The Crowded Shadows Page 6

  It was obvious, now, what kind of trade was normal in this establishment. This was a bandits’ haunt all right, perhaps not exclusively so, considering the tarmen, but criminals were welcome, they were made to feel safe; and the three of them were now accepted as being part of that dubious brotherhood.

  The landlord nodded at Christopher’s hands. “I hope yer kin went back to burn the courthouse down,” he said gravely. “I hope they put the Wig’s eyes out. Outrage like that shouldn’t go unavenged.”

  Christopher remained expressionless, but Wynter felt Razi jerk beside her, his hands splaying compulsively on the tabletop. The man obviously approved of their continued silence and he let the subject die. “Minnie’ll be over fer yer order, nigh,” he said, and ambled off to occupy himself behind the counter.

  They sat in silence for a moment. The landlord’s comment about vengeance seemed to have unbalanced Razi and Christopher, and they sat like stone lions on either side of Wynter, completely absorbed in their own thoughts. Wynter found herself watching the man at the fireplace; he was doing a skilful job on the harness. Now and again he would take a sip from his cider. His companion’s trencher-bread was going to collapse soon if it was not eaten.

  The girl came with the cider. She placed it carefully in front of them, a tankard each, then leant her hip against the table. Her eyes roamed from Razi to Christopher and back. Wynter might as well have been an oily patch on the floor for all the attention she paid her.

  “We sell company, if you fancy,” said the girl, smiling.

  Christopher, still a little distant, cleared his throat and politely shook his head. Wynter took a sip of her cider and looked away. The girl’s eyes drifted to Razi who didn’t seem to have heard her at all.

  “We got nothin’ against dark men,” she assured him.

  Christopher chuckled. “We’re all right for company, thanks,” he said.

  The girl’s eyes turned to Wynter in misplaced comprehension. “Ah!” she said.

  “He doesn’t mean me!” cried Wynter.

  “We just want some food, lass. If that suits?” grinned Christopher. His dimples were back in full force and Wynter saw the girl melt under his unrelenting charm. “Tell me,” he cried, slapping his hands together. “What’s the mutton like and does it come with gravy?”

  Get What’s Coming

  The mutton was delicious, if Christopher’s quiet sighs and groans of pleasure were anything to go by. Had Wynter not been so absorbed with her own food she would have teased him mercilessly. Even Razi seemed transported, and he ate with silent relish until, mopping the last of his fried onions with the last of his rye bread, he sighed, and pushed his empty plate away. “Magnificent,” he proclaimed.

  Wynter peered hopelessly into her now empty trencher, wondering if it would be ill-bred to break it up and suck the gravy from it. Before she could decide, the landlord ambled over to gather their empty plates and tankards, so she pushed it reluctantly towards him and sat back instead.

  “What news of the world?” he asked, stacking dishes on his arm. “Now ye have full bellies like, and aren’t so peaked looking.”

  Razi leant back in his seat, removed a toothpick from his purse and began cleaning his teeth. Since their having been mistaken for thieves, he had deliberately kept his well-bred voice to the background, letting Christopher’s more likely accent do the talking. As a woman, Wynter was either an object of lascivious attention or disregarded completely. The landlord didn’t expect anything like a reply from her.

  “We ain’t too up on current affairs,” said Christopher. “Having been out of the path of men for a little while.” There was a smile in everything but his eyes, and it somehow gave dangerous significance to his words. The landlord nodded slyly, as if fully aware of his meaning.

  “Though we did see cavalry on the road yesterday,” said Wynter.

  Every eye in the room looked up at that and one of the men at the centre table said sharply, “Wot road? Where headed?”

  Christopher glanced at him. “North road,” he said. “Headed to the crossroads, I reckon.”

  There was some relaxing amongst the rougher men, but the tension didn’t fully leave their faces. The yard dogs began to bark and one of the tarmen turned and looked out the window. “More tars heading in,” he said. “Still off up the valley.”

  The landlord shouted into the kitchen. “Tars are ’ere. Get hot water on. Tell the other bints to open up the extra rooms.” He turned back to Christopher and raised his eyebrows for him to continue.

  “The cavalry were flying black flags,” said Christopher. “And the plumes were broken on their hats.”

  “That’s on account o’ the dead prince,” explained one of the men.

  Wynter felt the colour drain from her face, and Razi sat forward slowly. He reached for her and she took his hand under cover of the table.

  “Which prince?” asked Christopher hoarsely.

  “The …” began the man by the fireplace.

  “What will that Moorehawke bint do now, I wonder?” interrupted one of the tarmen, picking his teeth, and Wynter felt Razi’s grip tighten on her hand.

  “She’ll have ter go back to the palace and throw ’erself on the mercy of the King.”

  “He’ll bloody kill ’er. She’s better off to run, after what she done.”

  “I’d say she’s dead already.”

  “They didn’t find ’er body!”

  “Don’t signify. After what they done to the Arab, who knows what they’d do to ’er. That were bloody savage, so it were.”

  Wynter blinked. Her eyes felt gritty and hot. After what they did to the Arab.

  “He deserved it. Poisonous devil, got what was coming to ’im.”

  Razi sat rigid and unmoving, his hand crushing hers with tremendous force.

  Then Christopher’s voice, dry and halting, scratched through the haze of her shock. “What …” he said reluctantly, “what did they do to the Arab?”

  But the conversation had taken its own course and Christopher went unheeded.

  “Was it the King you reckon?” asked the young tarman. “In revenge for Lorcan Moorehawke’s death?”

  Wynter jumped. “What?” she cried. “When?” They all turned to look at her, shocked into silence. She banged her fist on the table and all the men jerked. “When?” she shouted.

  “When did Lorcan Moorehawke die?” asked Razi, his deep voice surprisingly calm.

  All the men went ahhh and looked at Wynter sympathetically. Lorcan had been a most popular man, and they nodded their heads in understanding. Poor tender female, at the mercy of her emotions.

  “He succumbed four days ago,” said one of the tarmen sadly. “The Arab’s poison finally ate away his heart.”

  Wynter made a small noise of despair, and Razi curled in on himself, as if with bellyache. “Oh, no,” he whispered. “Don’t …”

  “They say the King flung hisseln’ on the corpse and wouldn’t allow no one touch it for two whole days. Then he laid it out hisseln’. They say the priests came to anoint the body and the King near threw them down the stairs.”

  Wynter looked up at the ceiling, her eyes swimming. That much, she figured might actually be true. Considering Lorcan’s hatred of the church, maybe Jonathon had spared him at least that hypocrisy. She gasped at the sheer black depth of her grief and tried to hang on to her self-control as the conversation spiralled around her.

  “I still can’t get over the girl, aiding the Arab in her father’s murder.”

  “Women is always drawn to power,” observed one of them sagely. “Reckon she thought he’d make it to the throne and wanted a nice soft cushion for her arse.”

  “Well she bet her cunny on the wrong bloody horn, didn’t she.”

  The room chuckled grimly. Wynter felt sure she was going to lose her dinner, she could actually feel it pressing up against her throat.

  “I don’t figure it were the King though,” mused someone else. “I figure it were the Roy
al Prince Alberon what done the Arab in.”

  Everyone looked up at that and the man spread his hands. “What other choice did he have? At least now the King might snap out of whatever witchcraft he’s been under and take home his rightful heir!”

  “What became of him?” demanded Christopher. “What became of the Arab?”

  Outside, the yard was chaotic suddenly, with the arrival of many horses and the barking of dogs. There were shouts and catcalls, and the landlord moved to open the door. Sunlight and sound streamed in.

  The man at the centre table raised his voice over the din. “His men were caught unawares after they’d set up camp!” he yelled. “Someone managed to slip poison into their waterskins, and while all the knights lay round about, screaming and holding their bellies, a group o’ men walked among them and slit their throats, easy as killing chickens.”

  “What of the prince?” asked Razi quietly. “What became of him?”

  “Oh, him,” the man looked at Razi, his eyes sly. “He weren’t so lucky. They strung him up and dragged him behind his own horse till there weren’t an inch of flesh on his body, then they cut off his head and played a game of football with it. It’s said he went home to the king in a hessian bag, so mushed up that his own snake of a mother wouldn’t recognise him.”

  Wynter gripped the table, overcome with horror at the brutal satisfaction in the man’s voice. Poor Shuqayr! That poor man. She turned to Razi without thinking and tried to put her arms around him. He shrugged her off with a violent upward swing of his elbow and pulled away. “Let me go!” he cried and surged to his feet, pushing the table forward with a mighty shove.

  The room had begun to fill with blackened, smoke-pickled men and Razi elbowed his way through them and stumbled out into the yard. Wynter knew she should follow him, but she buried her face in her hands instead, and tried not to look at the pictures that filled her head. Christopher sat tightly beside her, his hands clenched into useless knots on the table.

  Chaos and disorder flowed around them and all threads of conversation were lost in the arrival of the sooty tarmen.

  Someone knocked on the table top. “Oy,” they said.

  Wynter recognised Minnie’s voice and she pressed her fingers harder into her eyes and willed her to go away. Christopher put his hand on the small of Wynter’s back as he looked up at the serving-girl.

  “What is it?” he snapped.

  “That dark fella paid me earlier to heat a bath. It’s ready now. Which of you wants to use it first?”

  Wynter felt Christopher lean in close. “Sweetheart?” His low murmur, warm in her ear, made her want to curl into him and go to sleep. “Would you still like to take your bath?” He slipped his arm around her waist, and Wynter realised that, more than anything, she wanted to stay here, in the comfort of his presence.

  “Let Ra… let my brother go first,” she said, raising her head and wiping her face all in one motion.

  “All right. I’ll be back in a moment.” And to her disappointment, Christopher slipped out from behind the table and left her alone while he went to find Razi.

  The room was full of men now. Laughing and hurling themselves into chairs, calling out orders and inquiring after news. Wynter watched them as though they were a badly written play, unreal, distant and of no interest to her. She was filled with smoky numbness and empty of thought. She found herself staring at the man beside the fireplace again, not really seeing him. He was looking up. His missing friend had returned. The new man sat down. He swigged at his cider and fished a morsel of meat from his trencher-bread.

  His face was so badly bruised that Wynter didn’t recognise him at first. But then his companion laughed and said loudly, “I’m amazed she still gives you the time of day, looking the way you do, Tosh.”

  Wynter’s stomach went cold. Tosh. She turned her eyes to the new man, really looking at him now, really listening to him.

  “What’s my looks got to do with it?” he sneered. “T’aint like she’s doing me no favours.”

  The first man grinned and said something, his words lost in the surrounding noise. The bandit wasn’t really listening and his eyes roamed the crowd as his friend spoke. He found Wynter quick enough and she stared at him, unable to move. At first he grinned, showing the gaps where Ozkar had kicked his teeth out—just a man greeting the sight of a new woman in a world of all too familiar women. Then he faltered, frowned, and Wynter saw murder rise up in his eyes as he realised who she was.

  Christopher chose that moment to sidle through the crowd and lean across the table to speak to her. He saw her expression and turned immediately to follow her gaze. Wynter did not look up at him. She was utterly incapable of tearing her eyes from the bandit. It was as though her whole body had been dipped into a winter river and taken out again, a frozen statue of her former self.

  The bandit ran his tongue across his broken teeth, his eyes hard. He knew Christopher was there, but he took his time looking up at him. When he did finally raise his eyes, he held Christopher’s glare insolently with his own. Then he sneered, dropped his eyes once more to Wynter and winked.

  Then Wynter couldn’t see him anymore because someone was blocking her view. The someone sat down opposite her and it was Christopher. He positioned himself so that she could no longer see the fireplace.

  “Hey,” he said.

  He reached across the table and took both Wynter’s clenched fists in his. Wynter looked down at their joined hands. She might as well have been a hawk flying high above the inn for all the contact she felt between them. Then Christopher tightened his grip. On his left hand, the twisted stump of his middle finger was bent to the side, folding in slightly beneath his ring finger, and as he squeezed, Wynter felt it push itself into the back of her hand. At this unique pressure, she suddenly came to the surface of her shock and broke through it. Everything snapped into focus. The noise of the crowd intruded.

  She blinked, took a deep breath, concentrated on Christopher’s narrow face. He was paler than she’d ever seen him, his eyes intent.

  “Is that him?” he asked softly.

  He seemed no more angry now than he had been the night she had told him, and that calmed her. She nodded. Christopher straightened his back. She expected him to turn and look at the bandit, but instead, he slid his eyes to the left, his eyelashes casting long shadows on his cheek, and tilted his head, as if listening to something over his shoulder. He ran his thumb along the back of her hand, then lifted his eyes to her again.

  “Let’s get all our stuff out of here, girly. We can carry it to the bathhouse and sit outside, eh? Talk to Raz through the wall while we wait our turn? I’ll get that girl to bring us some cold cider and some apple pie. We’ll sit in the sun and make a bloody picnic of it before we head out again. What do you think?”

  Wynter nodded, and together they gathered their things and went outside. She did not look back at the man.

  Naught But A Ghost

  The bathhouse was in the orchard. Dappled in the lacy shade of the fruit trees, it was a little, dirt-floored, one-tub hut, and whether by accident or by virtue of Razi’s purse, they were the only ones waiting to use it. It felt miles from anywhere. Safe and at peace.

  Wynter sat beside their pile of belongings, leaning against the wall of the bathhouse, her face turned to the sun. There was a blackbird trilling in the apple tree above her. She closed her eyes and listened, while Christopher, a plate in one hand, a tankard in the other, elbowed his way in through the bathhouse door and let it swing shut behind him.

  “How do,” he said. “Brought you some cider and a pie.”

  “I don’t want it.” Razi’s voice was quiet and flat.

  “Aye. I know. It’s just an excuse to come in without you throwing things at me. I’ll leave them here.” There was a soft clink and a rustle as Christopher set the food down on the other side of the wall from Wynter. “You’ll be wanting it later, you know. You can’t have much left in your belly, after what you coughed up behin
d the barn.”

  There was an abrupt splash, as if Razi had sat forward suddenly, or lifted his arms, and then a long moment of silence.

  “Are we heading home now?” asked Christopher, eventually. “You and me and Wynter?”

  “No, Christopher. We are not.” Razi’s voice was muffled and Wynter suspected that he had lifted his hands to cover his face.

  There was another brief silence, then Christopher’s quiet voice pressed tentatively on. “At home, you could resume your practice. Wynter can build that hospital for you. I can… I can roll bandages or something. Open the stables again, go back to breeding horses.”

  Wynter opened her eyes. She knew that Christopher wasn’t talking about the palace; he would never refer to the palace as home. He was talking about the Moroccos. About Algiers. He was talking about starting a new life. She turned her head, waiting for Razi’s answer, not sure what she wanted it to be. Razi stayed silent.

  “Razi,” insisted Christopher. “Come home. Before these people see you dead.”

  This was met with more silence. Wynter could picture Razi lying in the tub, his elbows on the rim, his head tilted against the back. She imagined him, his hands pressed to his eyes, waiting for Christopher to let him be. The silence stretched on and Wynter heard Christopher sigh and shuffle his feet.

  “I’m sorry about Lorcan, Razi,” he said softly. “I’m sorry about that poor Arab boy.”

  Wynter closed her eyes again and rested her head against the wall. Razi still did not speak.

  “When your father finds out that it wasn’t you …”

  “He will not. Jahm will be too frightened to let him know.” There was a gentle splash as Razi dropped his hands. “Those poor people,” he said, his voice cracking. “Those poor… I sent that poor man …”