sit in blissful solitude and think for a while with no one to bother you. Oh, do not grimace so, Jared! What could even the most scurrilous mind construe from a woman in my bloated condition and a man of the lord’s standing sharing an innocent pot of tea?’
‘I will speak to Úlfnaor for you, Razi,’ offered Wynter. ‘If you like, you can take your ease for a while. Perhaps get some sleep? You can speak to Christopher later; I am sure that he . . .’
Razi shook his head. ‘Thank you, Wyn,’ he said, ‘but I must face up to this now. To leave it will only make it worse.’ He kissed Mary’s hand. ‘Thank you eternally, sweet woman. I cannot fathom your kindness to me after . . . after what I have done. It shames me . . . I feel . . .’
Mary silenced him with her fingers on his lips. ‘We have been through enough, you and I. I shall not torment you with recriminations, when it is obvious that you already torment yourself. In the small time that I have known you, my Lord, I have witnessed much forgiveness in you, and forgiveness breeds forgiveness. The man you are shapes those around you.’
Razi clutched Mary’s fingers to his lips, his eyes glittering. Wynter felt certain he would come undone. But after a moment he simply drew a breath, nodded, kissed Mary’s fingers once more and let her go.
‘You have business to attend,’ said Mary, smoothing her skirts. ‘I am tired. I shall retire. Protector Lady, a pleasure.’ Wynter bobbed a curtsy, her heart full of gratitude. Mary nodded. ‘My Lord Razi.’ Razi bowed. ‘Feel free to call,’ she said, turning for her tent. ‘I am home most days between sunrise and sunset. You have no need to send a page; I shall receive you with no ceremony.’ And she made her way between the tents, Jared following ruefully in her wake.
When they returned to the Merron, the women had already rejoined the group and the warriors were standing in a huddle, murmuring grimly to each other. At the sight of Razi and Wynter, they fell silent and waited.
Sólmundr and Christopher were sitting by the fire, Christopher leaning against his friend, gazing darkly into the flames. Sól murmured and stood, his expression belligerent, and Christopher looked up. To Wynter’s distress, his narrow face hardened, and without a word he pushed awkwardly to his feet and made his way into the Merron tent, pulling the flap down behind him. She came to a halt, staring at the starkly closed door.
Úlfnaor bowed warily, and Razi tore his attention from the tent and bowed in return. ‘I must speak with you,’ he said.
Úlfnaor gestured to the fire and Razi took a place beside it. All the Merron except Sólmundr crouched and listened carefully as Razi began to explain the things that Marguerite Shirken had said in her papers. Wynter ignored everyone and picked her way around Úlfnaor’s dogs, heading for the tent.
‘He not want talk to you,’ said Sólmundr coldly.
Wynter just glanced at him and passed on by. With a grimace, the warrior went to join his companions by the fire, and Wynter ducked past the growling Boro and into the tent.
‘I’m angry,’ said Christopher. ‘It ain’t a good time to come calling.’
His voice was hoarse and gravelly, barely recognisable as his own. He stood at the back of the tent, a slim darkness among the shadows, and Wynter couldn’t help but feel a prickle of fear.
‘I cannot see your face, Christopher,’ she said softly. ‘Will you come into the light?’
He laughed, the harsh, dry sound of a sneer articulated. ‘You’re afraid of me,’ he said.
‘Do you expect me not to be?’
There was silence; then he came forward so that his face was dimly visible in the interior gloom. His eyes were strange. His usual sly grace seemed wickedly transformed. It was as though the Christopher Wynter knew – that loose-limbed, smiling blade – had become something dark and prowling; something horribly ready.
‘Oh, Christopher,’ she whispered. ‘Don’t.’
‘I can’t help it,’ he hissed. ‘I’ve had enough.’
Wynter spread her hands. She shook her head. Her eyes filled with tears.
‘I know, love,’ she said. ‘I know. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. It’s not fair.’
Christopher gaped at her, his mouth open. He seemed so astonished by her tears that Wynter would have laughed were she not suddenly occupied with sobbing into her sleeve.