A small band of Musulman boys and women strolled up the gravel path, chatting amiably amongst themselves. At first Wynter had thought that they had come to see Razi off, and it had puzzled her. Much like everyone else in Jonathon’s kingdom, the Musulmen had no idea what to do with Razi. Like everyone else, they paid court to him for his position and power, but many of them thoroughly disapproved of the man they called The Prince Who Would Not Pray.
Wynter watched them as they took their places at the end of the queue, and realised that they were waiting their turn to leave. A pilgrimage then, or an extended family heading to some wedding or another. The women chattered happily, the men laughed and jostled, their faces covered against the appalling dust. One of their number hurried up the gravel path to join them, pulling his keffiyeh tight across his face. He got a gentle ribbing in Arabic for being late, and quietly joined the other men, his head ducking under the heavy tide of good-natured insults. Their happy, familial camaraderie filled Wynter’s chest with black despair and she turned bleakly away as the line moved forward.
Everyone fell quiet at the sound of horses cantering up the drive, and the whole queue stepped back and turned as one. They watched silently as the royal travel party trotted up and stayed their horses under the gate-arch. Wynter shrank back into the crowd and peered up from under the brim of her hat.
Razi sat, remote and imperious at the heart of a small group of well armed men. He was dressed in the Bedouin robes that he had always preferred, and his head and face were protected from the sun and dust by a pale blue keffiyeh. Only his beautiful eyes were visible, hooded and reserved. His horse stamped and snorted and shook its magnificent head, and Razi gazed out into the middle distance as though none of this concerned him. One of his men leapt from his own mount and handed papers into the gatehouse. He pulled his keffiyeh from his face as the guard checked the papers and Wynter recognised Simon De Rochelle. She was filled with a mixture of nervousness and relief for her friend. Thank God he didn’t have to travel under the dubious protection of Jonathon’s hate-filled men, but at the same time, De Rochelle? He was as oily and as self-serving as a cat. She glanced at Razi, and her heart filled with fear for him.
De Rochelle accepted the papers from the satisfied guard and remounted. All the gate guards snapped a neat salute, and Razi paid them no more heed than he would a dog as he urged his horse forward through the open horse-gate and into the blistering sun. The party clattered unhurriedly over the drawbridge and set off uphill, allowing the thin stream of travellers to set the pace for their horses.
Wynter handed her papers to the guard, her eyes glued to the small knot of riders as they climbed the hill. The guard tossed the papers back at her and turned to the next in line. Wynter passed under the horse-gate and set off at a quick walk. She did not falter as she left the protective shadow of the gate-arch. She did not look back. But a small piece of her tore away as her feet left the bouncing timbers of the drawbridge, and she felt her heart begin to bleed as she took to the dust-laden road to town.
Razi was still in sight when she got to the inn, his party a good distance away, but easily discernible as the only group of men on horseback in the predominantly pedestrian and cart-filled road. She glanced at them as she entered the stable-yard, and then looked around for Marni’s nephew. There was no mistaking him. He was Marni with a beard. She caught his eye as he wrestled a recalcitrant hog into a sty, and she made Marni’s special hand signal to let him know who she was. He nodded almost imperceptibly and disappeared into the stable, returning moments later with Ozkar, who snorted and blew lippy kisses at the sight and smell of his mistress.
“Good lad,” she murmured to the horse and thumped him on the neck and rubbed his whiskered nose. “Good boy.” She checked him quickly, but he was in good condition and fresh, and he had obviously not been standing around full-saddled for more than ten minutes or so. She nodded gratefully at the big red-headed man and he gravely cupped his hands to give her a leg up into the saddle.
When she was seated and just clucking the horse forward, the man placed his hand on the horse’s neck and murmured softly. “Tanty sayed to tell you, take care, Lady. She sayed to tell you, nort to be a bleddy fool.” He blushed at the message, but Wynter smiled at him.
“Tell your aunt that I love her, Goodman, tell her that I am for ever in her debt…” she hesitated, “ask her please… ask her please, to take care of my father.”
He nodded gravely again and stood back as Wynter urged Ozkar out onto the road.
She hesitated momentarily as the thin crowd flowed past her, and she watched Razi’s distant figure as the gap between them grew. If she were to follow her father’s carefully thought-out plan, she would fall in behind the slow-moving travel party, and trail them all the way to down the Port Road and then a good deal of the way to Padua. Three weeks into their journey, when they were halfway across the mountains, and there was no fear of Razi sending her back, Wynter would have thrown herself on his mercy and put herself under his wing, travelling the rest of the way with him to Padua and starting a new life there within his protection.
Wynter watched as Razi nudged his horse through the crowds, his pale blue keffiyeh a bright spot of colour above the hanging drifts of yellow dust. She was choked with fear for him, travelling, as he was, surrounded by men he did not trust, into a life so utterly beyond his control. She shut her eyes against the desire to go to him and turned her horse into the crowd, nudging against the main flow of the traffic and heading back in the direction of the palace.
Ten minutes later, Wynter paused at a small crossroads and looked at the thin ribbon of road that led away to her left. Barely populated with traffic, it wound off across a narrow belt of pasture before quickly rising up, climbing the hilly slope and disappearing into heavy forest. She could almost hear the bandits and purse-lifts coming to attention at the smell of a woman taking this path alone. She took a deep and terrified breath, and glanced back up the road to town. Razi was well out of sight, gone from her, perhaps for ever. Behind her the palace crouched over the horizon. Her father lay clutched in its poisonous heart, abandoned and deceived and ailing, completely at the mercy of his wilful and unpredictable royal friend. She turned her head in his direction, trying to imagine him, praying he was well.
It is not too late, her mind whispered temptingly. You can turn back. Just urge the horse in either direction and you will be safe and protected and not alone.
Wynter looked longingly towards the palace. The crowds were thinning now, as most of the travellers were well on their way to the fair. Soon she would be alone on this road, for the first time in her life, conspicuous and vulnerable, with no one but herself to rely on. She was the wrong sex for this task, she was the wrong age, she could not do this. She couldn’t.
Blinking, Wynter dropped her head and looked at her trembling hands. I cannot do this, she repeated, I want to go home. Even as she was thinking it, she urged her horse forward and he obligingly nudged through the last of the stragglers and stepped from the main road and onto the rutted little tributary that led to the mountains.
A few people turned to glance at the dark-clad woman as she wound her solitary way down the track. Most that looked her way just turned back without even registering her. But some few, particularly the women, likely felt a twinge of sympathetic alarm. What can that girl be thinking! they might have gasped, is she mad? And they would have crossed themselves or knocked their foreheads or made some other warding sign, that they might never find themselves in such a situation.
For who would choose to be alone and without their men like that, heading away from the comfort of civil-folk and out into the cut-throat wilds? Some of them could not stop watching as the young woman trotted away from them. It was a morbid fascination that kept drawing their attention, so that they craned their necks back to keep track of her. She was travelling at a good pace, though, and it was not long before she disappeared up the winding path, to be swallowed into the treacherous
depths of the bandit-laden forest and the company of wolves.
Acknowledgments
With huge thanks to Svetlana Pironko of Author Rights Agency for her protection and guidance. A wonderful agent and a friend too. Also to my first publishers The O’Brien Press, who took a chance on me and have supported and helped me, and held my hand all through this strange new process.
Many, many thanks to all at Little, Brown who have thrown themselves so enthusiastically into the Moorehawke experience.
And lastly to Pat Mullan, whose kindness and generosity of spirit opened a door I had begun to think was locked for good. Thanks Pat, I’ll never be able to thank you enough.
extras
meet the author
Celine Kiernan
Born and raised in Dublin, Ireland, CELINE KIERNAN has spent the majority of her working life in the film business, and her career as a classical feature animator spanned over seventeen years. Celine wrote her first novel at the age of eleven, and hasn’t stopped writing or drawing since. She also has a peculiar weakness for graphic novels as, like animation, they combine the two things she loves to do the most: drawing and storytelling. Now, having spent most of her time working between Germany, Ireland and the USA, Celine is married and the bemused mother of two entertaining teens. She lives a peaceful life in the blissful countryside of Cavan, Ireland. Find out more about the author at www.celinekiernan.com.
interview
What was the inspiration to write?
I can’t seem to come up with a satisfactory answer to that. It’s the same as when people ask me, “How did you come up with the idea for that drawing?” The idea is just there.
It’s as if the characters and situations are there already, as if they’ve actually happened, and I’m just reporting them. Sometimes a story is so “big” inside my head that if I don’t write it down it feels like I will explode.
Where did the idea come from for the Moorehawke Trilogy?
Hee. I have this thing, this kind of visual in my head of a dark room with lots of boxes in it. Each box has a story in it, and they sit there till I’m ready to work on them. Inside the box, while they’re waiting for my attention, they percolate, or they grow. Like coffee, or fungus.
Anyway, the Moorehawke Trilogy began while on holiday to the south of France. It was a little story about a carpenter’s daughter, a missing prince, a ghost in an avenue and, perhaps, the mention of a talking cat. It was intended as a sun-soaked, bright, action adventure type thing. My kids like to tell me that it went into the box a happy, skipping child and shambled out the other end a drooling blood-soaked monster. I suppose they’re not far wrong.
Do you have a favorite character in The Poison Throne?
No, I don’t think so. They’re all so different, and they all have their own motivations and their own ideas on how to deal with this very trying and extreme situation they find themselves in. I may not agree with how some of them handle themselves, but I feel for and sympathize with them all.
Is there a character that you really hated creating?
Gosh no! Even my bad guys are fascinating to me. I think it would be impossible to create a character towards whom I had no sympathy at all. There are some characters that I hate to let go—Rory, for example; I really wanted to put more of him into the story. But there was no place for him. Thankfully he plays a huge role in the prequel, so I get to hang out more with him then.
Are some of the characters based on historical people?
Badi’ al-Zaman al-Jazari was a real person, as was his work The Book of Ingenious Mechanical Devices. I believe it was on tour in the Chester Beattie recently; I deeply regret not having seen it. But, of course, he’s not a character in the book. So the answer is no, the main characters are not based on real people.
I’ve kept everything grounded in the realities of everyday life at the turn of the 1400s, though. Even the fact that Wynter is a guild-approved carpenter isn’t too far off the wall, as records show that there were two female blacksmiths practicing in London only a few decades later. Though there is an element of fantasy to the books (ghosts and talking cats and the like), I’ve kept the technology as accurate as possible. In regards to some things that come later in the series, I’m trying as much as possible to make sure that Lorcan would actually have been able to succeed in building The Bloody Machine.
I have greatly reimagined Europe and Africa’s political geography, not to mention its history. There never having been a Moorish invasion or any Crusades, political relationships are vastly different than in real life. It is also a fragmented, quarrelsome Europe, with many small powers rather than three or four big ones, and religious persecution and racial intolerance loom in the form of various “inquisitions.” For a kingdom as economically fragile and militarily vulnerable as the Southlands, there are dark times ahead if things aren’t handled properly. Though Jonathon has powerful allies in the Moroccos, and though he has control of the valued Port Road, he knows his kingdom is more and more vulnerable to the instability that surrounds him. As a man of conscience, Jonathon would not like some of the things he will be forced to do as king; they would eat at him as a man.
In your imagination, where precisely in Europe is The Poison Throne set?
In a small kingdom that takes up most of the south of France, stretching approximately from north of Lyon to Marseilles, including the mountain ranges that flank that area of land and all of the coast.
Given that you were working full-time when you began the Moorehawke Trilogy, how did you make time to write it?
It’s not easy sometimes. The last few years, I found myself staying up till three and four in the morning most nights, and then getting up for work the next day. It nearly killed me. For the next year at least I can write during the day. That will be bliss.
Describe your writing routine, if you have one.
I have a very strong work ethic. I write four pages a day, regardless of the quality, and if I don’t stick to that I get very anxious. Perhaps if I start biting my nails it will relieve the pressure.
Who inspires you?
In terms of what writers inspire me? I have an abiding love of John Steinbeck. I love Neil Gaiman, Patrick O’Brien and the great Shirley Jackson. I also adored Stephen King’s early work; his early stuff is absolute genius.
I suppose, anyone whose work moves or intrigues me is an inspiration!
introducing
If you enjoyed
THE POISON THRONE,
look out for
THE CROWDED SHADOWS
Book 2 of The Moorehawke Trilogy
by Celine Kiernan
Wynter sank closer to Ozkar’s neck and slowly dipped her head so that the dark brim of her hat hid her eyes. The horse side-stepped nervously under her and tried to back out of their hiding place. He could sense her fear and it was making him anxious. Wynter murmured to him and stroked his shoulder, but he shook his head, snorted and loudly stamped his foot.
The men moving in the trees ahead of her were getting close. Wynter tracked their progress by the noise of their horses, and she shrank further back into cover as the sounds grew louder. She could not believe how easily these men had escaped her attention. The trees here were so thick and dark that Wynter might never have noticed them, only that they had been foolish enough to light a pipe, and its rich tobacco scent had alerted her to their presence. It filled her with fear to realize that they may have been traveling parallel to each other for days and not known it, the sounds of the men’s horses cancelling out the noises made by Ozkar and vice versa.
Wynter was just raising her head to peer through the trees, hoping for a glimpse of them, when a low whistling signal from the road sent her ducking again, her heart racing. There was a moment of silence from the men, then they whistled a melodic reply, and to Wynter’s horror, began pushing their horses through the brush towards her.
They came frighteningly close and she was filled with an almost irresistible desire to lift her head an
d look. But it would take just one careless movement and they would spot her, so she kept her eyes shut and her head down and the men passed slowly by.
They urged their horses down a steeply sloping bank and out of sight. Wynter side-stepped Ozkar so that she could observe their descent to the road.
She found herself looking down on the tops of their heads as they passed from the shade into brutal sunshine, and they came to a halt in the road, looking expectantly into the trees on the opposite side. Wynter followed their gaze, and ducked lower at the sight of four horsemen descending the far slope. As these newcomers reached the road, the original two men shook back their dark hats and uncovered their faces. They were Combermen, their rosined hair and beards glistening in the sun. They squinted warily at the newcomers and one of them called out, in stilted Southlandast, the language of Jonathon’s Kingdoms, “So far?”
The newcomers called back, “And not yet there?”
There was a general easing of tension in the men, and Wynter committed these passwords, and the whistles that had preceded them to memory.
As the newcomers pulled to a halt, the shorter Comberman asked, “I take it we face the same direction?”
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