noisy, smoke-filled hall and saw and heard nothing but the whispers in her mind telling her what to do. She would give the drinking horns to Beortric and Worr and watch them drink.
She would be rid of Worr.
It was, Osmod thought, the finest acting he had ever performed, and the most difficult. Keeping up this facade of perfectly charming fellow, sitting here at the kings table as was his right as ealdorman, smiling as casually as though politely hiding boredom. And all the while he was hiding his desperate concentration behind that calm facade.
At least Bishop Cynbert was still not back from Rome; at least Osmod was spared that potential distraction. But that hardly made his work any easier as he drew Edburga from the women's side of the hall, a drinking horn in each hand.
Ah, Edburga. It had been so simple to plant the thought of murder in her head; one mention of Worr gone, and the red flames had shot up in her mind like so much wildfire. And the means—like any other noblewoman, she had a sizeable herb garden, she also, unlike most other noblewomen, had a sizeable knowledge of poisons. That she hadn't already poisoned Worr was a miracle. But getting her to slay both Worr and Beortric in one . . . not easy, not easy. Her angry will was, in its own frenzied way, unpredictable. If she failed now, if his hold over her failed now—
No. He would not even think of failure. He would merely watch and wait, and try to ignore his ever more painfully pounding heart. Edburga was hardly the sort to exchange light words of courtesy; she clearly even begrudged the slight bow necessary to hand her husband and Worr the drinking horns. Now, if only . . .
It was done. Osmod sagged in his seat, fighting not to gasp but still not able to relax, retaining his hold on Edburga's will, worrying now that the poison might not be strong enough. What if it failed to kill outright? What if it merely sickened Beortric and he lived to learn the truth?
Lords of the Underworld, if you want your servant alive to do your work . . .
But he dare not show even the slightest hint of tension. It took every bit of his sorcerous control, but Osmod managed to keep himself sitting in apparent calm, mimicking with all his might a man who anticipated nothing more than dinner, a man who—
Beortric surged up from his chair, his eyes suddenly wild with the effort to breathe, a hand at his chest. A storm of wild cries tore through the hall: "The king! The king is ill!"
No! Not just ill, he can't be merely—
With a crash, Beortric fell across the table, thrashing desperately about for air, his face purpling. Just as suddenly, his struggles stopped, and he lay still amid the wreckage of dinner. A man's voice cried out in horror: "He is not ill! The king is dead! King Beortric is dead!
"Poison . . ."
It was the faintest of choked gasps. Worr, Osmod realized, and thought in heart-stopping terror, The dosage wasn't enough. Somehow, Worr had dragged himself to his feet, somehow he managed to stare for what seemed an eternity right into Osmod's eyes.
He knows, he knows, Dark Powers help me, he knows! He isn't going to die, but I will, I—
But all at once Worr lost his desperate struggle. Quietly, almost as though resigned, he fell lifeless beside the lifeless body of his king.
The hall erupted into a chaos of shouts and screams and panicked people rushing blindly about. Osmod sagged back in his seat, dizzy with relief and exhaustion, so drained that he could not have moved to save himself. His grip on Edburga's will fell away, and he saw horror flash across her face as she all at once knew what she had done, horror closely followed by sheer terror: No one realized yet who'd done the poisoning, but it wouldn't take long for everyone in the hall to guess the answer.
Osmod roused himself with a great effort. This one last link must be severed before he collapsed. "Flee," he told Edburga beneath the storm of noise, and only she heard. "Edburga, flee the
She would be rid of Worr.
It was, Osmod thought, the finest acting he had ever performed, and the most difficult. Keeping up this facade of perfectly charming fellow, sitting here at the kings table as was his right as ealdorman, smiling as casually as though politely hiding boredom. And all the while he was hiding his desperate concentration behind that calm facade.
At least Bishop Cynbert was still not back from Rome; at least Osmod was spared that potential distraction. But that hardly made his work any easier as he drew Edburga from the women's side of the hall, a drinking horn in each hand.
Ah, Edburga. It had been so simple to plant the thought of murder in her head; one mention of Worr gone, and the red flames had shot up in her mind like so much wildfire. And the means—like any other noblewoman, she had a sizeable herb garden, she also, unlike most other noblewomen, had a sizeable knowledge of poisons. That she hadn't already poisoned Worr was a miracle. But getting her to slay both Worr and Beortric in one . . . not easy, not easy. Her angry will was, in its own frenzied way, unpredictable. If she failed now, if his hold over her failed now—
No. He would not even think of failure. He would merely watch and wait, and try to ignore his ever more painfully pounding heart. Edburga was hardly the sort to exchange light words of courtesy; she clearly even begrudged the slight bow necessary to hand her husband and Worr the drinking horns. Now, if only . . .
It was done. Osmod sagged in his seat, fighting not to gasp but still not able to relax, retaining his hold on Edburga's will, worrying now that the poison might not be strong enough. What if it failed to kill outright? What if it merely sickened Beortric and he lived to learn the truth?
Lords of the Underworld, if you want your servant alive to do your work . . .
But he dare not show even the slightest hint of tension. It took every bit of his sorcerous control, but Osmod managed to keep himself sitting in apparent calm, mimicking with all his might a man who anticipated nothing more than dinner, a man who—
Beortric surged up from his chair, his eyes suddenly wild with the effort to breathe, a hand at his chest. A storm of wild cries tore through the hall: "The king! The king is ill!"
No! Not just ill, he can't be merely—
With a crash, Beortric fell across the table, thrashing desperately about for air, his face purpling. Just as suddenly, his struggles stopped, and he lay still amid the wreckage of dinner. A man's voice cried out in horror: "He is not ill! The king is dead! King Beortric is dead!
"Poison . . ."
It was the faintest of choked gasps. Worr, Osmod realized, and thought in heart-stopping terror, The dosage wasn't enough. Somehow, Worr had dragged himself to his feet, somehow he managed to stare for what seemed an eternity right into Osmod's eyes.
He knows, he knows, Dark Powers help me, he knows! He isn't going to die, but I will, I—
But all at once Worr lost his desperate struggle. Quietly, almost as though resigned, he fell lifeless beside the lifeless body of his king.
The hall erupted into a chaos of shouts and screams and panicked people rushing blindly about. Osmod sagged back in his seat, dizzy with relief and exhaustion, so drained that he could not have moved to save himself. His grip on Edburga's will fell away, and he saw horror flash across her face as she all at once knew what she had done, horror closely followed by sheer terror: No one realized yet who'd done the poisoning, but it wouldn't take long for everyone in the hall to guess the answer.
Osmod roused himself with a great effort. This one last link must be severed before he collapsed. "Flee," he told Edburga beneath the storm of noise, and only she heard. "Edburga, flee the
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