The Poison Throne (43 page)

Christopher was advancing on the gate, his spare horses and the pack mule making far too much noise for comfort. As he reached the big arch, she saw a sentry step forward and faintly heard his voice challenging Christopher to produce his papers. Christopher bent forward, and she saw the guard reach up to him. There was a long pause, during which she saw Christopher turn in the saddle and look back. She resisted the urge to lift her hand. The sentry said something and Christopher turned back to him again.

She startled and whirled as someone dashed across the gravel to her. It was Razi. He came to a sliding, breathless halt beside her and clung to her shoulders. They turned to watch anxiously as the sentry walked away from Christopher’s horse and into the gatehouse. There was a momentary, agonising silence, and the sound of the gate chains came drifting across the morning. The shadows under the arch were split with a thin line of grey as the great double horse-gates were opened. Then Christopher was silhouetted against the morning light as he urged his horse through the gates and out into the free air. He took off at a high trot, they could see him already on the upward slope and heading for the trees as the gates began to slip closed. He had made it out.

Let him stay safe
, prayed Wynter desperately.
Let him stay free
.

Razi tore his eyes from Christopher’s retreating back and looked down at the hand he had resting on Wynter’s shoulder. He frowned and tilted his head in confusion, staring at her clothes. The gate swung shut with a thud. Above the trees, the sky was just shimmering to palest lemon. The cockerels in the barnyard began to crow. “Wynter,” said Razi quietly, “is that not Christopher’s jacket?”

The Twisted Man

W
ynter pulled distractedly at the dark fabric of Christopher’s jacket, running her fingers down the wooden buttons, pulling the collar up around her face. She had no doubt that it was his only jacket and squeezed her eyes shut in a mixture of regret for him and selfish bitter joy that she had this piece of him, scented by him and warmed by his body, to keep for her own.

Razi looked anxiously all about them as the light rapidly grew in the sky, and the trunks of the trees began to take definition in the morning air. He tightened his grip on Wynter’s shoulders and drew her into the deep shadows that lingered beneath the trees. “Sis,” he whispered, “let me return you to your rooms now. It is not safe.”

Wynter nodded absently, her mind still filled with Christopher, but as Razi turned her on her heel and began to guide her back towards the palace, two things happened that made her abruptly dig in her heels. Firstly she saw a discreet flash of movement under the trees that made her startle. She looked quickly away before Razi noticed the direction of her gaze, her heart hammering in anticipation.

And secondly, as Razi put his strong hand on the small of her back and murmured that they should hurry, Christopher sprang vividly to her mind. Wynter recalled how he had been unwillingly confined to his room these last four days or more. It occurred to her that the poor man had been dependent on Razi for every meal, forbidden to participate even in the provisioning of his own journey home. In an effort to keep Christopher safe, Razi had, to all intents and purposes, made him a prisoner. Razi gently pushed her, trying to get her moving again, and she realised that this was what he intended for
her
. If Razi had his way, he would lock Wynter up in Lorcan’s suite, safe and protected and completely helpless until he himself was gone and – as Razi saw it – no longer a danger to her. But she couldn’t afford that! She had things she needed to do! Things that she could not allow Razi be party to.

To Razi’s obvious shock, Wynter stopped dead in her tracks and twisted from his grip.

“Wyn…” he said, and she held her hand up to stop him.

Wynter raised her chin.

“I’ll make my own way from here, Razi.”

“But…” he was completely thrown at her sudden coldness. He looked around in confusion for a moment, then she saw his face clear with understanding. He leant down to look pleadingly into her face. “Oh, Wyn,” he said. “Don’t be angry with me, please. He couldn’t stay. Can’t you see? He couldn’t… They would have…”

The hopelessly misplaced guilt in his voice almost shattered Wynter’s resolve and she moved to comfort him, then stopped. She let her face harden. She could use this, Razi’s inaccurate interpretation of her motives, she could use it. She stepped back into the shadows and drew Christopher’s jacket tighter around her.

“Just let me be a while, Razi. I can find my own way back.”

His face fell, his eyes wounded. Then his expression darkened and he stepped closer to her, leaning over her from his great height. “Now, you
look
,” he said, his voice low, his eyes intent. “I just knocked five of my father’s personal guard cold off their feet. Worse, even, than what my father might do about it, is the fact that the men themselves might seek revenge upon me. And I shall not have them get to me through you. I will
not
have
you
pay that price for my actions! You are
safe
in your rooms, Wynter, and I intend to get you there. So stop acting the stubborn
baby
and
do
as you are
told
!”

Wynter jut her chin at the familiar tone. All Razi’s advantages of height, of strength and of birth were suddenly heavy in his voice, and Wynter lowered her head and glared at him in warning that he could not do that with
her
. She would never, ever, allow him to become his father,
never
, not in her presence at least, not in relation to their friendship. He locked eyes with her, his face set, and then his eyes cleared suddenly as he became aware of how he was snarling into her face, how he was looming over her, this small woman in her shift and robe, vulnerable to him and alone in the dark. He stepped back so fast that he almost stumbled, and stood a couple of paces back from her, his hands hanging by his side, lost.

She held her hand out, her voice soft. “Razi,” she said gently, and he glanced at her, fearful of her ire. “I promise you that I shall take care. I just need to be alone for a small while. I will walk in the yews, I may stroll down the chestnut avenue and then I shall go back to the suite. All right?” His lips parted in helpless distress and he blinked. Wynter’s heart wrung for him. She kept her hand up to prevent him following, and began to turn slowly away, her eyes still on his face. “Go get some rest, Razi. Please. You’re all worn out. Go get some rest… and I shall see you later.”

She walked quickly away, sticking to the shadows, staying deep in the trees. At the corner of the gardens, where she would pass behind a hedge and out of sight of the drive, she turned and looked back. Razi was still standing amongst the trees, his arms hanging loose by his sides. He was facing away from her, staring over the bailey walls to the outside hills and that small bit of wild forest visible to him against the dawn sky. He looked like a lost soul, abandoned and completely alone. Wynter clenched her jaw and forced herself to turn away.

Mist began to rise up from the damp morning grass as Wynter put distance between herself and Razi. The world coalesced into grey on grey. The sky became vivid with sunrise. She stayed close to the hedges and walls, keeping herself small and inconspicuous. Despite what she had said to Razi, Wynter had a deep fear of Jonathon’s men, and the idea of falling victim to their wrath terrified her. It was still very cold, and she buttoned Christopher’s jacket around her as she slipped along.

Eventually she came to a good place, quiet and secluded but open enough that no one could sneak up on her. She tucked her hands under her armpits and loitered at the base of the yellow dovecote. She didn’t have to wait for long. The orange cat slunk casually from the blackness of the yews and came to a sighing halt in the grey haze of the morning light. It yawned idly and sniffed, grizzling and tutting as if Wynter had interrupted a particularly good nap and it were impatient for her to get down to business.

You came for me!
thought Wynter irritably, but she held her tongue and her patience, and finally the cat rolled its eyes and tipped its head to the avenue of chestnut trees.

“The spirit waits,” it said. “He has not much time for loitering; I suggest you hasten.”

Wynter cursed in exasperation, and resisted the urge to kick the cat across the courtyard. She ran as fast as she could to Rory Shearing’s avenue.

“Rory!” she hissed, coming to a skidding halt on the leafy path. “Rory! I’m here!”
They’ll kill me if I’m caught! I’ll be gibbeted! I’ll be hung!
She called out again, regardless. “
RORY!
”

There was nothing for a moment, and then she felt it, that particular prickling of the skin, the strange expansion of the light that signalled an apparition. Rory materialised right in front of her and she staggered back a few paces with shock. He was in an awful condition. “Rory!” she gasped in dismay.

He swayed in front of her, apparently finding it hard to see or to focus on her. There were patches of him missing, faded away entirely, just gone, and what was left of him kept flickering quickly on and off and fading in and out of focus. He slumped and swayed, and staggered from side to side for a moment until he got his ghostly feet under him. He looked past her, blinked, turned his eyes back to her, tried to focus. Finally he seemed to see her. “Child,” he said, his voice a moth wing against a window pane. “I seek your father…”

“No, Rory!” cried Wynter urgently. “My father is too ill! You are to deal with me! Understand! Bring your news to me!”

Rory squinted at her uncertainly. He lost his grip on the conversation and his eyes drifted to the left, his lids slipping closed, his head drooping. He began to lose definition.

“RORY!” Wynter clapped her hands loudly.

Rory slammed back into focus again, snapping his eyes to hers. “He will not travel!” he shouted as if waking from a violent dream. He focused on Wynter, staring into her eyes, and she gasped and felt her spine snap painfully straight. Rory, in his desperation, was concentrating too hard. It felt like cold water rushing through her, freezing inside her. Her body forgot to breathe and her heart stuttered in her chest. She choked on the word
stop!
and tried to lift her hand.

“He will not travel…” said Rory again, hopelessly, and then disappeared completely as his strength deserted him. Wynter, released from his terrible scrutiny, slumped to her hands and knees, gouging in the leaves as she tried to force a breath into her frozen lungs. A few yards away, Rory floated back into being again, but weak now, and sagging. He did not look at her, just drifted in the shadows, his arms wrapped around his stomach, his head down.

The cat hissed behind Wynter suddenly, its voice sharp with fear. “Soldiers! They are almost upon you!”

The urgent warning sent Wynter scrabbling mindlessly off the edge of the path. Rory faded from sight. She flung herself onto her stomach and wriggled through the leaf mould until she was hidden beneath the gnarled branches and thick foliage of a laurel. Thank God for Christopher’s jacket. Without it, she would have been a vivid white shape in the gloom of the undergrowth. She tried to push her lower half deeper into the bush, hiding the pale skirts of her shift and robe. She pressed her face into the dirt and froze as three soldiers staggered through the trees and came to an unsteady halt right in front of her. Their boots scuffed and dug at the leaves as they tried to keep their feet, and she saw with terrified relief that they had erased all traces of her presence on the path.

It was three of Jonathon’s men. One of them was barely conscious, leaning against his companion with buckling legs and a heavy head. The third man was obviously in command, and he paced ahead of the others, scanned the trees and then stalked back, grabbing the injured man’s arm and shouldering half his weight.

“Graham is coming,” he growled and the men moved forward a little and then stood waiting. Their companion hung supported between them, moaning slightly now and again. “No sign of Norman. God curse it.”

“I don’t see no Hadrish trailing along behind him, neither.”

The commander swore as the fourth man limped up through the trees, calling as he did, “Did you get him? Did you get the little sod?”

The others growled a negative, and Wynter sank deeper into the cold mulch as their compatriot came to a halt right by her, his boots inches from her face. “Shit,” he groaned, “someone hit me…”

“It was the Arab.”

There was a round of snarling retorts to that information.

“I’ll kill the bastard!” The new man exclaimed with violent intent.

His commander let fly a kick, connecting sharply with the soldier’s shin. “That’s a Crown Prince you’re talking about, Graham, watch your fool mouth!”

Graham yelled and clutched his leg. “He ain’t no bloody prince!” he grunted, his voice tight with pain. “
Alberon
is heir! It don’t matter how many times the King denies it, it won’t make it any less true.”

Wynter thought that Razi must have properly scrambled this man’s brains, if he felt he could talk to his superior like that.

Sure enough, the commander flung the wounded guard into his companion’s arms and dealt Graham a massive blow to the face. The man staggered back, crashing into the laurel and almost treading on Wynter’s hand before getting his balance. Wynter managed to stop herself from flinching or crying out, and she pressed her cheek into the ground. Blood flooded her mouth and she realised that she had bitten her lip. She sucked hard at the wound and stayed as still as humanly possible.

“The Arab is a
Crown Prince
,” snarled the commander crowding against the man. “You will take your damned lumps from him as if he were the King himself. You understand?” The commander’s boots were toe to toe with the soldiers. He must have been snarling into the man’s face. “If that Arab tells you to bloody jump, all I want to hear from your bloody mouth is ‘Aye, sir! How high, sir!’ Are we clear, Graham?”