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