Alberon regarded her with pursed lips. There was a laden silence where his reply should have been. Mary’s eyes flicked uncertainly to Razi, then back. She glanced at Oliver. Both men were watching her with unreadable expressions.
Her face closed over again.
From this side of the tent, Wynter saw her companions anew, and the change in perspective was a little shocking. Razi’s dark face was rough with stubble, his clothes dishevelled. His hair, unruly at the best of times, was an uncombed mess. Despite his courtly posture and his smooth manner, he looked unpredictable and wild. By his side, Alberon was hard-faced and speculative, his silence a deliberate act of hostility. Oliver stood at their backs, solid, deep-rooted and darkly ready. He gave the impression of a man waiting to strike.
All three were at least a head taller than the two women before them, all armed, all staring across the barely furnished tent from a position of absolute power. The priest, standing out of Wynter’s line of sight, was an unknown quantity. Wynter felt a strange and unexpected rush of protectiveness towards the woman by her side.
‘Your Highness?’ ventured Mary. ‘You wish something from me?’
Alberon jerked his chin at the folding chair. ‘Sit,’ he ordered.
Mary’s hands tightened briefly into a sudden, anxious knot. Then she seemed to force herself to relax, and, smiling, she curtsied in gracious welcome.
‘Your Highness,’ she said. ‘How happy I am to receive you to my quarters. Please, allow me to make you comfortable.’
She swept her hand to the rope-cot, as if offering a golden couch strewn with velvet cushions. For a moment, this struck Wynter as a rather pathetic, peculiarly
female
thing to do, but then she saw the discomfort in the men’s faces and she was filled with admiration. In the face of such courtly hospitality, how could any gentleman behave other than civilly?
Mary stood waiting, her arm out, her face politely expectant. It was a horribly shaky, desperately fragile form of self-defence, but Wynter thought it gave the Lady Mary a strange type of power, an undeniable dignity and an air of unbreakable self-worth.
Alberon fumed, his jaw working.
Oliver shifted his eyes to the wall.
Razi blinked. Then, to Wynter’s great pride, he pushed his sword back on his hip and bowed. ‘You are kind, Lady Mary,’ he said, ‘and we are most obliged. Will you not also take a seat?’
Mary nodded graciously and settled herself into her little chair. Razi lowered himself onto the low bed with as much dignity as he could muster. It took him a moment to arrange his long legs, but he managed to do so in the end, without looking too much an awkward fool. He gazed blandly at his brother. Alberon glared, his lips tight.
‘Protector Lady Wynter,’ murmured Mary, leaning back and looking up. Wynter, seeing her face properly for the first time, realised that she could hardly be more than nineteen or twenty. She bent to listen. ‘Would you like to sit, dear?’ asked Mary. ‘I am afraid there are no more seats, but we can pull Jared’s pallet from the corner there and you could use it as a cushion.’
‘No thank you, Lady Mary. I am perfectly happy to stand.’
‘You are certain? I am sure Jared would not mind.’
Wynter could only assume that Jared was the silently lurking priest. Smiling, she shook her head and straightened once more. She found herself standing almost to attention, her hand resting casually on her sword. Quite apart from the fact that she had no desire to sit on Jared’s possibly infested bedding, she felt the overwhelming urge to stand protectively at this woman’s back and stare down the very men she had come in with. Alberon looked from her to Razi as if they had both quite spectacularly lost their minds.
‘Won’t you sit down, your Highness?’ said Razi, patting the cot.
‘You must be the Royal Prince Alberon’s brother?’ asked Mary, leaning forward and touching Razi lightly on his dirty sleeve. ‘I should not like to be forward, but I would be so pleased to make your acquaintance. Should we ever be introduced.’
Wynter smiled. One would think oneself at a reception! ‘Should we ever be introduced’, indeed. She glanced to Alberon’s still glowering face and leaned to murmur into Mary’s ear: ‘I have the honour of being a member of the Lord Razi’s circle,’ she said. ‘As you and I are now acquainted, Lady Mary, I doubt anyone could take offence should I provide an introduction.’
Mary smiled up at her, no trace of irony in her expression at all. ‘I should like that very much, Protector Lady. If you think you could arrange it.’
‘My Lord Razi,’ said Wynter formally, ‘would you allow me the pleasure of introducing the Lady Mary Phillipe D’Arden? She would be more than pleased to make your acquaintance, should you desire it.’
The Lord Razi did not attempt to rise from his awkward seat, but he managed to contrive a little bow nonetheless. The Lady Mary dipped her head and Wynter introduced her formally. Razi shook Mary’s hand. Her cuff was terribly frayed, Razi’s stained with soot.
‘Pleased,’ he murmured.
‘I shall take it from your presence here, my Lord, that my dear Isaac found you at last?’
Razi’s big hand tightened in shock, and Mary’s face showed momentary pain and fear before freezing into a strained calm. ‘Your
dear
. . . ?’ said Razi.
Mary remained motionless, her eyelids fluttering, convinced, perhaps, that Razi was purposely inflicting pain, and unwilling to plead with him to stop.
‘Razi,’ murmured Wynter.
‘Your
dear
Isaac,’ said Alberon, drawing the lady’s eyes, ‘betrayed my trust in him and, instead of opening dialogue with my father as I ordered, abused his access to court in an attempt to
assassinate my brother
.’
Mary, still leaning forward, her arm stretched awkwardly between herself and Razi, shook her head mutely. Wynter said Razi’s name again, and he realised that he was crushing Mary’s hand. He released her and she withdrew with careful composure, discreetly opening and closing her fingers. He reached as if to check her hand, and she drew back.
‘Isaac would never do that,’ she whispered. ‘Never.’
‘Your Highness’s brother is mistaken,’ said the priest, his deep rumble surprising them all.
‘Mistaken?’ said Alberon, his tone dangerously low. ‘Mis—’ He strode abruptly around the cot and pushed Razi’s head aside, jerking his shirt down from his right shoulder. Razi yelled in protest, and the Lady Mary gasped at the ugly, knotted scar that marred his brown flesh.
‘Good
God
,’ cried Razi, shrugging his brother off and yanking his shirt back into place. ‘Albi!’
Alberon ignored him, all his attention on the priest. ‘Isaac threw a knife across a crowded room,’ he snarled. ‘He
threw
a knife
.’
The words ‘threw a knife’ seemed to have some resonance for these people, and the priest deflated. He exchanged a stricken look with the lady. ‘Oh, Isaac,’ he said.
‘Do not feign shock,’ said Alberon. ‘Nor you!’ he snapped at Mary. ‘Courtly and all as he might have been, Isaac was no politician. He was just a damned soldier, and hopelessly infatuated with
you
, Lady! Do not sit there with your doe’s eyes and tell me you had no idea of his plan to kill my brother!’
Mary shook her head, her bruised fingers held to her breast, her eyes glittering with tears. Wynter stood very still, her posture and expression an unconscious mirror of Oliver, who was standing by the door with his hand on his sword, his face carefully neutral. She glanced sidelong at the priest. Like the Lady Mary, he seemed genuinely thrown.
‘Isaac . . .’ ventured the priest. ‘Isaac was very devout.’
Whatever he meant by this was lost on Wynter, but Mary closed her eyes in dismay. ‘Oh, Jared,’ she said, ‘no.’
‘You imply, perhaps, that he could not bear the thought of a Musulman on the throne? Is that your thought, Presbyter?’
The priest gazed at Alberon mutely. His eyes flickered to Razi.
‘Would you perhaps have encouraged these opinions?’ hissed Alberon.
The priest’s eyes widened and he stayed silent. Wynter wondered what it was that Alberon expected to hear from this man. A confession? In the priest’s position, Wynter would have had her tongue drawn rather than implicate herself. On the other hand, did Alberon really think it likely that a Midland priest and a devout Midland soldier would be open to the idea of a Musulman heir to the Southland throne? Did he really think it likely that they would have been anything but appalled at the thought? For the priest to deny such feelings would be patently ridiculous.
She stared at the priest’s terrified face and wondered just how much or how little he had had to do with Isaac’s fervent beliefs. She wondered if he would have been willing to compound them, had he known what a terrible death the poor man would face because of it.
‘We did not discuss the Lord Razi,’ whispered the priest at last. ‘It never seemed likely that he would be put in your place. It was so far from possible that your father would have been so—’ The priest cut himself short, but everyone knew what he meant to say.
Stupid.
It was so far from possible that Jonathon would have been so
stupid
. Alberon looked the man up and down, and Wynter could see it in his face: like her, Alberon was considering the possibility that Isaac had acted alone, on the spur of the moment, as a violent reaction to Razi’s sudden and unexpected accession to heir.
Razi’s deep voice drew her attention. He was staring at Mary. ‘His Royal Highness told me that Isaac was your squire, Lady Mary.’ His eyes flitted to Mary’s swollen belly. ‘I had not understood . . .’ he said softly.
The lady placed her hands on her stomach, as if to hide it, and drew herself up straighter in her chair. Wynter blushed for her. It must be terrible to have a man see one in that state. The poor woman should have been safely in her confinement by now – happily sequestered from sight, surrounded by her ladies and female relatives, knitting and sewing and preparing in joy for the arrival of her child – not stuck in this Godforsaken backwoods, surrounded by rough men, with not even a beaker of fresh tea to give her comfort.
‘This is my
late husband’s
child, my Lord,’ she said. ‘Please do not stoop to sully my friendship with Isaac. I could not bear it.’ Her voice was cold, but it trembled, and it was obvious that she was nearing the end of her self-control.
‘I am so sorry,’ said Razi. He leaned forward and squeezed her hand in sympathy. It had the effect of undoing the poor woman’s restraint somewhat, and her eyes overflowed. She shook her head, extricated her hand from Razi’s grip and pressed her fingers to her face until she got herself under control.
‘He was simply my friend,’ she said. ‘He was my friend.’
Razi glanced at the priest. ‘Presbyter, would you like to fetch the lady some tea? Or something to eat?’
The priest stared at him for a moment. He looked at Alberon, then Oliver, then his eyes went to the door. The sun had risen fully, and within the angular shade of the awning, the soldiers’ shadows loomed tall. The priest shook his head, and Wynter felt a small spark of admiration for him. He would not leave his Lady alone under these circumstances.
‘Oliver?’ said Razi. ‘Please arrange something for the lady.’
Oliver remained unmoving, waiting for Alberon to give his orders. Razi sighed, and looked to Alberon. The Prince returned his look with a disapproving shake of his head and crossed to take a seat on the cot instead.
Razi gaped at him. ‘Albi!’ he cried.
‘I shall ask Freeman Garron if he would be so kind,’ murmured Wynter, heading for the door before the brothers could descend into a repeat of their recent irritation.
Soldiers glanced at her when she came to the door, then looked away.
She gestured Christopher to her and he came, Boro trailing in his wake. ‘Freeman,’ she said quietly, ‘the Lady Mary . . .’ She paused in embarrassment, then leaned to whisper in Christopher’s ear, her cheeks burning even as she said the words: ‘The lady is quite heavy with child, Christopher, and though commendably restrained, I suspect suffering a good deal of mental distress. I wonder . . . do you suppose Hallvor might have something suitably soothing for her to drink? And perhaps something more substantial to eat than seems to be available to the camp?’
Christopher, his face close to her own, nodded. Their cheeks brushed for a moment as he pulled away. ‘I’ll see what I can do, Protector Lady,’ he murmured, bowing.
She watched him leave, glanced again at the soldiers, and ducked back into the tent.
The priest was speaking rapidly to Razi. ‘I am sorry for what Isaac did to you, my Lord. I can understand the light that it must throw me into, but I can assure you, I have come here in all sincerity to finish my Lord D’Arden’s work. I would do nothing to jeopardise it. Certainly, had I an inkling of how Isaac would act, I would have done my utmost to dissuade him. I hope . . .’ He looked anxiously at Alberon. ‘I can only pray that this has not put an end to our negotiations?’
Alberon regarded him coolly.
‘There . . . so many people are depending on . . . Phillipe himself gave his life for . . .’ The priest stuttered to a hopeless silence. ‘You have reason to think me guilty?’ he cried suddenly. ‘Isaac said something that would lead you to believe it? It is lies!’ He jarred to a halt again, frantic.
Innocent panic born of fear
, mused Wynter,
or wretched guilt?
She looked to Razi. He, too, was assessing the priest, his eyes narrowed. Under their combined scrutiny, the man looked as if he was about to cry with fear.
Finally, Razi shook his head. ‘Isaac said nothing of you, priest. Only that Alberon was in negotiation with the Midlanders over the Bloody Machines.’ He paused, then pointedly switched his focus to Oliver. ‘Isaac
did
say that you had arranged his access to the palace, Sir Knight.’
Oliver’s face flared red and his spine stiffened. His eyes stayed firmly locked on the blank canvas of the far wall.
‘Which you had done, of course,’ said Alberon. ‘On my orders.’
Oliver’s eyes flickered to Razi.
‘Mind you,’ said Alberon, ‘none of
my
orders involved killing my brother.’