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