The Poison Throne (10 page)

Wynter stared anxiously at the royal door. What could be keeping the royal party? She tried to conceal the panic that had started to roil in the pit of her stomach. What was everyone to do? Should one accept the food? Or would that insult the King, who had not yet sat down or been saluted? Who was going to be foolish enough to take first choice of the meat, traditionally the sole privilege of the royal table? But then, if the tray was offered and one didn’t accept the food, would that be considered an insult to the King’s generosity? Would it be worse than accepting? What if one took a small piece of meat onto one’s plate, but didn’t eat it? Would
that
be acceptable?

She could see the same struggle going on in the faces all around her. Except for Christopher, who was looking under his platter and up and down his section of the table, a puzzled expression on his face.

“Where is my knife?” he wondered.

Wynter frowned; there had been a knife there when she sat down. She glanced across at Andrew Pritchard and saw him give his neighbour a satisfied smile. She leaned further back and saw a discreet flurry of movement ripple its way down the lords’ table. Something was passing from person to person until, right at the very end of the table, Simon Pursuant called a buttle-boy to him and handed over a “spare” knife. The boy frowned at it and asked a polite question, to which Pursuant shrugged and gestured negligently,
I must have been given two by mistake.
Wynter gritted her teeth in frustration. Childish, petty, stupid…

The royal door opened and everyone’s attention turned immediately to the very young page who mounted the second tier of the King’s table and announced in a high nervous voice, “His Majesty, the Good King Jonathon, bids you eat, having been delayed momentarily in matters… um…” The child looked nervously over his shoulder and someone hissed at him from the partially opened royal door, “… in matters of state. Not wishing his beloved people to hunger in his absence, he bids you to commence the fowl in… in the… in the assurance he will join you soon.” The child fled the stage and the staff commenced to pass around the room with the enormous trays of steaming fowl.

The matter of who would take the first choice of meat thankfully fell on the shoulders of those at the very head of the lords’ tables, Francis Coltumer and Laurence Theobald. As they were sitting right next to the royal platform, the servants felt safest approaching them first. They stood, one pair in front of each old man, and unshouldere’d the huge trays, holding them down at table level for the gentlemen to take their pick. Old hands at this game, Francis and Laurence glanced at each other across the hall, nodded, and simultaneously speared the smallest fowl that either of them could find on the tray in front of them. A sigh of relief rippled through the crowd as the two old fellows dropped the birds onto their plates and began delicately picking at the meat.

Low, uncertain conversation began once more to underscore the music from the minstrel’s gallery and the trays were carried from guest to guest. Christopher was still searching for his missing knife, his head beneath the table now, looking under the bench.

“Christopher…” murmured Wynter, eyeing the tray that was heading their way. “Christopher!” She kicked him and he jerked upward, banging his head on the table and cursing in Hadrish.

He sat up, rubbing his head, and smiled appreciatively as the fragrant heap of roast fowl was brought on level with his nose. “Oh my,” he breathed, licking his lips.

“Tell me which one you want,” whispered Wynter, “and I’ll…”

But before she could finish her sentence, Christopher had reached down to his calf and come up with the longest, wickedest dagger that Wynter had ever seen produced from a boot. He speared a nice fat chicken for himself and then glanced at her. “Can I get you one?” he asked, genuinely oblivious to the mixture of fear and outrage being directed his way from the whole length of the table behind him.

Wynter tore her eyes from the long line of sour faces visible over his shoulder, and managed to keep a straight face when she said, “I’ll have that partridge please, Christopher.”

Despite his injuries, he seemed to have no difficulty dismembering his chicken, and Wynter watched, fascinated, as he neatly separated the meat from the bones. It was only when he spoke to her again that Wynter realised she’d been staring. “It’s a very effective revenge, isn’t it?” he said evenly, dipping his fingers in the finger bowl and wiping his mutilated hands on his napkin, “designed to rob me of everything I am, but still leave me capable enough to work.” He ate without looking at her, his eyes scanning the room.

This isn’t the amusing story he told the other woman
, Wynter thought.
He’s telling me something here that not everyone knows. Why?
She mulled over his words. Revenge, he had said. Not punishment. Revenge.
Who did you offend that they would hurt you so? Some brother? Some husband, perhaps?
But then she remembered Razi’s laughing reference to Christopher getting himself tarred, and thought it unlikely that he would have made such a joke had Christopher already suffered so horribly because of his licentiousness.

The royal door opened again, and both she and Christopher turned to see the small pageboy slipping down between their table and the wall, obviously on his way to the other end of the hall.

Christopher snapped out a hand and grabbed the child by his tunic, jerking him to a halt. Wynter gasped and looked about her in mortification. “Oh, Christopher,” she whispered, “that’s not done!”

Christopher pulled the child to him and hissed in his startled ear, “What’s going on in there, mouse?” His Hadrish accent was suddenly very thick.

The child looked around it in panic and struggled. “I can’t tell you, my Lord. You know that.

“I ain’t your Lord, mouse. I’m just sitting here. How is my Lord Razi? Does he fare well?”

“Christopher!” Wynter put her hand on his arm, but he ignored her and pulled the struggling child closer. People were staring, straining to hear. The big guards on either side of the hall were beginning to take note. “
Christopher!
You’ll end up in the keep!”

“I
can’t
sir!” the child’s voice had reached bat-like pitch in his panic. “I must take a message, sir! Let me go!”

“Who’s the message for?”

The child looked around him in fear, the guards were starting to advance but they must have seemed to be moving very slowly to his panic-stricken eyes. “Freeman Garron, sir. At the commoners’ board. It’s very important, sir.
Please
let me go.”

Christopher relaxed his grip, his eyes wide, and the child tried to bolt, but Wynter snatched the back of his tunic, “This is Christopher Garron, child. Tell him your message.”

The child moaned in frustration and terror. “No, Lady!
Freeman
Garron, from the commoners’ table. Oh
please
, Lady,
please
, it’s so important. My Lord Razi said all speed.”

Christopher half-stood, his voice rising, and Wynter saw an awful anger, a real, fierce, terrible rage rising in his face. It frightened her, and the child cowered before this new, dark threat.

“I
am
Freeman Garron, mouse. Now give me your God-cursed message.”

The guards had almost reached them, but before they could react, the little page took a good long look at Christopher. The hair, the slanting grey eyes and finally, the hands. The hands, of course, sealed it, and the child gasped and fell to his knees. my Lord! Forgive me! I am too late!”

The guards looked confused, and then backed off as it became obvious that the little page had found who he was seeking. Christopher snatched him up from his knees and shook him by the shoulder. “I’m
not
your Lord, child! What’s the message? Is my Lord Razi well?”

“Lord Ga… Freeman Garron, sir. My Lord Razi sends me… tuh… sends me to…” the child had tears in his eyes and Wynter marvelled at how unmoved Christopher remained. He was glaring at the poor mite, his only focus on getting the message. “To tell you… do not… oh my Lord! He says do not accept any invitations to the lords’ table! He needs your eyes on both sides of the hall!”

Christopher flung the child away from him with a curse and glared up the aisle. Wynter thought for one awful moment that he was going to try and rush his way into the royal rooms. But then he spun back to the boy and grabbed him again and snarled in his ear. “Tell Lord Razi that it’s too late! Tell him he’s lost his eyes. Ask him what I am to do. Do you heed me, child? Ask him what he will have me do!” With that, he hurled the page up the corridor so that he skidded the first few feet and scampered the rest.

Wynter sat, half-turned out of her seat, looking up at Christopher as he stood watching the pageboy gain access to the royal room. His face was hard; Wynter would even call it brutal. He was utterly concentrated on seeing the child through that door. There was nothing else in the room for him and Wynter realised something very suddenly. It was as though a beam of light abruptly focused on this young man and it changed him utterly in her eyes.

Christopher Garron was not here for what he could get. Christopher was not here for the luxury, for the food, or even for the women. And Wynter knew now why Razi had persuaded him to come. Christopher was Razi’s friend. He loved him, and Razi trusted him. Trusted him to watch his back. Trusted him to keep him safe. Trusted him to keep him alive.

Looking at Christopher’s face, Wynter recognised herself in his expression. It frightened her and comforted her in equal measure to realise that they would both willingly lay down their lives for Razi.

The Terrible Feast

T
he page never got a chance to give Lord Razi his message. Immediately after his frightened little figure disappeared into the royal rooms, the door swung open again and the first of the councilmen made their entrance from the royal rooms and into the hall. Wynter could see the page, his little face distraught at not being able to finish his task, forced back against the wall as the black-clad councilmen stalked past him.

Something was terribly wrong, any fool could see that. The six councilmen who came through the door were almost cowering, their faces an odd mixture of fear and rage. The guards behind them weren’t so much protecting them as herding them out into the banquet hall. Wynter noticed, with a sudden dryness of mouth, that the soldiers’ leather spear-covers were off, the metal speartips exposed.

Slowly, and without looking, she reached for Christopher’s arm and pulled steadily downwards. “Sit, Christopher,” she said very quietly, “sit down and do not make any sudden moves.”

He met her eyes for a moment, his fury colliding with her well-practised composure. She lifted her chin and held his gaze.
Trust me, Christopher, this is not the time for action
. Slowly, he sat and the two of them turned, powerless to do anything but watch as the events unfolded.

Next out the door was Wynter’s father, and now it was Christopher’s turn to lay a steadying hand on her arm. The young man said nothing and didn’t look at her, but he squeezed down so hard that Wynter winced. He held on until she subsided into watchfulness again, not quite able to hide the distress in her face.

Lorcan was literally pushed out of the royal rooms, the huge guard behind him shoving him between the shoulder blades with the handle of his spear and then crowding him through the door with his formidable weight. As soon as Lorcan was across the threshold, though, he tried to turn back, pushing resolutely against the advancing guard. As the silent struggle between the two men continued, all around the hall Wynter felt and saw people begin to rise to their feet.

The guards around the walls cast sideways glances at each other. The air was suddenly sparking with tension. Wynter could feel it running along her shoulders and up the back of her neck. It crackled off Christopher like summer lightning – hot and dangerous, just over the horizon.

The furious grappling between Lorcan and his opponent stilled abruptly when someone within the royal room spoke. Lorcan strained to see over the guard’s massive shoulder, and it was obvious he was listening. His whole posture screamed
tell me what to do
! The banquet hall seemed to hold its breath.

Suddenly Lorcan’s shoulders sagged. He made one more frustrated shove at the huge guard, snarling up into his impassive face, but it was just anger, a release of impotent anger, and Lorcan turned immediately and stalked to his seat on the bottom tier.

There was a long moment of inactivity, during which Wynter saw Christopher surreptitiously clean his dagger and slip it back into his boot. Her father sat, staring rigidly at his clenched fists; he didn’t lift his eyes to find his daughter.

A flurry of motion brought everyone’s attention snapping back to the royal door. The remaining councilmen were entering the hall. Unlike the first six men, these eight were certainly not cowed. They came out as a group, their faces determined and, instead of taking their seats, they gathered in a knot at the lower steps, effectively closing off access to the bottom tier of the royal platform. All eight councilmen kept their eyes on the royal door as they stood shoulder to shoulder, a seamless blackrobed barricade. With their gaunt pale faces and their tight black caps, Wynter thought that they exactly resembled the vultures that Christopher considered them to be.

Razi came through the door. He had taken off his doctor’s robes and wore the scarlet long-coat and black britches required of him for formal dining. The two guards behind him were much too close for comfort. They were crowding him forward, forcing him to take one stiff legged-step after another. His eyes roamed about without landing on anything in particular, refusing to look anyone in the eye, refusing to lift his gaze and take in the hall. He was in every sense trying just not to be there. Wynter had seen that expression on men before, usually as they approached the scaffold. She felt Christopher tense beside her.

“What’s going on?” he murmured. “He looks like a cornered animal.”