Jonathon’s eyes widened with horror. Wynter did not look away.
‘You and I both know,’ she whispered, ‘that this box, having been opened, cannot again be closed. No matter what memories it may contain.’
The King withdrew his arm from beneath Wynter’s grasp. He shook his head.
‘Of what does the lady speak?’ asked Razi. His father turned to him, searching his curious face with furious concentration. Wynter tentatively replaced her hand on Jonathon’s tightly clenched fist.
‘The Lord Razi has no longer any recollection of what we discuss,’ she said. When Jonathon once again met her eyes and did not withdraw from her touch, she continued gently on. ‘Your Majesty, I understand that a good man must fling those things from him that sully his soul. It is a commendable impulse to cast from us that which we wish not to have done and to bury it so it may never be done again. But perhaps it is the burden of a great king that he face those things which damn him. That he grasp the nettle of a troubled conscience, and think of the betterment of his people. Your Majesty, all your attempts to suppress my father’s machines have only led to disaster. To deny their existence now is folly, for there was no turning back once you drew them once more into the open. You cannot allow your own past to destroy you, your Majesty. You cannot allow it to destroy this kingdom. You are a king, and you must steel yourself to carry the heavy burden of a king.’
All the danger went from Jonathon’s face. He was, for a brief moment, just a man. A desolate man, desperately haunted. ‘Nothing good has ever come of those machines, child. They have paved my way to hell.’
‘Whatever you have done, your Majesty, is done already. The future of your kingdom lies in what you choose to do next.’
Jonathon slid his gaze to the documents pertaining to the Midland Reform. Reluctantly, he moved his hand to them. ‘Perhaps the mere sight of Lorcan’s designs could be enough to strengthen the reformists’ cause? Perhaps something may be done, without recourse to actually . . .’ He placed the reform documents back with the others. His fingers lingered on them a moment. ‘Shall we see, Lorcan, what good might come of the evil we wrought?’
Wynter looked at his troubled, heavy face. The evil we wrought. The King closed his eyes and wearily ran his hand through his shining curls. Would she ever know the truth? Now is not the time to ask, she told herself.
Razi’s deep voice cut into her thoughts. ‘You have reconsidered your heir’s proposals?’
The King’s lips twitched. He kept his head propped in his hand, and with one finger traced the neat rows of Alberon’s rounded script. ‘With modifications,’ he said, ‘some portions of it may well be effected. This marriage, for example. An astounding innovation. He did not trust me with it, of course. The usurpation of a king, he felt, would be too much. Indeed, he was probably right . . . coupled with the threat of Lorcan’s machines. Had the boy only spoken more. Had I only listened . . .’ He trailed again to thoughtful silence.
How little we know of what is in his head, thought Wynter. How he must have missed my father all these years. The one friend to whom he could confide without fear of seeming weak.
‘You will speak to your heir?’ she asked gently.
‘Certainly, it is a better prospect than that which lay before me this morning,’ whispered Jonathon, gazing at the documents. His eyes wandered to Wynter. He regarded her for a moment, scanning her hair, her eyes. Then he sighed, sat back, scrubbed his face and seemed to shake himself free of his heavy melancholy. He cleared his throat and straightened in his chair; a king once more.
‘How did he find me in the end?’ he asked, briskly gathering the papers.
He mistook their silence for reluctance and looked at them from under his brows. ‘How did he know to send you here?’ he asked, tapping the sheaves into order. ‘Come now!’ he said. ‘I shall need to know. Who was it that betrayed me?’
Razi glanced at Wynter in utter confusion.
‘Did your Majesty not arrange to meet the Royal Prince?’ she asked.
The King’s hands froze in the act of tying the folder. ‘You said he sent you,’ he said darkly.
‘He did,’ said Wynter, ‘with these. But . . . Majesty, did you not arrange to meet his Highness?’
‘You said he sent you here!’ roared the King, surging to his feet in panic.
‘No, Majesty! We were headed for the palace, but on the trail we met a messenger who told us you were camped here. We diverted our course and came to deliver his Highness’s messages.’
‘A messenger? One of Alberon’s men?’
‘Yes, Majesty. He was in much haste to reach him. He seemed to believe you wished to ambush the Prince. Do not fear, though, it is unlikely that he has managed to divert his Highness. I suspect the Prince will have left camp before the man arrived – whatever your arrangements are, I have no doubt they still stand.’
‘Then Alberon is . . . ? No!’ the King pushed the table back.
Wynter and Razi leapt from their chairs and ran after him as he tore his way through the tent door.
‘François!’ he yelled. ‘François!’ The captain came running. The soldiers all stood to attention. ‘My horse!’ shouted the King. ‘Hurry! I must forestall him!’
The captain gestured to a man who ran to get the King’s horse. Then he stepped close to Jonathon, his voice low. ‘You have changed your mind, Majesty?’
The King grabbed him by his shoulders. ‘Most strongly, friend. Pray God for me that I am not too late.’
Hope flared in the captain’s eyes and he squeezed the top of the King’s arm. ‘Thank God!’ he cried. ‘I shall get my horse.’
‘No. Keep these innocents here. They must never see, you understand?’
The captain nodded. ‘I swear it.’
A soldier led the King’s horse through the milling crowd. Jonathon grabbed the reins from him and swung into the saddle, scattering men in all directions. ‘Stay here!’ he cried as some of the soldiers ran for the highline. ‘You will stay here!’
‘Christopher!’ yelled Wynter. ‘Get the horses! We must accompany the King!’
Christopher and Sól began to push their way through the reluctant soldiers. The King turned in the saddle, staring down at Wynter, and she glared stubbornly back. He nodded.
‘Release the Lord Razi’s men,’ he called to the captain. ‘Give them their weapons and their mounts.’ At the captain’s uncertainty, the King’s face drew down in sorrow. ‘They know all there is to know, François. God help them. They are already part of our poisoned circle. Give them their weapons, leave them join me. But keep these others here!’ Jerking his horse around, the King thundered away through the long grass, his last order trailing behind him on pollen and dust.
Wynter, Razi, Christopher and Sól were soon hard upon his heels.
DAY ELEVEN: THE MACHINE
THEY TORE through the forest, spurring their horses brutally onward until the poor animals’ flanks were lathered, their mouths streaming with foam. None of the other horses could match the two royal mounts, and while the King and Razi raced ahead, Wynter, Sól and Christopher made up a trailing rear guard, dodging and weaving to keep up as best they could on the increasingly dense forest paths. It was a horribly dangerous way to ride. They stayed low in the saddle to avoid overhanging branches and prayed to their various gods that their horses did not break a leg.
Wynter risked a look at Christopher. He glanced her way, questions and fear in his eyes. Razi travelled straight as an arrow on the path before them, his head low to his horse’s neck, his eyes fixed on his father’s back. Sól was slightly behind them, bringing up the rear. There had been no time for explanations, and though they all rode together, each was separated into their own frantic bubble of anxiety.
Boro tried to keep pace, but even his valiant determination could not match the horses’ speed. Wynter heard him bay in horror as his master drew ahead, his howls quickly fading beneath the drumming hoofbeats. She glanced back to see the poor hou
nd, already far behind, still running frantically to catch up.
A branch swept perilously low, almost knocking Razi from his saddle. Christopher yelled, and Wynter ducked only just in time as it swooped past. She tore her attention from Boro and focused forward again, her eyes on the path and the figure of the King forging the way ahead.
Goddamn it. She should have known that Jonathon would never have given in. He had not been sitting in sullen acceptance, awaiting his heir’s arrival. How could she ever have thought it? Rather he had been stewing in guilt and despair while his men waited elsewhere in ambush for his son. It is a better prospect than that which lay before me this morning. Wynter could only imagine what lurked in waiting for Alberon – but she was fairly certain, now, that it involved the King’s small, highly trusted squad of personal guards; and she was fairly certain it involved her father’s Bloody Machine.
The narrow path broadened and the watery forest light brightened. Daylight streamed through the thinning trees ahead, and the King was a broken silhouette against them as he charged up the widening path. They broke into the open on a slight rise as the King pulled to a halt, looking down: to their left, perhaps a hundred yards from them, the shambolic remains of an abandoned forge house; to their right, lower ground and another loop of the overgrown road cutting through the dense forest. They clustered together at the tree line, panting and breathless, their panicked horses stamping and breathing hard. Wynter’s heart was thundering in her ears. The King stared anxiously to the road.
‘There!’ he said. ‘Oh, God! There!’
And here they came! Alberon and Oliver, trotting warily from the darkness of the trees. Behind them, astride his own shaggy pony, followed the little servant, Anthony. His small face aglow with his own importance, his pots and pans a-jingle, the child looked all about him, full of glee. Four wary soldiers flanked the Prince, their crossbows drawn and ready, their eyes on the forge.
‘Good Lord!’ cried Razi. ‘Mary!’
Wynter snapped her attention to the last pair of riders emerging onto the road and gasped in disbelief at the sight of the Lady Mary riding from the shadows. Dusty and uncomfortable on a stately dappled horse, the lady looked exhausted, her tired face very pale. Grave as ever, Hallvor pulled her painted mare to the lady’s side and looked keenly around.
‘Mo mhuirnín!’ whispered Sól, startled by his friend’s unexpected presence.
‘Why on earth—’ Wynter gaped at the lady in horror. Why? Why would Alberon have dragged that poor woman with him?
‘That damned pup!’ hissed Razi. ‘Did he think to hide behind her skirts?’
‘He took the little boy, too,’ said Christopher, staring at Anthony. ‘Perhaps he could not stand to leave them with the Wolves.’
Alberon was squinting up at the forge house, his eyes blinded by the sun. For a moment, no one noticed the King’s party swaddled in shadow at the edge of the trees. Then Jonathon broke from his trance and trotted his horse into the sunlight.
Mary saw him immediately. Her face lit up at the sight of Razi by the King’s side, and she said something, smiling. Alberon turned. His eyes hopped from Jonathon to Razi, to Wynter, and he relaxed.
You are all here, his grin said. We have done it.
Wynter straightened, intending to warn him, but Alberon had turned already to Oliver, who was still focused on the forge house. Alberon spoke and Oliver turned sharply, seeking. His eyes found the King, and his face softened into hope. He half-raised his hand, then dropped it again as if uncertain of his place.
‘Cousin,’ whispered Jonathon. He lifted his hand in greeting.
An expression crossed Oliver’s tired face, gratitude perhaps, or relief: some emotion too strong and too deep to register as anything other than pain. Then he broke into a hopeful smile and lifted his hand again. Wynter saw his mouth form the word ‘Jonathon’.
At the same moment, a metallic rattle broke the silence of the glowering ruins of the forge house. A loosely packed drystone wall fell, clattering to the grass, and the King’s guard stepped into view as the lethal elegance of Lorcan Moorehawke’s Bloody Machine was revealed to the riders on the road.
‘No!’ bellowed the King.
Even if his soldiers heard him, even if they witnessed his raised arm – and Wynter was never certain that they had – what could they have interpreted from it? Only that the man who had sent them here was ordering them to strike as planned. The huge men at the side of the machine began to crank an iron handle.
Wynter cried out and spurred Ozkar forward, screaming at Alberon to get down. At her voice, two of Alberon’s soldiers turned towards her, raising their bows in alarm. The other two stared helplessly at the sleek iron monster now levelling its gaze upon them from the ruined wall.
Cogs turned. Barrels rotated. There was a kak kak kak of huge ratcheted pieces moving together, and then, one after another, a series of deafening bangs rent the evening air. The machine and its crew were quickly obscured as streams of smoke poured from the revolving barrels. Harsh flashes of light blinked through the sudden gloom.
Oliver, his face appalled, stood in his stirrups and spread his arms as if to shield the Prince. Alberon spun, screaming at Anthony to ride! The little servant gaped at him, boy and pony frozen in horror. Wynter thundered down the slope towards them. Behind her, Christopher yelled her name; then all sound was lost under the rapid percussion of the machine’s fire as she descended into the shallow, smoke-filled valley.
The soldier on Alberon’s right flew from his horse, his head bursting apart in a fine mist of blood and brain. Alberon’s gelding reared in terror and a row of scarlet wounds erupted across its massive chest. Blood instantly drenched its belly, and it took three dancing steps back, still reared on its hind legs like a circus horse. The soldier on Alberon’s left jerked back in his saddle, his crossbow discharging into the air with a heavy thwock. His throat was shredded, and Anthony was instantly coated in an abrupt wash of the poor man’s blood. The little boy cried out once as the blood hit him, then he went absolutely still, his eyes white and round in his dripping face, his horse quivering beneath him.
Alberon’s horse slammed down onto all four legs and stood for a moment, wide-eyed and rigid, blood streaming from its nose. Then it keeled over, carrying the Prince with it. Alberon rolled free before he could be crushed in the horse’s spasming death throes.
Oliver yelled and spun in his saddle, reaching for Alberon, ‘Your Highness!’ he cried. ‘Here!’
‘Just run!’ screamed Wynter, spurring Ozkar on. ‘Albi! Just RUN!’
The machine continued to bark out death. Smoke rolled across the field of grass.
The ground by Mary and Hallvor spewed up four successive puffs of dirt as the gun spat into the earth at their horses’ feet. Mary’s mount reared and the lady screamed, clinging to its mane in terror. Hallvor grabbed for its bridle.
The men at the machine tilted the barrels and, still cranking, swung the gun back the way it had come. The trees beside Hallvor splintered. The leaves by her shoulder tore. Her painted mare staggered as a shot punctured its neck. In the moments left to her, the healer spread her arms and twisted her body to cover Mary. Hallvor’s shoulders disappeared beneath a shocking fountain of blood. She was thrown violently into Mary’s arms, and the two women went down behind the falling horses.
Wynter’s scream was echoed by Sól’s. Even as she galloped towards the place where Alberon had fallen, she twisted her head, trying to catch a glimpse of the women. Sól was galloping towards them. Still screaming in horror, her face hot with tears, Wynter was engulfed in a choking billow of acrid smoke.
Up ahead, one of Alberon’s remaining soldiers took aim at the machine. It spat its mindless fire and he toppled back onto his horse’s rump, his eyes wide and staring to the sky. Behind him, Alberon climbed unsteadily to his feet. He looked about for Anthony, who still sat, frozen in horror, on his little horse. Oliver was pulling his own frenzied mount around, trying to put himself between
the boys and the machine. He was yelling at them, his voice drowned by the barking gun. He lifted his eyes to see Wynter thundering towards him and swung his arm in dismay, shouting soundlessly for her to get back.
The machine barked.
Oliver jerked a rattling puppet-dance as a series of shots caught him. He fell momentarily from view, and Wynter screamed his name, her voice a painful scratch in her abused throat. Then Oliver rose into sight again as he dragged himself back into the saddle. Slowly, he pulled his horse around to stand between Alberon and the gun. Wynter stood in her stirrups. She screamed Oliver’s name once more. Alarmed by her bellowing, thunderous advance, Alberon’s last soldier raised his bow and took shaky aim at her.
‘No!’ she cried. ‘No! We’re on your side.’
The machine swung back for another sweep. The soldier lurched as a shot caught him under his arm. He loosed his arrow as he fell.
Wynter ducked. The arrow shot past. She glanced behind to see Jonathon fly from his horse. He hit the ground, the bolt jutting from his shoulder, and rolled just in time to miss being trampled by Christopher’s little mare. Razi jerked his own horse to a skidding halt and galloped back to his father.
Ozkar stumbled and Wynter was thrown without warning. She flew through the unresisting air and hit the ground with a violent smack. There were stars and blackness. She rolled head over heels on the rough ground, staggered to her feet and kept running – heading blindly through the smoke and the fear, heading for Alberon.
The harsh sound of the gun ceased without warning. In the sudden, unexpected silence, Ozkar thundered past, trailing smoke as he headed for the trees. Wynter flinched but kept running. Her ears rang with the aftershock of the gun; she only dimly registered the sound of horses and men screaming in pain around her. Her own heart was the loudest sound; that, and the name Alberon, repeated constantly in her head.
The Rebel Prince Page 34
