The Poison Throne (37 page)

“Christopher? It’s Wynter. My father has need of you!”

The door slid to one side, soft candlelight filled the gloom. Christopher was fully dressed, smelling of soap and toothpowder. He was backlit by the candles, a distinctive, lean shadow in the door. “What is it?” he asked in concern, “Is he unwell?”

“I don’t know!” she cried softly, “he wants you!”

He herded her ahead of him through the passage, his hand on the small of her back. When they got to the bedroom, Lorcan held a hand up to keep Wynter at the door. Christopher crossed quickly and leant over him.

Lorcan whispered to him, his eyes flicking to Wynter as he spoke. Christopher’s face was obscured by the fall of his hair, and he nodded and answered in a low soothing manner. The young man went to straighten, and Lorcan grabbed his wrist and looked up at him. He mumbled something, pained apology on his face.

Christopher leant down once more, placed his free hand on Lorcan’s and squeezed. “Friend,” he murmured, “I would have been livid had you not. Think no more on it.”

Then Christopher crossed to Wynter and guided her from the room by her elbow.

“Does he need Razi?” she asked, panicky and tearful.

“No, lass,” he said gently. “Your father just needs a bit of a hand, a strong arm to lean on.” He looked her in the eye as he began to shut the door on her. “Go organise breakfast,” he said.

And then she was outside in the dark, while Christopher gave her father the help that Lorcan would never allow her to provide.

To her shock, Marni hit her. A fierce angry blow to the face that threw Wynter back into a table full of wooden beakers, tripping her and bringing the whole lot crashing to floor. She lay there, her arms over her head, her ear ringing. Cups bounced and clattered and rolled off in all directions. Marni stood motionless in the corner of the storage room, her little blue eyes round, her big mouth hanging open in horror.

Wynter was stunned. Though Jonathon had often inflicted his temper on the boys, and though Marni was never averse to a cuff behind the ear and a sharp swat to the rear, Wynter had never been beaten as a child. The big woman’s assault thoroughly overwhelmed her. She found herself confused and paralysed, waiting for the next punch.

When Marni finally emerged from the corner and loomed over her, Wynter flinched and rolled into a tight little ball. Marni reached a huge paw and grabbed Wynter’s arm, pulling her to her feet and she yelped in fear. But the big woman just clutched Wynter to her, crushing her against her enormous breasts, the smell of butter and fresh dough and apples washing over her. Wynter gasped for air as the giant arms squeezed, and Marni rocked her to and fro like a baby.

“Oh girl! Oh girl!” she moaned, “Are you crazy? Are you bloody gone in the head? Ohhhh…” she trailed off into keens and moans. “My little babies,” she sobbed. “My poor little babies… what times, what terrible times!”

Wynter wriggled and squirmed until she had a little breathing space between one bit of flesh and another. “Will you do it, Marni?” she gasped. Will you help?”

Marni continued to squeeze and to rock, and instead of replying, she laid her cheek down on top of Wynter’s head and cried until Wynter’s hair was wet.

An hour later, Wynter made her way from the kitchen with a rush basket full of freshly boiled eggs dangling from her arm. She carried a tray laden with fragrant manchet bread, a huge jug of creamy oatmeal porridge, and a pot of coffee. She had a stinging red hand print on the side of her face and a ringing in her left ear. Most importantly, she had Marni’s sworn promise to aid her in her escape, and to help nurse her father after her departure.

Wynter had taken step two, and if her heart couldn’t exactly be called light, it was at least calmer than it had been this morning.

The sun was fully up by the time she got back to the suite, and the receiving room was flooded with clear light. She locked the door behind her, and began emptying the tray onto the table. At the sound of her entrance, Christopher slipped from Lorcan’s room and came to look over her shoulder with an appreciative sigh.

“Oh
my
,” he said, inhaling deeply. “I’m fair clemmed.” He leaned across her and stole a chunk of manchet, scurrying backwards and shoving it into his mouth before she could swat him. He grinned stiffly at her.

“How’s my father?” she whispered.

“He’s grand, lass. Just proud,” he gave her an affectionate look. He s a big strong man and you’re still his wee baby-girl. There are some things…” He shrugged, not knowing quite how to put it.

She tutted and threw her eyes to heaven, it was easier to cling to irritation than it was to wonder what Lorcan would do when Christopher was gone.

“You inviting me to breakfast?” he asked, diplomatically changing the subject. Otherwise, you know…” he cocked a hangdog look in her direction, “I’ll starve, all alone and neglected in that big empty suite!”

Christopher’s narrow face was beginning to regain some of its definition, the swelling retreating a little from the fine sloping cheekbones and jaw. His clear grey eyes were getting easier to see under the heavily bruised lids. Wynter was filled with a sudden, almost uncontrollable rush of affection for him and the two of them paused for a moment, smiling in the sunshine.

“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

J
onathon 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.”