Suddenly Coriolanus dug his claws into Wynter’s thigh. ‘Wolf,’ he hissed, his attention on the approaching men.
Wynter followed his gaze and saw the green light of a Wolf ’s eyes reflecting in the dark. She went to yell a warning, then realised with a shock that it was Christopher running alongside the soldiers, his sword drawn, his eyes phosphorescent in the night. In her arms, Coriolanus gathered himself for a cat-yowl of warning, and Wynter grabbed him, slapping her hand over his mouth. She clamped down hard, and his warning cry was reduced to a muffled mmmwwrraaaffff against her palm.
She leaned to whisper in his ear. ‘That Wolf is my friend, Cori. I am begging you to hush.’
Shocked, the cat met her eye. Wynter stared at him, pleading. He blinked. Slowly, she uncovered his mouth, and to her relief, he kept his peace.
Soldiers rushed into the ring of firelight, swords drawn.
Christopher, Sól and Hallvor followed on their heels, their weapons also at the ready.
Sólmundr called out to Razi: ‘Tabiyb! Cad é?’ He made to approach the table, and one of the soldiers shoved him away.
‘Back yerself orf! Yeh heathen savage!’
Sólmundr pushed the guard contemptuously backwards, and the other soldiers rounded on him with a roar. Christopher and Hallvor leapt to his defence. There was pushing and scuffling.
Razi remained motionless, his hands held up where the guards could see them.
‘Your Highness,’ he murmured, ‘your men are upset.’
Alberon blinked at him.
‘Albi,’ insisted Wynter, ‘your men.’
Alberon slowly turned to take in the scuffle behind him. His face cleared somewhat, and he seemed to gain focus just as Oliver ran into the light. The older man took one look at the Royal Prince, seemed to instantly understand the situation, and swept his attention to the soldiers.
‘Stand back,’ he ordered. ‘Come on now, split up . . . You!’ He pointed his sword at the Merron. ‘You were told to keep your damned weapons in your tent.’
Angrily, Sól went to speak, but at Razi’s warning look, Christopher intervened. He laid his scarred hand on the warrior’s arm, bowed slightly and addressed Oliver. Wynter’s heart swelled with pride at his smooth, courtly tone.
‘We had thought there was trouble, sir,’ he said, ‘and only came to assist. We regret if our actions seem ill-meant.’
Christopher sheathed his sword. Taking his lead, Sól and Hallvor sheathed theirs and drew themselves up into noble silence. The soldiers continued to jostle and push at the Merron, and Oliver roared at them to stand down. They pulled back with shuffling uncertainty, their eyes on their Prince.
‘You are dismissed,’ said Alberon softly. ‘There is no trouble.’
Christopher looked to Razi, who nodded. ‘Thank you, Freeman. The Prince is safe.’
Christopher glanced at Wynter. She held his eye, the cat clutched to her chest, her face carefully neutral. Christopher bowed to her, very slow and solemn. There was not a trace of his usual mocking amusement in the action.
‘At your service,’ he murmured. Then he led the other Merron back down the slope.
Wynter watched his slim back retreat into the darkness. Somewhere near the base of the hill, she saw a brief flash of twin phosphorescence as he turned to look at her, then he was gone.
Coriolanus whispered in her ear: ‘A touch more than just friends, methinks,’ he insinuated slyly. ‘Little wonder you smell of dog.’
‘Hush now,’ she said and scratched his thin shoulders until he purred.
Oliver dismissed the men then turned to regard his Prince. Alberon smiled wanly at him.
‘I lost my temper again,’ he said. ‘But there’s no damage done.’
‘You are tired, Highness. Even the strongest of warriors need to sleep.’
Alberon waved a dismissive hand. ‘Stop lecturing me, you old hypocrite, and get you to your own bed.’
Oliver’s eyes flicked to Razi. ‘The Prince works too hard,’ he blurted suddenly. ‘No man could possibly push himself harder!’
‘Oliver,’ warned Alberon.
‘If you only knew what we’d been through these five years, my Lord. If you had seen a fraction of the things the Prince has seen—’ ‘That is enough,’ said Alberon sharply.
Oliver snapped to rigid silence, and Alberon sighed and rubbed his forehead in weary exasperation. ‘Go to bed, Oliver,’ he groaned. ‘Go get some goddamned sleep.’
Oliver turned to go. Alberon called after him as he descended into the camp: ‘Oliver, if Anthony is still awake – only if he is, mind you – ask him to find us a little tea, would you?’
Oliver nodded without looking back and strode away into the dark.