beneath the Haun’s prettily slippered feet. Just wait and see.’

Alberon smiled darkly at Razi. ‘They will soon be galloping home in genuine alarm. With their plans in tatters and the noise of my machine ringing in their ears. I shall strengthen the Sultan’s court, set the Haun to fighting among themselves, and give Marguerite room to manoeuvre, all in one painless shuffle of the cards.’

Razi waited, expecting Alberon to go on, but Alberon just continued to smile. ‘Wait and see,’ he repeated.

Wynter shivered and pulled her cloak tighter still. The fire blazed high in the brazier and the beaker of tea was warm in her hands, but she was cold to the very core of her, the kind of shivery chill that came with staying up too late after too hard a day. She was suddenly weary to her bones, the pillow behind her too comfortable.

Razi said something else, something to do with the poor supplies of mercury, but the chess-like intricacies of the men’s conversation was beginning to scratch and blur on her and she no longer had the energy to follow it.

I shall miss out, she thought, if I let them go on while I am in this state.

‘I am tired,’ she mumbled. ‘It is late.’

‘The moon is setting, believe it or not,’ sighed Alberon. ‘Poor Anthony, I have kept him up all night again.’

There was silence from the little servant, and Wynter leaned out to see that he had curled into a ball on the ground and was fast asleep by the fire. Poor thing. ‘He is very young, Albi, for you to have dragged him into this.’ She had spoken without thinking and immediately winced, expecting more of Alberon’s unpredictable temper, but her friend just sighed.

‘I know,’ he said. ‘I did not intend it, believe me. I took him from the palace to keep him safe from questioning, and left him with a charcoal-burner’s family in the woods; ordered him to wait till I fetched him. Foolish pup followed me almost to the gates of the camp. Damn near got himself shot for his troubles.’ He looked at the child with undisguised regret. ‘Foolish pup,’ he repeated.

‘His family would not take him?’

‘I am not certain he has a family, Wyn. Truth be told, I know nothing of the child except his name, and that obviously he was in training to be a personal servant.’ At Razi and Wynter’s inquiring look, Alberon sighed, as if he’d rather not go into it, then lowered his voice. ‘He is a member of the Truffaut household,’ he said. ‘All that remains of the Truffaut household, to be exact.’

Razi groaned. They knew well the story of the Truffaut massacre; who could forget it? Wynter glanced at the poor little fellow. ‘I thought none had survived that slaughter,’ she whispered.

‘Indeed,’ murmured Alberon. ‘By the time we got there, the insurrectionists and their Comberman allies had already moved on. The damage was done... the Truffauts themselves were hanging from their famous apple trees, God rest them, and every man, woman and child of their household was dead and naked, piled in a heap at the main door, the mansion already naught but a blazing shell.’

Alberon hesitated, as if seeing once more that terrible image. When next he spoke, his voice was very quiet. ‘We had already begun filling in the burial pit when I noticed him stir. I dug him out with my bare hands.’

Wynter pressed her fingers to her mouth and shook her head in horror.

‘I know, sis. Such a tiny movement. Had I not seen it...’ Alberon cut the thought off with a grimace. ‘The blessing is that he recalls not a jot of it. He woke two days later, a merry, bustling little fellow, much as you find him today.

He has never made mention of his life before we found him, and I must confess, I have not much desire to quiz him on the subject.’

‘Oh, Albi. The poor child.’

‘Aye. After that day, I could no longer be kept from the field. Father said twelve was too young. But if six is old enough to be buried alive, twelve is old enough to fight.’ Alberon shrugged in a curiously detached way. ‘In any case, such is war. I’m afraid I have seen much worse since then.’ He heaved himself from his chair. ‘Anthony,’ he whispered, shaking the boy’s shoulder, ‘come along. We are to bed. There’s a good chap.’

Anthony yawned. ‘Where shall we put the lady?’ he asked sleepily. ‘I have not asked thee yet your... thy preference...’ His voice trailed off and he sagged against Alberon, who stroked his hair and gazed across at Wynter. He seemed beyond decisions suddenly, tired beyond words.

‘I shall retire to Razi’s tent,’ murmured Wynter, staring at the little child, her mind still filled with his story.

Alberon sighed. ‘I don’t know, Wyn. I do not think that such a good idea. This is a camp of army men. They have army minds and army tongues in their heads. There have already been scurrilous associations alluded to in court. Regardless of the time you’ve spent alone on the trail, I do not think it wise to risk affirming the gossips by making poor Razi your chaperone here in camp.’

‘Good God,’ said Razi, jolted from his sad contemplation of the little boy, ‘you cannot surely think that Wynter and I...? That we...?’

Alberon winced in disgust. ‘Brother! Don’t be foul! I’m simply trying to preserve what little reputation Wyn has left in court.’ He pushed himself to his feet, staggered, then nudged Anthony with his toe. ‘Up, little mankin.’

Anthony climbed slowly to his feet.

‘Listen, Razi,’ said Alberon. ‘If Wyn has any hope at all of making a suitable match, we must be very careful to restore her character. Sleeping alone in the tent of the man already suspected of being her lover will do nothing for her future. She has already become...’

Alberon’s voice went on, his intentions admirable, his words vile. With them, court life fell down on Wynter again with all its crushing weight of complexities, all its labyrinthine meanings, all its watchfulness. She stood silently listening, too swamped in tiredness to react; too filled with sorrow. She looked out into the night. It was blotted into nothing by the dancing firelight. She was too tired for this. She was too tired. She wanted Christopher. She wanted to stagger down the hill to him, to find him standing in the dark, to rest her head on his shoulder. She wanted him to chuckle and call her ‘lass’. She wanted him to kiss her hair and not to give a damn.

Razi and Alberon were arguing over the wisdom of Wynter sleeping the night in Alberon’s tent. For some reason, Alberon did not see that as a compromise to her virtue at all. Razi, however, was insisting that were she to sleep in his tent she would at least not be alone in his company, as Christopher Garron would also be there. Alberon found this so ludicrous that he laughed loudly. Unheeded, Anthony swayed by the Prince’s side, his eyes closing already.

‘There are women,’ mumbled Wynter.

The men swivelled as one. ‘ What? ’ they snapped, irritated that she should interrupt their debate.

‘Women,’ she said, ‘among the Merron. Women. They can be my defence against scandal.’

She began to stagger down the hill, heedless of the men’s protests. Alberon was saying something about Merron women being as bad as the men. Razi was telling him to keep his voice down. Wynter passed from firelight into pitch dark. Stones gritted beneath her boots as she made her way blindly, not caring. Alberon said something about the blue tent and Razi said, ‘Tomorrow, damn it, Albi. Just leave it till tomorrow.’

Wynter didn’t care. Leave them to it.

It was cold, very cold, but the air felt pleasant on her tired face. She reached the base of the hill and someone stepped to her side, quiet as a cat. She smiled at the familiar, spicy scent of him.

‘Hello, lass,’ he murmured.

‘You waited.’

‘Did you doubt me?’

‘Not for a moment.’

His arms closed warm around her and she leaned in, her head finding his shoulder in the dark. ‘Let us to bed,’ she whispered.

‘Alone?’

Wynter sighed. How lovely it would be, in the midst of all these complications, to find themselves alone. To simply take each other’s hand and walk through the brooding maze of the tents and out into the forest; to lay their cloaks on a fragrant bed of pine, to undo the laces on each other’s clothes and to press together, skin to skin in the dappled moonlight. It would be so good to finally allow themselves the gift of being together. It would be so good. It would be such a simple – such an honest – joy.

The thought of it made Wynter squeeze her eyes shut and tighten her arms, pulling Christopher’s slim body in against hers. He tightened his hold on her and they stood clenched together, their bodies so close, holding each other so tight that it felt as if their hearts were beating side-by-side with just the barest breadth of skin between.

I want you so badly, thought Wynter. I want so badly to keep you. Please. Please. Can’t I have this one thing? Just this one thing for my own?

Her hair had fallen a little loose from its binding and, as he held her, Christopher ran his fingers through the stray locks at the nape of her neck. His touch sent delicious fire tingling down Wynter’s body. It made her ache. He lowered his forehead to her shoulder. She touched her lips to his neck.

He groaned.

‘We ain’t doing ourselves any favours, lass.’

‘No,’ she whispered, ‘we are not.’

‘We need to let go, before neither of us has the strength.’

‘I know.’

Still he held her, quiet and motionless, pressed close in the velvet dark, until finally she broke away and he took her hand. ‘Come on,’ he said hoarsely. ‘I will find us some company.’

‘Christopher?’ Wynter murmured, not certain if he was awake. ‘Thank you for the scòns. They were delicious.’

Christopher squeezed her waist in silent reply and Wynter shifted her head against his shoulder, gazing out into the gloom of the tent. Across the gentle rise and fall of his chest she could just make out Frangok’s back, and a tuft of Soma’s pale hair. Somewhere beyond that again, Hallvor snored softly.

At Christopher’s whispered request, the three Merron women had wordlessly risen from their beds, stumbled into Razi’s tent, flung their covers onto the ground and lain straight back down again. Wynter suspected that they had barely even woken from their sleep to do so. She was so painfully grateful to them that she hardly knew how to express it. But, despite their presence and despite her very great tiredness, she found it no easier to be with Christopher without wanting to kiss him, without wanting to touch him, and she lay tensely by his side, longing to run her hand beneath his shirt, just to feel the warmth of his bare stomach beneath her palm.

Christopher lay on his back, Wynter’s head on his shoulder, her arm curled on his chest. He seemed perfectly happy just to have her by his side, and was idly running his thumb across the twisted woollen bracelet she wore around her wrist.

He spoke softly, his voice a gentle vibration beneath her cheek. ‘What do you wish for, Protector Lady? When this is all over and our lives are our own. What is it that will make you happy?’

The answer to this unexpected question was so clear and sudden and complete that it almost brought tears. A cottage shaded by walnut trees, she thought. Beside a river filled with trout. A workshop, spicy with wood shavings and resin. Somewhere that I can make good things, strong enough to last a lifetime.

Christopher waited patiently for her reply, but Wynter did not answer. She might as well just say why wish for the impossible, and leave it at that. Her desire for Christopher faded slowly beneath the terrible knowledge that everything else she had hoped for was lost. In the softly breathing silence, she closed her hand around a fistful of Christopher’s shirt and tried to figure what it might be that he would wish for. Wynter had an awful feeling that everything he had ever truly wanted had already been irretrievably stolen from him by Wolves. Still she turned her head and whispered, ‘What is it would make you happy, love?’

‘Oh, you know,’ he said softly, ‘all the good things – a big shiny palace, solid gold servants, diamond-studded concubines.’

Wynter chuckled. That was so utterly not what he wanted. ‘You’re a menace.’

‘Oh, aye,’ he murmured, ‘I am that.’

There was a moment’s silence, during which Christopher’s scarred hand closed gently around Wynter’s wrist. She felt him relaxing into sleep.

‘Christopher,’ she whispered. ‘We should talk. There are things we should discuss about court life. Things that we—’ ‘No.’ Spoken softly, the gentlest of sounds.

‘No?’

‘I know all I need to know.’

‘Chris—’ ‘Protector Lady. I know all that I need to know.’

She lay in uncertain silence for a moment, then went to speak once more.

Christopher tilted his head. His whisper caressed her cheek. ‘Settle your head down, lass, and stop your fretting. Razi will be here soon.’

Wynter settled her head back onto his shoulder. Frowning, she tightened her fingers in his and watched as their joined hands rose and fell with the easy motion of his chest. Eventually his steady breathing lulled her, her blood slowed to a peaceful rhythm, and she slept.

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