“Will we take the lot in to your father’s room?” Christopher suggested. “It might encourage him to eat.”
Between the two of them they carried the table into Lorcan, and laid everything out again. Christopher had opened the shutters, and the room was bright and airy, despite the outrageous heat. Lorcan watched them, heavy-eyed, from his pillows and shook his head when they offered him food. Christopher just laughed at him and, while Wynter was eating a boiled egg, he somehow got half a bowl of porridge and a little bit of coffee into her father without Lorcan even really noticing that he was being fed. The big man fell asleep like a baby, suddenly and deeply and without warning.
“Christopher,” whispered Wynter.
He turned from where he’d been standing, looking down at her father, his expression miles away. She held up a bowl of porridge and a spoon. “You’ve eaten nothing. I thought you were clemmed?”
He made a growling sound and leapt at the food, emptying the bowl in a few monstrous scoops, and looking at the jug to see if there was more. She filled his bowl again and he wolfed it down just as quickly, sighing with pleasure as he scraped the bowl clean.
“Christopher,” she said with a frown, “Did you not eat yesterday?”
He had opened his mouth to reply when a loud knock on the hall door made them start.
“OPEN IN THE NAME OF THE KING,” a voice bellowed. They looked at each other in startled horror.
“You need to go!” hissed Wynter, already throwing a couple of eggs and a lump of manchet into the little rush basket. She flung them into his hands and pushed him to the secret door as another loud knock shattered the air.
“OPEN IN THE NAME OF THE GOOD KING JONATHON!”
Lorcan jerked awake with a start and looked around him in confusion. “What?” he said.
“I’m coming! One moment!” she called out loudly as she ran back into Lorcan’s room and quickly poured a bowl of coffee. She thrust it into Christopher’s free hand and then shut the door in his face, turning the angel-sconce to lock the mechanism and rushing to answer the door to the King.
A Concerned Friend
Jonathon stalked in without a word and gestured for Wynter to shut the door behind him. She did so with a wildly beating heart, glancing anxiously at the squad of enormous guards crowded into the hall. She then turned to the King, and bowed formally, waiting for permission to speak.
Jonathon stood with his hands on his hips, the sun burning in his hair and beard. In this confined space, and dressed as he was in his court garb, the King was beyond intimidating. He seemed to fill the entire suite. He looked all about him, his face grim, and finally, he turned reluctant blue eyes to Wynter, as though she were the last person on earth he would want to talk to.
“Well, girl?” he said grudgingly, looking her up and down. “Where the hell is your father?”
“Your Majesty…? My…?” She gaped at him, was he serious? She couldn’t believe it. Where did he think her father was? Had Razi not told him of Lorcan’s condition? Jonathon must have seen her confusion blaze to anger, because his eyes grew wary despite the unchanging superiority of his expression.
Wynter drew herself to the limit of her height and spoke formally, through gritted teeth. “The Protector Lord is gravely ill, your Majesty. In fact, he was peacefully sleeping until your guard’s bellowing woke him.”
Jonathon blinked.
“Has your Majesty not spoken to his Highness, the Royal Prince Razi, about the Protector Lord’s health?”
Jonathon flung out his hand. “Enough with the God-cursed titles, child! No, I have not spoken to Razi about your father! I have not passed two words to that bloody boy in three days,” his face darkened at the thought of Razi. “Goddamn him.” Shaking himself, he turned to look into the receiving room. “He is abed then? Lorcan?”
“Aye, he is abed. Razi has forbidden him leave it.”
Jonathon turned an icy glare at her. “He was well enough to defend those damned boys against my guards yesterday. Doesn’t sound like he’s having too much trouble getting about to me.”
Wynter’s heart dropped and she paused, paralysed for a moment with shock. Then, as smoothly as possible, given the rage that numbed her lips, she said, “My father was in the library on your Majesty’s business. Huette’s boys had got into a misunderstanding with their papers and my father sorted it out, as is his duty.”
“Yet he cannot attend my council or be seen in court, is that it, Protector Lady? He has energy for his guildsmen, but not for his King?”
There was no hesitation this time and Wynter’s voice was cold and low when she replied, “The journey to the library nearly killed my father, your Majesty. It brought him to his knees. If it were not…” she paused, she had almost said, if it were not for Christopher but thankfully, she bit it back in time, switching smoothly instead to say, “if it were not for his great spirit, he would not have made it back at all. His Highness Prince Razi was most irate.”
Jonathon gazed at her a moment, his face unreadable, then he turned without warning and swept towards her father’s room. Wynter hurried after him with a cry of outrage, “At least let me prepare him, your Majesty!” But Jonathon had passed though the retiring room before she could stop him.
He halted in the entrance, and she had to slip past him to get into the room. Wynter had become so used to Lorcan’s rapid decline that she was no longer thrown by the devastation it had wrought on him. Jonathon however, was seeing him anew and he remained at the door, motionless and staring. Wynter crossed to the bed and stood quietly by her father’s side. She wondered how much of their conversation Lorcan had heard. She flicked a glance at him and decided not too much. He was watching Jonathon with hooded eyes, his face expressionless, his head heavy on the pillows. She looked back to Jonathon, and the two of them silently regarded the King.
Jonathon frowned. His eyes skittered over Lorcan’s face, the white lips, the darkly shadowed eyes, the beginnings of hollows in the pale cheeks. The King’s jaw tightened, and he stepped uncertainly to his friend’s side. Lorcan followed his movements with his eyes.
“Your daughter says I woke you,” Jonathon said, glancing down on Lorcan from his great height.
“No matter,” Lorcan’s voice was surprisingly strong, his usual confident rasp. He sounded alert, his mind sharp.
This seemed to surprise and comfort Jonathon, and he finally looked properly at his old friend. He nodded and sat carefully on the edge of the bed. “She tells me that Razi has confined you to your bed.”
“He is most insistent.”
There was a small, heavy-laden silence.
“Have you not been speaking to Razi?” asked Lorcan carefully.
Jonathon grimaced, “We orbit each other… at a distance.” He shook his head. “He has been a bloody trial to my patience.” He looked sideways at his old friend and murmured darkly, under his breath. “Things have been said…”
“Lies,” said Lorcan immediately. “Court gossip and slander.”
“Still…” Jonathon shook his golden head again and snarled, “Still.”
“He has distanced himself with commendable speed.”
Jonathon looked thoughtfully into the fire. “Still,” he said again, “It would be much simpler to just throw the Hadrish back in the keep. No chance for accusations of unnatural behaviour if he’s chained in a cell…”
Wynter felt herself grow rigid with fury, but Lorcan just sighed and waved his hand. “Just let the damned pain in the arse go, Jon. Send him back to the Moroccos, get him out of the way.”
Jonathon flicked a suspicious eye at Lorcan. Lorcan didn’t flinch. “I need him here, you know that.” He looked briefly at Wynter, then turned back to the fire. “He’s my only lever.”
Lorcan sighed and let it go. He lay placidly in the bed while the King watched the fire. Wynter fought to push her hatred and disgust back down in her chest before she said something she would for ever regret.
“How fare you, Lorcan?
” asked Jonathon softly, not taking his eyes from the fire.
Wynter ground her teeth, and Lorcan didn’t bother to reply. They knew that Jonathon wasn’t asking out of concern for his old friend’s health. At Lorcan’s continuing silence, the King turned to look at him. He startled at the cold green stare that Lorcan was levelling his way.
Jonathon’s eyes flicked guiltily away, then back again. Then he scowled, seemed to recollect he was the King and straightened so that he was frowning down at the man in the bed.
“When will you be fit to do your duty, Moorehawke?”
“Only God knows, your Majesty.”
Both men’s voices were equally cold, equally intractable.
Jonathon tipped his head in warning, “I need your public support, Protector Lord.”
“Then perhaps you should have your guards parade me about on a litter with a sign around my neck, your Majesty, for I can do no more than I have.”
They glared at each other for an instant. Then Lorcan’s face softened slightly, “Look, Jon,” he said quietly. “I am spent. Can you not see it? I am spent.” He spread his big hands in warm regret. “Just give me some time.”
Jonathon looked at Lorcan from under lowered brows, then raised his gaze to Wynter. She took an involuntary step back at the calculation in his eyes, her spine cold. Lorcan reached convulsively for the King’s arm. “Jonathon,” he breathed, his face alarmed, the word a warning and an entreaty.
Jonathon shook Lorcan’s hand from his arm and stood, his eyes still on Wynter. “I will see you at the banquet tonight, Protector Lady; you may have the honour of taking your father’s place.” He bowed to her, and then to Lorcan who was regarding him with cold hatred. “I wish you a speedy return to health, Protector Lord. I look forward to your return to my side.”
They listened to him leave, the steady tramp of his guards fading quickly from earshot. Lorcan’s lips were compressed and trembling in rage, his hands wringing the covers. Wynter put her hand on his shoulder. “Don’t be upset, Dad. It’s just another banquet! At best, I’ll be bored to death, at worst, I’ll have to dance with Warrick Shardon and have my toes broken.”
He reached up and grabbed her hand, clutching it to his chest. He absently stroked the calluses on her palm, the worthy scars on her knuckles. All the years they’d spent working at their independence… as if they’d ever really had a chance, what fools!
“At worst you could be poisoned by his opposition,” he said bitterly, “at worst you could be stabbed, or shot. At worst Jonathon could decide to betroth you into his circle, just to keep us near him. He could send you to a convent, just to control my words. He…”
“Dad!”
He squeezed her hand hard and brought it to his lips, his eyes clenched shut. “Oh Wynter!” he moaned, rocking slightly in distress “Oh baby-girl! At least tell me Marni has agreed! At least tell me that!”
“She has agreed,” she whispered, beaming at him with every ounce of false cheer she could muster. “Did you ever doubt her?”
Lorcan nodded. “ Good,” he said, regaining some of his composure. “Good.” He took a deep breath and then he released her hand, pushing himself higher in the bed, “Go get that boy now,” he said with a wave of his hand, “none of us should be alone today.” But as she moved away, he seemed to have a thought and reached for her arm and looked into her eyes. “We should tell Christopher of our plan,” he said softly, “it alarms him that you might have to stay here alone. It will do his heart good, on his journey, to know that you will be safe.”
“No, Dad!” she blurted.
Her vehemence shocked him, and he pulled back to look at her closely. “You fear he would tell Razi? Give you away?”
No, Dad, that’s not what I fear at all. I fear that, should I try and deceive him as I am deceiving you, Christopher would see right through me. And if Christopher guesses what I really have planned, he would chain me in the keep, rather than let me leave. And you, Dad, would probably hand him the keys.
She nodded gravely at her father. “Yes, I think he would tell Razi. Razi wants me to stay here, and I think that Christopher would feel obliged to take his side over mine.”
Lorcan smiled at her, his eyes kind. “I think you underestimate that boy’s esteem for you, darling.”
She squeezed his hand and leant in close, her voice teasing. “Dad! Do not tell that boy what we’re planning! Regardless of his so-called esteem.”
He held his hands up in surrender. “Whatever you wish!”
Wynter went to the secret door and slid the panel open, her thoughts miles away. A white shape moved quickly in the dark, and she leapt and stifled a scream as Christopher’s pale face was revealed only inches from her own. She staggered back, her hand to her dagger. Lorcan shouted at her, “What is it?”
“Christopher!” she cried, “What in God’s name…”
The breakfast things were at Christopher’s feet, and Wynter realised that he’d never moved from behind the door. He had, in fact, been waiting in the dark all along.
Had he been spying? But no, she saw it in his eyes, that fierceness she had seen before, when he’d been protecting Razi. And she knew, all at once, that he had been waiting in case they needed him. She wondered how he had planned to get to them, had things taken a turn, but the look on his face told her that nothing would have stopped him, had she cried out.
She straightened, breathless, and shoved her dagger back in its sheath. Running a shaky hand over her face, she breathed deeply and tried to get her body to calm itself. In his own contained way, Christopher was trying to do the same. He slowly dropped his hands, sheathing his own dagger and straightened from his crouch. His face gradually lost its tense, dangerous mask. He looked away, a little dazed, his breathing shaky.
“I thought…” he said, “I thought I’d wait… just in case.”
She nodded wordlessly and gestured for him to come on in. The two of them made their uncertain way to Lorcan, who smiled indulgently at them from his pillows, as if they were small children or a couple of amusing puppies.
Another Bloody Feast
“Stop pacing, boy! I’m exhausted just watching you!”
Lorcan’s irritated growl drifted to Wynter as she locked the hall door behind her. Sighing, she lowered her roll of tools to the floor and leant her head against the frame, listening to the men fretting in the next room.
“What time is it now?” Christopher asked, his lilting voice tight.
“Good Christ! You just heard the bloody bell! It’s half past the sixth quarter!”
“In proper bloody time, Lorcan! What’s the time on the Northern clock?”
Lorcan’s voice softened slightly and he said, “It’s one o’clock, boy… Just one. There’s still an hour to go.”
“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.”
The Poison Throne Page 29