The Poison Throne (39 page)

Both men were looking at Wynter as though she were about to be thrown on a sacrificial pyre. They had waited all day for Razi and were exhausted from it. The anxiety and fear they all felt for him had left them numb, and they both had a staring, sleepless look around their eyes. Wynter longed to go back in and sit with them, but she would be drenched in sweat within moments and it would ruin her damned dress.

Anyhow
, she thought,
I’ve no time left
.

She had hoped she would have Razi to walk her to the hall, had hoped he would guide her again through the royal rooms. But Razi hadn’t arrived, she knew now that he would not arrive, and she had to resign herself to going alone.
Please let him be all right. Please. Please
.

“I must go,” she said.

The men nodded and she turned and made her way out. Before she opened the hall door, she looked back. Christopher had come to Lorcan’s door and was watching after her.

“Christopher,” she said. “Do
not
wander.”

He just looked at her, his face lost in the shadows, and then he melted back into her father’s room.

“… I remind you that the
King
is a scholar.”

“That may well be, but he’s also a dab hand at cracking skulls… that boy, however, wouldn’t know one side of a quintain from another, not like Alberon…”

“Excuse
me
, but have you seen the King’s face? For an effete, the Arab…”

The courtiers paused as Wynter strolled through their well dressed ranks. Someone ahead of her was speaking authoritatively, his back turned.

“… a beating won’t be enough. In my grandfather’s day they burned sodomites at the…”

One of his companions hissed, “The Hawk’s ears.” The Conversation turned smoothly to hounds, and Wynter moved on without a pause.

She dodged gracefully through the densely packed crowd of men and women, nodding and bowing her head, and exchanging passing pleasantries. Suddenly she found herself in an open space with no one around her, and she looked around in confusion. She was about ten feet from the Royal Door and it was as though someone had drawn an invisible circle on the ground and told everyone to stay outside it. Conversations carried on behind her as if nothing was different.

At the centre of this wide circle of casually turned backs stood Razi. He was facing away from her, and Wynter permitted herself a brief pause and a secret sigh of relief at the sight of him. He was tugging at the shoulder of his purple long-coat, preparing himself to enter the Royal rooms, and she frowned at the sight of his right sleeve hanging loose and empty.

Knowing that she was being watched from the corner of every eye, Wynter advanced on the unsuspecting young man. She cleared her throat politely as she came up behind him and said in a clear court-voice, “If you please, your Highness is blocking the door.”

When he turned to her, Wynter couldn’t help it, she made a sound, a high squeak of distress, and her mouth dropped open.

Razi! Oh Razi, what did he do to you?

Razi looked coolly at her and she had to force her mouth to shut. It took a second or two for her to remember to drop into her formal curtsy. She held the dip longer than necessary, struggling to regain control of her expression. Then she straightened and looked up at him with well-contained fury.

Next time I see the King,
she thought,
he’d better pray that I am unarmed.

Razi’s face was a battered mess, his lip split, his eye bruised. His right arm was held tightly in against his chest and he moved stiffly, as though in pain.

Wynter met his eye, anger distorting her vision.
I will kill Jonathon
, she thought,
I will take his own sword and
…

Then to Wynter’s utter amazement, Razi winked at her. He leant forward in a stiff bow and while his curly head was level with hers, he whispered, “You should see the King, sis. He can’t even walk straight.”

He straightened with a triumphant smile, and beamed a crack-lipped grin down on her. “Protector Lady,” he said loudly, “I have not seen you this long while. Would you care to accompany me into the rooms?” He offered Wynter his arm and she took it in a daze. The two of them turned to the door, and as the page ushered them in, Razi, his voice carrying all down the hall, said, “Have I told you I’m going to Padua…?”

The Defiant Spirit

“R
ory?” Wynter kept her voice soft, and she glanced up and down the avenue for fear of prying eyes. It had been four days since Razi had secured permission to leave and there was still no sign of Rory Shearing’s ghost, or the information he had promised. Time was growing short.

Tomorrow morning, Christopher would leave. Two days after that Razi would be gone, and on that day, she, too, would have to make her farewells to her father. Her emotions began to rise up at the thought of it, but she pushed them carefully back down into the pit of her stomach. She could still feel them in there, roiling and nauseating, but she did not allow them to intrude on her, or interfere with her plans. Wynter had herself as contained and tightly locked down as the keep.

She waited for the shimmering of the atmosphere that would signal Rory Shearing’s arrival, but the air stayed placid. Rory had not heard her call. She sighed and bit her lips in frustration.

Everything was in place. Razi had spent the last couple of days provisioning Christopher for his long trip to the Moroccos. Besides Christopher’s own horse, Razi had supplied him with two spare horses and a fully laden pack mule. It had galled Christopher not to be involved in the provisioning of his own journey, but Razi still considered it too dangerous for the young man to leave his room. Christopher accepted this rule with less and less grace as the days wore on.

At the same time, Wynter and Marni had been surreptitiously provisioning her own secret journey. Things were going smoothly and fast. All she needed now was her information.

Wynter looked up and down the avenue again. It was late. Dusty evening light was slanting between the chestnut trees, and the crows and ravens from the keep were cawing sleepily and rustling their wings in the branches. The high prayers of the Musulmen had just ended, and from the tilt yard Wynter could hear the soldiers practising at the quintain and the heavy
thwock
of archery practice in the long meadow.

She took another chance and called out softly to the shimmering air, “Rory! I
need
you!”

Lorcan was not improving. She knew it, he knew it. They all knew it. He was too weak to venture any further than a chair by the window, and he depended on Christopher for help with all but the simplest of personal tasks. But he had at least shaken that terrible chill from his bones, and they no longer had to stoke his fire to a furnace heat.

Christopher was anxious for him, and fretted over what would become of Lorcan after he was gone. The two men had spent most of each day together, talking and playing cards and, despite Christopher’s growing frustration at his interminable confinement, he couldn’t bear the thought of leaving the big man alone.

Two days ago, Razi had introduced them to a dapper little man, Marcello Tutti – Razi had tentatively suggested the man as an aide for what he diplomatically called Lorcan’s “convalescence”. The little man, neat and dark and charming, had sat with Lorcan for a few hours on two mornings, chatting amiably in Italian, doing this and that when necessary, and Lorcan had declared himself very happy with him. But Lorcan had forbidden him to start as his aide until after Christopher left, and so the young man remained a permanent fixture in the suite, his heart a little easier at the thought of Lorcan and Wynter having someone other than himself to depend upon.

The clock bell rang half past the ninth quarter and Wynter huffed impatiently and ran her hands over her hair. There had been no more God-cursed banquets, thank Christ, Jonathon having chosen to dine in private until the bruises faded and his limp improved. But, right now, dinner would be waiting in her rooms and the others would begin to question her absence. Christopher would be looking for any excuse to come fetch her, just so that he could stretch his legs outside of the suite.

“Damn it!” she muttered. She would have to go; she couldn’t take the chance on loitering any longer.

“Your defiant ghost does not fare well, girl-once-cat-servant; his fellows harry and berate him so that he is worn to a mist from running.”

Wynter turned warily to find the orange cat blinking at her from under a bush. It rose nonchalantly to its feet. “Do not fret your flame-coloured head, miss, there’s none about to see you commune with us.” It stalked out into the dusty sunshine and looked up at Wynter, no trace of warmth in its green eyes.

“What has become of Rory?” asked Wynter reluctantly.

The cat shrugged, “He struggles.”

“With what?”

“With he that is twisted and not know his name.”

Wynter bit her lip in exasperation. She sometimes believed that cats spoke like this on purpose, just to toy with humans and laugh behind their tails.

“I do not understand you,” she said tightly.

The cat huffed as if her comprehension was none of its concern. It switched its gaze across the dusty path, and narrowed its eyes at some small vermin only it could see. The tip of its tail twitched, and it licked its lips. “Fret not,” it said as it stalked carefully away, its eyes locked on its prey, its body taut and flowing low to the ground like a murderous orange shade. “I shall come fetch you should the defiant spirit manage to evade and materialise. Go… the others seek you…” It came to rest by the foot of a bush, perfectly still apart from the incessantly twitching tip of its tail.

Wynter walked quickly away, her spine prickling. Just before she turned off the avenue she heard a rustle and a thump and some small animal squealed in horror and pain. She shut her eyes and shivered; the cat had seized its prey.

Wynter let herself into the suite to the sound of Lorcan’s breathless laughter. Christopher was insisting loud and vehemently, “… no! I
swear
it! Why can you not believe it?”

They stifled their chuckles at the sound of her entrance, and Christopher came cautiously to Lorcan’s door, peering around the frame. He dropped his head in relief and called back over his shoulder, “It’s that daughter of yours!”

“Fat lot of good
she’ll
do us with her hands empty of food!” said Lorcan, and he raised his voice to shout to her, “Where’s our dinner, woman?”

She laughed at the two of them and lowered her tools to the floor. “Where’s
mine
, you lazy old goat?”

The two men were sitting by the fire. Lorcan, fully dressed for the occasion in britches and boots and a loose white shirt, sat in a round chair filled with cushions, his feet on the fire stool. Christopher was just lowering himself back onto the pile of cushions that it had become his habit to lounge against when the evening came in. They grinned at her expectantly and she spread her hands.

“Don’t look to me for entertainment,” she warned. “It’s not in my nature to amuse.” This entertained them mightily for some reason, and she flopped down on the cushions by Christopher and leant her head back against the wall. Much to her frustration, they showed no sign of producing any food and, instead, returned their attention to their chess game. “Seriously, gentlemen, where’s my dinner?”

The men smiled secretly at each other and her heart leapt. Razi must be going to join them! He had turned up at all hours of the day and night in the last few days. Whenever he could escape from his guards, or from the pressing activities of his daily grind, he would make his way through the secret passages and spend whatever time he could in their company. They would hear a small scratching on the panel, as of a mouse, and there would be Razi, stooping in at the door and grinning. He rarely could stay, but sometimes his arms would be filled with maps and rolls of papers, and he would lift his chin to Christopher and they would disappear into their suite for hours, planning Christopher’s route to the Moroccos. Oh, she hoped Razi could escape, for this night of all nights, not to have him here would be a crime.

Lorcan went to say something, but they all paused and grinned at the faint scratching on the secret door. Christopher and Wynter leapt to their feet at once and stumbled, laughing, around each other in their rush to get there first.

Razi ducked in the door, smiling, a covered pot in his hands. It smelled wonderfully of spices and gave off a delicious steam that made Wynter’s mouth flood. Razi carried it stiff-armed to the table that the men had set up earlier with bowls and tea glasses, and Christopher ducked back into the passage and trotted to his own rooms for a moment. He returned with a flagon of white wine and a basket of fancies.

“Where did you get them?” asked Razi suspiciously, eyeing the basket as he uncovered the pot of food.

Christopher raised his eyebrows. “I have my sympathisers,” he said.

Lorcan snorted. “Little plump-arsed, blondie maid brought them this morning. All pouting and boo-hoo-hoo.”

Christopher winked at him. “She appreciated my services,” he said piously.

Razi looked uncertainly at the food, and Christopher rolled his eyes and stuffed a cake in his mouth, his eyes challenging. Razi looked appalled.

Wynter inhaled the steam from the pot with an almost carnal greed. “Good Christ, Razi! If he’s poisoned he’s poisoned, more dinner for us! Serve it up, man!”

They ate from the bowls with their fingers, like the Musulmen did, their tea glasses on the floor at their feet. Lorcan stayed in his chair, picking at his food, and, like a harem full of concubines, the others flopped down on the cushions at his feet, eating earnestly and silently for a moment, as the full force of their hunger hit them.

“Good Frith, man. This is excellent good! I had a longing for this since we left home. How did you manage to get the use of the kitchen?” Christopher refilled his bowl as he spoke and reached to refresh Wynter’s tea.