leaning in. ‘Nice and comfortable, I am sure. Lauded as the warrior who rid the Southlands of the Haun threat. What do they call him? A hero like himself must have some wonderfully descriptive name. Moorehawke the Great, perhaps? Moorehawke the Undefeated? What about Moorehawke the Bloody? What about Moorehawke the Butcherer of Children?’
Without thinking, Wynter slapped the man’s face, and his head rocked sharply back. His friends rushed to his side, gabbling, and drew him away. He grinned as he went, his hand to his cheek, his eyes on Wynter. Christopher glowered after him, but Wynter turned away to hide her unexpected tears, trembling with shock and distress.
Next thing she knew, she was stumbling along, guided by Christopher’s firm hand on her elbow. ‘But what did he mean?’ she said. ‘What did he mean?’ She went to turn back, but Christopher tightened his grip and kept her moving forward, heading for the slope and Alberon’s tent. After another moment of mindlessly following, Wynter dug her heels in and jerked to a halt.
‘I must know!’ she cried.
Christopher held tight to her elbow and pulled her close, staring into her eyes. ‘It was a war, Iseult,’ he whispered. ‘Things happen during a war. That lad was on the losing side. He ain’t likely to write a sonnet lauding the winners’ good character now, is he?’
‘But he’s talking about my father! It’s not true! I can’t believe it!’
‘Lorcan was a soldier, lass! What did you think he did in battle? Throw buns at the enemy?’
‘Why would a child have been in battle, Christopher?’
He frowned at her in sympathetic confusion, and Wynter knew that he would never understand. Christopher came from a world where the inquisition threw babies onto their mothers’ execution pyres. He had been adopted by a race for whom the word ‘soldier’ meant only death and torment and pain. He was looking at her now across the chasm of their differences, and she had no doubt that he was thinking, Why would a child not have been in battle?
‘Iseult,’ he said gently, ‘whatever your questions may be, that man is not the one to give you your answers. He’s too full of hate.’ Christopher smiled at her and pushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear. ‘You don’t want to see your poor da through that fellow’s eyes, do you, lass?’
A cough behind them startled Wynter, and she realised with a jolt that she was standing in the main thoroughfare of the camp gazing into Christopher’s face as he murmured to her and stroked her hair. She stepped sharply backwards. The passing soldiers seemed to slide knowing glances at each other. The Combermen, lounging beneath their awning, seemed to eye her with leering contempt. At the head of the slope, Anthony was watching from the shadow of the Prince’s tent.
Her face burning, Wynter turned to face the man who had coughed.
‘Presbyter,’ she croaked, ‘how fare you?’
The priest was eyeing her with alarm. Are you mad? his face said. Have you no sense? His gaze flickered to the grip that Christopher had on Wynter’s arm, then up to meet the young man’s eyes. Christopher lifted his chin in defiance, and to Wynter’s surprise the priest’s face filled with pained sympathy.
‘Don’t be an arrogant fool, boy,’ he whispered. ‘You have nothing to give her but despair.’
At his gentle tone, Christopher’s defiance seemed to melt from him and, frowning uncertainly, he let Wynter go. The priest nodded. Up above them, Anthony turned and disappeared into Alberon’s tent.
‘I must tend my Lady Mary,’ said the priest and, bowing, he left them.
‘I . . .’ said Wynter, staring after him. ‘I must go talk to the Prince.’ Christopher nodded and made to accompany her up the slope. Wynter stayed him with a hand on his arm. ‘I must talk to him alone, Christopher.’
Christopher’s cheeks flared red and he stepped back, his face stiff with embarrassment. ‘Of course,’ he said.
‘He will not speak to me with you there,’ she explained softly.
He nodded, his eyes averted.
‘Will you wait for me?’
He nodded again. His determined silence was what made up her mind. After all Christopher’s quiet gestures of love – the sending of the scóns, the courtly bow, his gentle acceptance of her way of life – how could Wynter ever deny her feelings for him? How could she ever have considered denying them?
‘Chris?’
He glanced at her. When she stretched up to kiss him, he drew back in alarm, his eyes darting to the hill. ‘Don’t, lass,’