‘No, we don’t. You’ve forgot the bread, mankin,’ he said. ‘Go get it.’
Anthony was in the process of hoisting a jug of water to the table. He poured an unsteady beakerful for Alberon, and Wynter realised that his little hands were trembling.
‘Anthony,’ repeated Alberon, already tucking into his porridge. ‘Didn’t you hear me? Run down to the supply tent and get some bread.’
At the words ‘supply tent’, Anthony made a desperate little noise and lost his grip on the pitcher. Razi watched in dismay as his dinner bowl overflowed with the water meant for his beaker. Wynter rose to her feet, her hands out to steady the jug, but Christopher was already there, and he lifted the pitcher from the child’s shaking hands. Anthony stepped back, his face crumbling, and his eyes filled with tears.
‘Hey, it’s all right, mouse,’ said Christopher, setting the pitcher down. ‘It’s naught but water.’ He stirred Razi’s bowl with his finger. ‘Look! You made soup. Razi loves soup, don’t you, my Lord?’
‘I generally prefer it with a spoon,’ muttered Razi darkly. Blushing, Christopher took his finger from the bowl. Razi looked to Anthony. ‘What the devil is the matter with you, child? Have you the palsy?’
Anthony took a big deep breath and straightened his narrow shoulders in an attempt to gain his equilibrium. Wynter felt sure he intended to speak, but his mouth just squirmed about instead and his tears overflowed down his cheeks to drip onto his apron.
‘Good Christ,’ protested Alberon, ‘all I wanted was some bread.’
‘I’m your servant!’ cried the child suddenly. ‘I’m yours!’ Everyone gaped at him, startled, and he flung his skinny little arm out, pointing insistently downhill and crying again. ‘I have nothing to do with Wolves, have I, Highness? They can’t make me do anything! Just because the soldiers won’t serve them! I’m just your servant, aren’t I! Aren’t I, Highness? I’m just yours!’
Christopher’s face went hard and cold, and he straightened slowly from where he had been crouched by the boy. Anthony wrung his apron between his fists and looked pleadingly up at him, mistaking his rage, perhaps, for disapproval.
‘But I don’t want to,’ he whispered.
‘You don’t have to,’ hissed Christopher. ‘You don’t have to do aught!’
‘Christopher,’ said Razi gently, ‘they only wanted him to serve their food. I’m sure that is all.’
‘But I don’t want to,’ whispered Anthony again. ‘Please. I’m your servant, Highness. I’m—’
‘Yes,’ said Alberon. ‘Yes, Anthony. Shush now. It is all right. I don’t need any bread, and you are my servant, no one else’s. So hush.’
Just then the strangest sound drifted up from camp – a low, keening moan.
Christopher’s eyes narrowed as he listened to it, his shoulders hunched. The first moan was joined by another and the two voices rose slightly, not quite becoming a howl before dying down. Immediately, the sound rose up again, three voices this time, like ghost-dogs mourning in their sleep.
‘Why are they doing that?’ whispered Anthony desperately, his eyes huge.
Razi met Christopher’s eye across the water-slopped table.
‘The slaves are dead,’ said Christopher. ‘The Wolves are lamenting their loss.’
‘I don’t want to be their Boy!’ cried Anthony. ‘That man said I must! But I don’t want to! He said I must, but—’
Wynter snagged his tunic, pulling him in. ‘Shush now,’ she said softly. ‘It’s nothing at all to do with you. The Prince is your master. That is an end to it.’
‘Will these deaths be a problem?’ snapped Alberon. ‘Will they seek revenge?’
Razi shook his head. ‘David has too much at stake to run amok over this,’ he said. ‘He feels secure in your protection and will not be foolish enough to jeopardise his future.’ His eyes flickered to Christopher’s livid face, then back to Alberon. ‘It is over,’ he said, picking nervously at his cuff. ‘I am certain of it.’
Christopher just stared at the terrified little boy and said nothing.
THE DEFIANT GESTURE
‘YOU VERY quiet,’ said Sólmundr, eyeing Christopher across the neck of his horse.
Christopher shrugged, tightened the girth on his saddle and snapped his stirrups into place.
‘You feel not good?’
‘I’m fine,’ he grunted, swinging into the saddle and pulling his horse around. ‘Stop acting the old biddy and saddle up.’
Sólmundr met Wynter’s eye. Christopher had been silent and prickly since the night before, and Sól, usually so easygoing, had nagged at the young man’s ill humour like an anxious hen. He was making Christopher worse.
The sooner Razi and I get them from camp the better, thought Wynter.
She tugged her saddlebags into place and glanced across to where