The Poison Throne

by Celine Kiernan

  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.

  Wynter and Lorcan choked a little and looked at Razi in surprise. “Did you cook this?” asked Wynter.

  Razi looked at her over the rim of his bowl, carefully scooping the last scraps into his mouth with his fingers. He smiled with his eyes and nodded.

  Lorcan shifted in his chair in order to get a better look at the young man who was leaning against his footstool. “Well,” he said, “I’m bloody impressed.” Razi tilted his curly head back against the arm of Lorcan’s chair and smiled at him.

  “Oh aye,” breathed Christopher, finally kicking back and wiping his fingers on his napkin. “My cooking will keep you going, but Razi’s will make you glad to be alive.” He belched politely and patted his stomach with a contented sigh.

  They worked their way through the cakes, and all had a little wine, and the evening went pleasantly forward with easy conversation and much laughter. No one spoke of Christopher’s departure, no one mentioned Razi’s family and no one pondered the uncertainty of the Moorehawkes’ future. As far as this evening went, there was no future. There was just this, four friends, their bellies full, talking lightly of amusing things. And the evening went well for it and they were happy for that small time.

  They talked well into the depths of the night.

  “… do you recall…?” laughed Christopher, leaning forward to shake Razi’s knee, “How he got it into his mind that you’d trade the stallion for one of his daughters?”

  Razi grinned, his cheeks hot. “Aye! Parsimonious old rascal! Would rather part with one of his own, than hand over a purse…”

  Christopher turned to Wynter and Lorcan, tears of mirth in his eyes at the memory. “Raz… Raz couldn’t figure it! All these women kept coming to the tent…” He sat up straight, tossed his hair back in a womanish manner and fluttered his eyes, he waggled his backside on the cushions like a woman walking suggestively and murmured in a soft, feminine voice, “Would’st like some more sweets, Lord Razi?” He tilted his head and looked under his eyelashes at Wynter and Lorcan. “Would’st like me to fetch thee some water, Lord Razi?” He leant forward and breathed very suggestively, his features heavy, his voice husky, “Would’st like me fluff thy pillows, Lord Razi?”

  Lorcan roared himself into a coughing fit, and Wynter hid her grin behind her tea-glass. Razi blazed red and, grinning, he swatted Christopher on the back of the head. “Oh shush, you bloody menace.”

  “Did… did the old man get the horse?” choked Lorcan, bending forward with breathless mirth.

  Christopher raised an eyebrow. “What do you think?” he asked.

  Lorcan roared again and Razi shouted in protest, holding his hands up to try and still the laughter. “He paid a fair purse! He paid a purse!”

  “I have no doubt…” murmured Wynter slyly, leaning forward to fill her tea glass. “That he paid the purse… but not before his daughters got their due…”

  The men roared again, and she smiled into her glass as Christopher grinned at her from across the cushions.

  It was growing late and they subsided suddenly into comfortable silence.

  “Sing us a song, Razi,” murmured Lorcan sleepily, his head leaning back.

  Razi smiled and shook his head. “Not tonight, I don’t have the heart for it.”

  “Christopher?” asked Lorcan carefully, mindful of the implications for the young man.

  But Christopher just smiled warmly, “Not unless you’re fond of rusty metal hinges, I’m afraid. I sing like a crow!”

  They chuckled and Christopher turned his eyes questioningly to Wynter. Lorcan waved his hand, “Oh, you may as well ask the moon! She’ll never sing in company, though she thrills like a lark when alone.”

  Wynter kept her eyes on Christopher’s and to Lorcan’s obvious shock said softly, “I don’t mind, Dad. What would you like to hear?”

  Lorcan regarded her quietly for a moment, his face still. “Sing ‘The Lilies of the Field are all under His Care’,” he said softly and Wynter’s heart melted.

  “All right, Dad.”

  Let me get through it without tears, she prayed, and opened her mouth and sang. She knew that it had been her mother’s favourite hymn. It told of God’s love for all living things and of his understanding of their plight. It spoke of comfort in the blackest hour, and the calm and joy that came after even the longest storm. It was a song that spoke to Lorcan’s heart, and Wynter put everything she could into it, closing her eyes to block out all but the music, opening her throat to let out all of the song.

  She finished and opened her eyes to find the men watching her, their eyes soft.

  “You should sing more often,” murmured Christopher.

  They retreated into comfortable silence for a time, and looked into the fire. Wynter had feared heaviness and sorrow, but it was just a return to the gentle quiet of before, each of them comfortable in their own space, happy and safe with the people they loved.

  Lorcan shifted in his chair and Wynter glanced at him.

  “Dad?” she asked in concern, sitting straighter.

  Her father had a hand over his face. She could see his fingers were trembling and his lips, just visible in the shadow of his hand, were a thin compressed line. Christopher got smoothly to his feet.

  “Would you like to lie down, Lorcan?”

  “Aye,” whispered the big man, and Christopher looked pointedly at the others.

  Wynter felt a little pang of jealousy, but Razi and herself rose obediently to their feet. They kicked the cushions against the wall and put the tea things on the table before moving to the retiring room to wait.

  They sat at the round table in soft candlelight and listened as Christopher got Lorcan slowly into bed.

  “What will he do without him?” said Wynter. What will I do without him?

  “Tutti is a good man, sis. He was with me in the Moroccos. Without him St James’s death would have been much… much more difficult for the poor man.”

  Wynter looked at Razi, his bruised face was thoughtful and sad in the gentle light. He looked into the candle flame, the gold flecks in his eyes vivid. St James had been a particular friend and protector to him, Razi having been apprenticed to him at the age of eight and having spent most of his life learning from him.

  “What became of him, Razi?”

  “He died of the cancer, I think. It was very slow. It was very… bad.”

  “I am sorry, Razi.”

  He looked at her, smiling. “Aye. Thank you.” He continued to smile at her, his big eyes warm and tender. “Marcello will make sure that your father is well tended. You will need do nothing but love him and be there for him when…” He faltered and looked away, all his professional detachment deserting him at the thought of Lorcan’s inevitable decline. “You will be able to remain his daughter to the very end, and he will not have to endure the thought of you becoming his nurse. I am glad to have been able to do that for you… It breaks my heart that I must leave him, Wynter. I… my only consolation is that he will have you by his side.”

  Wynter felt her hold on her emotions begin to slip. She shut her eyes. They would all be leaving him. Her father would be alone, all alone at the end. She put her head into her hand. Oh, how could she do this? How? She didn’t think she was physically capable of going through with it.

  Ther
e was a small movement in front of her, and Razi was there, kneeling at her feet. She looked up at him, and he brushed her hair off her face. “No tears,” he begged. “Not tonight, eh?”

  She nodded. “No tears,” she agreed and took a deep breath.

  They looked around as Lorcan’s door opened, and Christopher peered out at them. They got to their feet and went to speak quietly by Lorcan’s door.

  “He sleeps like a stone,” whispered Christopher.

  “Chris,” said Razi. “You must be ready to leave very early tomorrow. I still do not trust that my father won’t try and prevent your departure.” Christopher nodded, his eyes slipping to Wynter.

  Razi sighed, “We should all to bed,” he said. Christopher nodded again and moved to go back into Lorcan’s room.

  “Christopher!” said Razi, his voice sharp. “You should get to bed now!”

  “I’m sleeping here,” said Christopher, indicating the cushions.

  Razi huffed impatiently. “You need a good sleep! You must be sharp tomorrow!” he demanded, “Go to your own bed!”

  Christopher stepped over the threshold suddenly and put his hand on Razi’s chest. He frowned up into Razi’s insistent face and spoke firmly and low. “Look, for the hundredth time, Razi Kingsson, I’m no bloody baby. I’m sleeping in here, on those cushions.” He took a fistful of Razi’s shirt and tugged it gently to and fro, holding Razi’s eyes with his own. “There’s an end to it.”

  Razi’s face softened, and he nodded. Christopher smiled up at him. “You know…” said Razi softly, “I may not… I may not make it out tomorrow… my father…”

  Christopher’s eyes tightened in suppressed emotion, but he patted his friend’s chest in understanding. Before he could pull away, Razi gripped Christopher’s hand and held it over his heart, his face solemn, his eyes full.

  “By God, Christopher. Be careful… please.”

  “Once I’m outside those walls, friend, I will run like a bloody rabbit. They will never find me.”

  Razi leaned forward suddenly and wrapped his arms around Christopher, hugging him close. Christopher unhesitatingly looped his arms around Razi’s back and squeezed. They stood like that for what seemed a long time, Razi’s cheek on Christopher’s head, Christopher’s face pressed into Razi’s shoulder.

  Then they parted.

  “Try and come tomorrow,” said Christopher unexpectedly, his voice unsteady.

  Razi nodded, not at all hopeful. He backed to the secret door. Wynter raised a hand to him as he loitered in the dark, his eyes bright in the shadows. He twisted a shaky smile at her and then he slid the panel shut. Christopher leaned into the wall, his eyes lost in shadow, his face turned to the secret door.

  “We should to bed, Christopher.”

  “Aye.” He looked across at her. “Will you rise with me tomorrow?”

  She nodded fervently.

  “Thank you,” he whispered and he went in to lie on the cushions, his back to the fire, his eyes on Lorcan.

  After Wynter put on her shift, she stood for a long moment looking at her bed, cold and neat in the blue light of the moon. Then she pulled the extra covers off the end and went in to Lorcan’s room.

  Christopher looked up in shock when she came back in. His face was bright with tears and he scrubbed at them self-consciously. Wynter paid him no heed and shuffled around to the cushions that lay between Christopher and the fire.

  “Thanks,” he whispered as she spread the blankets down on him. Then she settled behind him, getting under the covers and lying down on the cushions.

  They stayed like that for a while, Christopher with his back to her, she lying on her side facing him, her cheek resting in her hand on the pillow. The two of them watched Lorcan as he slept.

  After a while Wynter moved over and looped her arm around Christopher’s waist. She laid her cheek against his back and closed her eyes. Her arm was relaxed against his stomach and she was just drifting to sleep when he took her hand in his own and pulled it up to press it against his chest. She fell asleep like that, the length of his slim body warming her, the strange gap-fingered pressure of his hand, a gentle reassurance as he held her palm against his heart.

  First Goodbye

  The moon had set and the sun not yet risen when Wynter woke. She was warm and comfortable, nestled into cushions, and it took a while for her to recall where she was. Then she remembered Lorcan’s room, laughter, good food and friendship. She had slept all night by Christopher’s side.

  Christopher was up and about. At some stage, Wynter must have rolled in her sleep to face the fire, and she lay still now and watched his slim, dark shape crouched against the flames. It took a moment before she realised that he was dressed and already prepared for his departure.

  Oh, Christopher. So soon?

  His face was intent as he poured water from the kettle into Razi’s silver teapot and eased the lid shut. He did not notice her watching him. As she looked on, he put honey and lemon slices into the waiting tea glasses. Her heart twisted when she noticed that he had prepared four servings. It appeared that Christopher would not give up hope of Razi being able to join them.

  He was dressed for travel, wearing a dark, long-sleeved tunic that covered his hands to the knuckles, dark riding breeches, and knee-length, hard-soled riding boots. He had a travel-belt around his hips, loaded with purse, ammunition and powder pouches, a buckler and a strange looking knife that Wynter had never seen the like of before. She could just see the handle of his black dagger at the top of his right boot.

  Christopher carefully placed a spoon in each glass, ready for the tea to be poured, and Wynter frowned as she took in his precise, methodical movements.

  There was something very odd about him. What was it?

  Christopher’s fluid curtain of hair was pulled severely back and coiled against his head. He had bound it tightly in place with a fine black scarf. His narrow face looked older. His easy, smiling mouth, his glancing eyes, seemed dangerous and set. He looked shockingly different to the lounging smiler she was used to. If Wynter met this man in the street, or saw him in a tavern, she would check her purse and make sure not to turn her back on him.

  Wynter watched as Christopher stirred the tea. He turned his hard, expressionless face full into the light, and the answer came to her in a sudden rush of pride and sorrow. This, she realised, was Christopher’s mask.

  Kneeling by the fire in front of her, preparing the glasses of tea that were to be his farewell breakfast, Christopher was, in his mind, already on the road. Already anticipating the time when he would be alone and unprotected, travelling the perilous roads to the south, he had slipped into the persona that would make others think twice before they took him on. One glance at that face and it was easy to overlook the fact that this was but a slim, pale man with vulnerably damaged hands and no friends in sight.

  Wynter pressed her cheek into the cushions at that thought and bit her lip against a prickle of unwanted fear for him.

  Christopher, still blissfully unaware of her scrutiny, took a napkin from his pocket and unfolded it on the hearth to reveal one of last night’s cakes. He knelt motionless for a moment, regarding it. The firelight played across his silently moving lips. Then he carefully broke it into four, and, quickly, as if aware of the rapidly passing time, ate a portion, threw a portion in the fire, put a portion in his pocket, and with the final portion in his hand, stood and crossed to the bed where Lorcan slept soundly on.

  Witchcraft, thought Wynter with a pang of fear, and immediately berated herself. You’ve spent far too long up North, Wynter Moorehawke. Their intolerance has poisoned you.

  As Wynter watched, Christopher kissed the remaining piece of cake and carefully placed it against Lorcan’s lips. He did this so gently that Lorcan didn’t even flinch. Then Christopher slipped the offering under Lorcan’s pillow and stood, his face lost in shadows, looking down on the big man.

  Wynter found this unbearably moving and she rolled over purposely so that C
hristopher would know she was awake. He turned his head to look at her and his face was instantly transformed. There was his tomcat smile, there were those sly dimples. His eyes came alive.

  “How do, girly,” he whispered. “Did I wake you?”

  She shook her head with a smile. “Were you praying, Christopher?”

  He looked shocked for a moment, then smiled again, looking down at Lorcan with sad fondness. “I suppose so…” He chuffed a little laugh, “It’s been a long time since I did ritual… but it felt like the right thing to do.”

  “Christopher is an odd name for a pagan,” she observed softly

  He looked over sharply at the word pagan, but softened almost immediately and grinned. “It were my mother that named me. I doubt the word meant anything to her but a sound.” He looked down at Lorcan again, and murmured absently. “Though I suppose she might have been a Christian, who can know?”

  He brushed a strand of hair from Lorcan’s face and turned back to the fire. It was so strange to hear his normally soft footsteps, now loud and rapping in his hard-soled boots. He hunkered down by the fire and poured two cups of tea, strong and pitch black, the way the Turks drank it. “Here,” he whispered and handed her a glass.

  They drank in silent companionship, the fire a soft crackling undercurrent to their silence. Wynter found it hard to be sad; it did not seem real that Christopher was leaving. It just felt normal to be sitting here, in this easy quiet, her feet tucked under her, the blankets pooled in her lap. Christopher sat on the hearthstone, his legs stretched out in front of him, his ankles crossed. She examined his profile as he watched her father sleep. He held his tea glass under his chin between sips, inhaling the lemon scented steam, his expression unreadable.

  “Wynter…” he whispered suddenly.

  “Yes?”

  He looked at her, his face dark against the fire, his eyes gleaming. “I am glad that you will be with your father when it is his time to die.”

  This was such a bald statement, so utterly without polish or evasion that Wynter’s throat closed over for a moment. She did not know what to say to him and found herself staring, her eyes huge, as he continued.