"Good Frith. I... God curse him... I swear..."
Wynter listened to Christopher's inarticulate anxiety, and closed her eyes against the panic that threatened to unleash itself in her heart. She had left the library early, distractedly thrusting the egress papers into Pascal's hand, muttering something about state business. She had seen the horror in Pascal's eyes when she hadn't bothered to organise her tools before tying the roll shut, but she ignored him and flung the roll carelessly onto her shoulders. She couldn't remember doing one single tap of work all day anyway, she might as well be here.
She wandered into the retiring room and went to lean in Lorcan's doorway, her arms crossed against the tension in her chest. Lorcan was slumped against the headboard, his cards laid out in an untidy game of patience. Christopher was prowling a tight figure of eight in front of the fireplace. They both noticed her at the same time, and paused, looking at her expectantly, as if she might have news. She spread her hands at them in exasperation. For Godssake! What the hell would I know? And they turned away from her with identical grunts of disappointment.
Lorcan snapped a card down onto the bed.
Christopher did another circuit in front of the fire and broke off to look out the window.
"Get away from there," snapped Lorcan, as if for the hundredth time that day.
Christopher angled away from the window and returned to the fireplace. He came to rest for a moment, then started pacing again. Wynter felt his nervous energy starting to grate on her. She didn't know how her father hadn't yet killed him, she'd only just arrived and already she felt the urge to stamp on Christopher's head.
Razi must be preparing to meet the King now. He had probably been ready for hours. He was probably standing, right now, in his rooms. Alone. Waiting.
Jesu.
She broke away from the door and paced to the other side of the retiring room She got to the wall and paced back to the door again. She came to a halt. She clenched her arms tighter around her chest.
Jesu Christi.
Christopher's soft boots went pat pat pat on the wooden floor.
Lorcan snapped another card down.
"Dad." Lorcan looked up at her expectantly. "Jonathon would meet him in the private appointment rooms, would he not?"
Lorcan nodded. It was hardly likely that the King would choose to meet his son in the thronging chaos of the public rooms. No matter how discontented Jonathon was with Razi, he would never make him wait in that long hall, packed in with all the other patiently waiting petitioners.
Wynter looked significantly at her father. The private appointment rooms were only two floors down, almost directly below their suite. "I just want him to see me, Dad. I want him to know..."
Christopher had come to a complete halt and was staring at her, his eyes wide and hopeful.
"You can't let the guards see you, darling," Lorcan warned softly. "The hall to the rooms will be filled with Jonathon's soldiers." Wynter felt her chin beginning to jut in stubborn defiance, but Lorcan went on thoughtfully. "Razi will probably approach from the middle gallery staircase, coming up the blue corridor. If you take the twelve-step backstairs and come out the dwarf door, you could stand in the alcove by the music library. That way, when Razi comes up the steps to turn into the hall..." Lorcan raised his eyes to her, "he'll see you."
"I'm coming too," said Christopher firmly. One look at his face told them that there was no point arguing.
Half an hour later they stood, silent and staring, pressed side by side at the end of the short corridor. They could hear Jonathon's men in the hall around the corner. If they took just ten or eleven paces forward and turned left they would be right amongst them. Wynter did not want to think about that, about being surrounded by those big men again. These were the same men who had laughed when Jonathon had beat Christopher's head against the tree. The same men who had taunted him and dragged him, screaming and bleeding, down the hill to the keep.
Wynter tried to keep her breathing calm and quiet. She concentrated on the stairs ahead of her. What if Razi took a different route? What if he arrived, as was his custom now, surrounded by men? What if he swept by and never raised his eyes to look at all?
Beside her, Christopher stood motionless and patient as stone. His eyes had never left the top of the staircase, and if he was as nervous of the guards as Wynter, he certainly didn't show it.
They had been there for what seemed like a long time, and Wynter was beginning to wonder if Razi had already gone in, when Christopher straightened suddenly, and stepped away from the wall. She stepped forward too, her shoulder brushing his arm, and strained to hear what had caught his attention.
There! Boots on the stairs. One man, striding upwards. Razi!
He came quickly up the steps, his head down, and for an awful moment Wynter thought he would continue on and turn the corner into the hall without seeing them. But at the very top, just before stepping into the sight of the guards, Razi came to a sudden frowning halt, his head down, his eyes unfocused. He stood there for a moment, one hand on the wall, the other clenched in a fist by his side.
Then he suddenly focused on the floor at his feet, took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. Wynter saw Razi's mask slip into place. His uncertainty, his fear, all those things, slid underneath somewhere, and his cool, insouciant court-face rose to the surface like ice. She saw his eyes, almost lost under his loose fringe of curls, harden and his brows rise up in haughty contempt. Then he snapped his back straight and flung his head up, and looked right into her eyes.
Razi's mask shattered into a million pieces at the sight of her, and he stumbled two steps backwards before collecting himself. His eyes slipped from her to Christopher and back again. He blinked rapidly as if trying to clear them from his vision.
Wynter felt her face crumble, Oh God, she thought, we've done the wrong thing, we've done the wrong thing! But they were here now and the damage was done, so she put everything she could into her eyes. I love you, she tried to show him, to tell him. I'm with you. You're not alone.
Razi's eyebrows knotted and his eyes grew huge and liquid. He took another step back.
Then Christopher stepped forward. He raised a finger to his lips and frowned sternly at his friend. Razi locked eyes with him, desperate. Christopher took his finger from his lips and straightened smoothly, his feet together, his face composed. He lifted his hand to his brow, put his foot forward and then swept down in the most perfect, most courtly bow Wynter had ever seen.
Razi released a silent, laughing sob. He looked down at his friend's bowed head, nodded and took a deep breath. He squared his shoulders again. Christopher held his bow for a long moment and when he rose, Razi's mask was back in place. The two men looked at each other down the length of the corridor, their poses formal, their faces set.
Razi ducked his head in a little nod and Christopher smiled and nodded back.
Razi met Wynter's eyes. There was the briefest moment of softness, the smallest lifting of the corners of his mouth and then he bowed. And though she was still in her work clothes, she immediately spread him a curtsy worthy of the finest dress, holding the dip for a very long time, so that when she rose he had moved on, as was befitting a royal prince in the company of his subjects.
"You look beautiful, baby-girl."
"Thank you, Dad." Wynter continued to hover in the bedroom door, running her hands nervously over the emerald satin of her skirts. It was almost time for the banquet, she had left it until the last minute to get dressed and now she must go.
Lorcan regarded her from his bed. He was huddled miserably under a mound of covers, shivering again despite the roaring fire. Christopher stood beside him, stripped to his undershirt and britches, barefoot, his sleeves rolled to the shoulder. He was sweating in the tremendous heat, his eyes and his bracelets gleaming in the firelight.
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
"Rory?" 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 blin
king 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.
The Poison Throne (The Moorehawke Trilogy) Page 29
