Wynter shut her eyes and turned her face into Christopher’s chest. She did not answer. Christopher brought his hand up to rest against the thick coil of hair at the back of her head. He took a breath to tell Razi about the bandit and she immediately pressed her fingers to his lips to make him stop. But Christopher gently pulled her hand away and clasped it to his chest. Then he went ahead and told Razi everything, just as she had told it to him.
Razi was still and silent for a long time after Christopher stopped talking. Eventually Wynter couldn’t stand it any longer and she turned her head to see him. He was standing looking at them, his face lost in shadows.
“Why did you not tell me?” he said, his voice thick and disbelieving. “Why did you not ask for my help? I would have protected you!”
Wynter stared at him, not knowing how to explain.
Christopher lay very still beneath her, his hand on her hair, her palm still pressed to his chest. “She was ashamed, Razi,” he said quietly. “She didn’t know what to say.”
“But what if that man had killed you, Chris? What if his friend had come and …” Razi cut himself off. He pulled his hands across his face, and then stood looking up at the stars, gathering his patience. “Next time, tell me,” he said at last. “Next time you are in trouble, tell me. Together we’ll find a better way.”
Wynter jerked awake, images of fire in her head, drums beating. “Embla,” she whispered, but the dream fled before she could catch hold of it, and even that name left her, lost as soon as it passed her lips.
The moon had sunk behind the trees, and the clearing was very dark and still. Wynter’s eyes slid shut again, sleep pulling her like an undertow. Christopher had rolled onto his side and she lay pressed to his back, her forehead resting against his shoulder blades, her arm looped across his waist. As she began to spiral downwards into the dark, she stroked his stomach lightly, the way a drowsing child might stroke a blanket or a doll. At her touch, Christopher mumbled and stretched a little.
Wynter felt herself floating off the edge of consciousness. She slid her hand beneath Christopher’s shirt, enjoying the softness of his skin against her fingertips. He sighed, and she continued to stroke his stomach, almost asleep.
Suddenly Christopher gripped her hand in his, pulling her fingers up and away. Sleep retreated a fraction and she half-opened her eyes. “You ’right, Chris?”
He seemed very tense, holding his breath, Wynter’s hand squashed tightly in his. She went to speak again, but her eyes slid shut of their own accord and she stumbled completely into the dark, losing her grip on the world for a while.
When she drifted back up, he was gone. She put her hand out to feel for him but his side of the bedroll was empty. She closed her fingers in his abandoned cloak and sleep claimed her again.
She woke one more time that night to find Christopher slipping back into their bed. He pulled their cloaks over him and settled down with his back to her. She scooted over and looped her arm across his waist again, snuggling her head in against his back. He hesitated, then took her hand in his, kissed her fingers with his cold lips and settled down with a sigh.
Over the horizon thunder boomed again, dry and lightless, the uneasy promise of storms.
Silver Bells
“This is quite a travel party,” said Christopher. He ground his toe into a post hole and looked anxiously around the deserted camp. “Must have been at least three big tents here. Ten men, perhaps, maybe even more.”
Wynter stooped and lifted a handful of cinders from the remains of the campfire. It had been almost two days since they had tried to spy on the inhabitants of this camp, but warmth still lurked under the surface of these carefully damped down ashes. “These fires haven’t been doused long,” she said. “They only struck camp this morning.” She cleaned her hands on the grass and got to her feet. “I wish we’d managed to get a good look at them, instead of chasing each other through the woods like idiots.”
Christopher strolled over to the large area of poached ground where the travellers had kept their horses. “They’ve made no effort to hide their presence. They seem to have no fear of being discovered.”
“They were speaking Hadrish,” commented Wynter. “Perhaps they’re fur merchants?”
Razi stood on the other side of the clearing. He was staring at something on the ground, absently running his thumb across the scar on his lip. His expression disturbed Wynter, and as Christopher wandered off to follow the tracks of the horses, she drifted over to Razi and looked down at what was so absorbing him.
“Oh!” she said softly, “a rein bell! You used to love those! I notice you don’t use them anymore, don’t the Arab horses like them?” She crouched, intending to pick the little silver globe from the leaf litter, but Razi startled her by putting his foot on it and grinding it into the dirt. She glanced up at him. He was glaring at the ground under his foot, his eyes hooded, his expression cold. Wynter had the feeling that he would like to crush that little bell until it was nothing but dust under his heel.
“What is it?” she whispered, still crouched at his feet. He lifted his eyes to meet hers, then snapped them to Christopher.
The young man had followed the trail of heavy hoofprints away from the camp and down towards the water. Unaware of their scrutiny, he called back over his shoulder as he examined the trail. “I think they’re heading towards the ferry. We might run into them yet, if they’re following the river.”
Wynter looked back to Razi. She gestured questioningly to the bell. Razi shook his head and spoke softly, “Don’t mention it to him. It may just be a rein bell; it probably is just a rein bell. But don’t mention it to him. Not till I know for certain.”
“Why?” She jogged after him as he went to fetch the horses. “Razi?”
Christopher had given up on the spoor and was strolling back towards them, his eyebrows raised expectantly at their tense expressions. “What are the shifty eyes for?” he called. “Found something interesting?”
Razi leant close as he handed Wynter her reins. “I’m afraid it may be a slave bell, Wyn.” Wynter’s eyes widened and she looked anxiously at Christopher. He was eyeing them very dubiously now as he approached the clearing.
“The Loups-Garous use them,” whispered Razi, bringing his horse between them and their advancing friend. “They put them on the poor creatures they consider their… their private property.” He stepped into the stirrup. “Do not mention it to him.” He rose smoothly into the saddle as Christopher came within earshot. “Come on, Christopher,” he said. “Let us go see who these fellows are, shall we?”
Christopher watched as Razi kicked his horse forward and headed off down the trail, then he met Wynter’s eyes. “What is it?” he said. “What did he find?”
Wynter blinked. She turned away, hopped and rose in the stirrup. “He didn’t tell me,” she said, settling into the saddle. “You know what he’s like.”
Christopher stood for a moment, his hand on his horse’s neck, gazing up at her, and Wynter’s heart twisted. She couldn’t stand that look on his face. She didn’t want to keep things from him. But maybe Razi was right, maybe it was just a rein bell. Until they knew for certain, was there any point upsetting Christopher, and perhaps stirring unwanted memories for him?
“Come on, love,” she said softly. “He’ll be angry.”
Christopher’s eyes sparkled at that, and he tilted his head back with a wicked grin.
“What?” she said, surprised.
“Oh, nothing.” He swung up into his saddle, still grinning, and turned his horse to follow Razi out of the clearing.
“What?” she shouted, irritated at the pleased twinkle in his eye.
Christopher just waved his hand over his shoulder and kicked into a trot so that she had to hurry to catch up.
The day took on a breathless, pre-storm swelter and, once again, thunder grumbled beyond the horizon. They rode for hours and didn’t take their break until late that afternoon, so they decided to make a
meal of it, unsaddling the horses and settling down on a large flat rock by the river to eat and rest.
Even this close to the water, it was unbearably sultry, and they lolled about, listless and silent in the heat. Wynter lay far up the rock, deep in the shade of an overhanging tree, tiredly chewing a piece of cheese. Christopher sat at the water’s edge, dangling his bare feet in the river and staring up at the sky.
Razi was his usual quiet self, sprawled in the sun, gnawing on an apple and brooding. Wynter knew he was worried about that little silver bell, but she thought he was overreacting. The Loups-Garous would never ride so blatantly through Jonathon’s Kingdom, particularly not with slaves in tow. They knew what would happen should Jonathon’s troops find them. No, the Loups-Garous would have been slinking quietly around the edges of things, slipping through the shadows and getting away fast, not traipsing through the woods leaving their spoor like a bunch of frilly-headed court ladies on a picnic.
Relax, brother, she thought, it is Northlander fur traders, that is all. Or Musulman pilgrims on their way home from the Moroccos. Plenty of people use rein bells. There does not have to be a dark reason for everything.
“Just a small rest now,” Razi warned. “We move on soon.”
“Bloody monarch,” muttered Christopher, leaning back on his elbows and looking across the vast expanse of slow moving water. “Always giving orders …”
The small rest turned into a deep sleep and it was about twenty minutes later when Wynter jerked awake. Someone was rustling about at the tree line and she snapped to attention, her hand on her knife, but it was only Razi walking up the rock towards the trees. He smiled at her and whispered, “It’s all right, we’re not leaving yet.”
“Where are you going?” she asked.
He rolled his eyes, holding up his short-spade and grinning. “Never question a man heading into the trees with a spade in his hand, Lady!”
She grinned and waved him off. He strolled away into the dappled shade, “I may be a while,” he called back lightly.
Wynter reclined on her elbows, enjoying the quiet. The water was peaceful and chuckling against the round stones of the shore, the river gleaming like polished soapstone. Wynter felt like a fox peering from its den into the heat of the day. It struck her then that Christopher was not by the water’s edge and she scanned the sun-baked rocks and the gently buzzing reed-beds with a small frown.
She turned to call after Razi and realised that Christopher was right beside her. He must have come up into the shade after she’d fallen sleep, and he sat facing her, his back against the rocks, his hands folded peacefully on the flat plane of his stomach. His hat was low over his eyes, and as her vision adjusted to the shade Wynter realised that he was watching her with a soft kind of intensity.
“Hello,” she whispered.
The sun chose that moment to step from behind the clouds, and Christopher’s face was flooded with reflected light, all his fine-boned features abruptly jumping into sharp relief. Something amused him and he grinned at her. Wynter had to grin back, his delight was so contagious.
“What?” she laughed.
“The sun just lit your eyes up, green as fairy-fire,” he said softly. “You look like a bewitched cat. Any self-respecting Midlands biddy would be crossing herself and strapping you to a ducking stool if she saw you.”
Wynter chuckled. “Oh, shush,” she said, turning to look out at the water again.
The peaceful sounds lulled gently around her. In the brambles above them a robin began to sing.
“What is your name, girly?”
Wynter sighed. It was a question that had been asked more than once in her life. As usual she didn’t answer; she just treated Christopher to that smile and that look, the combination of which would let any courtier know that the question should never be asked again. But Christopher was no courtier, and the subtleties of such body language were completely lost on him. He waited a polite moment, and then when she still didn’t reply he pressed on.
“Wynter, well it ain’t a real name is it? It’s the same here as in the North, ain’t it? Wynter-baby. It’s a foundling title. Or it’s what they temporarily call babies when their mothers die before naming them, ain’t it?” Wynter continued to gaze at the water and didn’t answer. “Well …” Christopher sounded uncertain now, as if finally aware that he was trespassing on unwelcome territory. “Um …” he said. “Did… did your dad not name you, then? When he got back from—”
“Jonathon named me,” she said abruptly, “while Dad was still on the run. He thought it would please my father to call me after my… he named me after my dead mother.” She felt her face harden with the bitterness she now harboured towards the King. Until recently she had always considered this as nothing worse than a sad mistake, but now it had come to symbolise what she saw as the man’s unrelenting thoughtlessness. “Marni knew it would devastate my dad,” she said, “to have to hear my mother’s name day after day, but never again see her. She knew that he would never be able to bear it. She refused to call me anything but Wynter. By the time my dad had been fetched home and recovered from his wounds, I must have been five months old. I was almost a year old before the poor man could bear even to look at me. No one called me anything but Wynter by then. Wynter is the only name I ever answered to, Christopher. It is my name.”
She glanced at him. He was watching her uncertainly, as though he had something to say, but wasn’t sure how she’d take it.
“What?” she said. “What is it?”
“It’s a baby’s name,” he said.
She didn’t answer, not certain where he was heading.
Christopher blushed, his eyes sliding away. “Well,” he said. “Well, it’s just… you’re a woman!” He waved his hand at her body, not looking at her. “Don’t you…? Ain’t it…? Gah!” he exclaimed, suddenly irritated. “How can a man be expected to call you by a baby’s name? It’s ridiculous! What if some fellow wants to wed you? How could he walk you under the bower with a baby’s name hanging over you?”
Wynter laughed, convinced he was jesting. “Is that what you’d like for me, Christopher Garron?” she asked, not quite teasing. “After all my years training and getting my guild approval? You want me to wed myself to some lad and become a slave to my belly for the rest of my life?”
“You… That surely ain’t your only opinion of marriage?”
Wynter snorted sarcastically. Easy for a man to say, she thought, What risk to him, baby after baby for the rest of his days? No man ever died in labour and that’s for certain.
“No wife of mine would have a child till she wanted one,” said Christopher softly, and Wynter glanced at him in scorn.
“Oh aye,” she said. “Like any man would deny himself the pleasure of his bed for the sake of his woman’s belly. How long would that last? A few weeks? A month? What about years? Could you hold yourself for years, Christopher?”
“For God’s sake,” he shouted, his sudden anger taking her by surprise. “Does no one tell their women anything in this place? Don’t you know the pleasure is for the man and the woman to enjoy? And there’s no need to deny yourself aught! There are ways… there are… Good Frith!” Christopher suddenly leapt to his feet and ducked out from under the bower. He was flushed red with rage and embarrassment, and poor Razi chose that unfortunate time to present himself in his path.
“You!” yelled Christopher, poking a finger in the shocked young man’s chest. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself! You call yourself a doctor? She’s your sister, for Frith’s sake! And Lorcan! Of all men I’m surprised at him! What’s wrong with you people? Leaving your women floundering around in the dark at the spurious mercies of their men folk! Shame! Shame on you, Razi Kingsson! You should be bloody whipped! Give me that!” He snatched the spade from Razi’s hand. “Ta’ orm cac a dhéanamh!” he said, and stormed off into the brush, disappearing quickly into the shadows.
Razi stood with his hand out, his mouth open. “Whu…?” he said. H
e turned to look at Wynter. “Huh?” he said.
Wynter felt herself flush scarlet. It began at her breastbone and rose like a tide to the roots of her hair. Razi’s eyes widened. His voice deepened, and this time he said “What?” with real command.
Struggling to get a hold of her tangled conversation with Christopher, Wynter took a deep breath and did her best to explain. As she spoke, Razi’s expression changed from wary to tender and by the time she was finished, he had his hand over his mouth, and he chuckled in a kind of mortified amusement.
“Oh, Wyn,” he said, shaking his head. “Oh.” He laughed again and looked back into the woods as if sharing a smile with Christopher. “Oh, Chris,” he murmured. “How wonderful.”
Wynter was utterly confused and very unhappy now at what seemed to be a shared secret that was totally over her head. “Why is he so angry, Razi?”
Razi looked kindly at her. “Because he’s a good man, sis.” He looked back into the trees again, grimaced and crossed to sit down by Wynter’s side.
“All right,” he said. “I certainly don’t know as much about the female side of things as the Merron women do—contraceptive infusions and such, but I’ll tell you what I can, if I may?”
Wynter looked steadfastly out at the river while Razi told her everything he knew. When he finally stopped talking and ran his hands over his heated face, she felt like she might never be able to meet his eye again. But she also felt tremendously powerful and liberated and strong. It was as though Razi had opened a door and shown her an immensity of possible futures, where once she had believed there was only one.
Christopher came back to find them saddling up the horses. He was embarrassed and hangdog, and Razi fought a grin as he took back the spade.
“Sorry,” said Christopher, his eyes downcast.
Razi clunked him gently on the top of his head with the spade. “Oh, you are not!” he said slyly and carried it over to tie it to his horse.
The Crowded Shadows Page 8