picnic.
Relax, brother
, she thought,
it is Northlander fur traders, that is all. Or Musulman pilgrims on their way home from the Moroccos. Plenty of people use rein bells. There does not have to be a dark reason for everything
.
“Just a small rest now,” Razi warned. “We move on soon.”
“Bloody monarch,” muttered Christopher, leaning back on his elbows and looking across the vast expanse of slow moving water. “Always giving orders
…”
The small rest turned into a deep sleep and it was about twenty minutes later when Wynter jerked awake. Someone was rustling about at the tree line and she snapped to attention, her hand on her knife, but it was only Razi walking up the rock towards the trees. He smiled at her and whispered, “It’s all right, we’re not leaving yet.”
“Where are you going?” she asked.
He rolled his eyes, holding up his short-spade and grinning. “Never question a man heading into the trees with a spade in his hand, Lady!”
She grinned and waved him off. He strolled away into the dappled shade, “I may be a while,” he called back lightly.
Wynter reclined on her elbows, enjoying the quiet. The water was peaceful and chuckling against the round stones of the shore, the river gleaming like polished soapstone. Wynter felt like a fox peering from its den into the heat of the day. It struck her then that Christopher was not by the water’s edge and she scanned the sun-baked rocks and the gently buzzing reed-beds with a small frown.
She turned to call after Razi and realised that Christopher was right beside her. He must have come up into the shade after she’d fallen sleep, and he sat facing her, his back against the rocks, his hands folded peacefully on the flat plane of his stomach. His hat was low over his eyes, and as her vision adjusted to the shade Wynter realised that he was watching her with a soft kind of intensity.
“Hello,” she whispered.
The sun chose that moment to step from behind the clouds, and Christopher’s face was flooded with reflected light, all his fine-boned features abruptly jumping into sharp relief. Something amused him and he grinned at her. Wynter had to grin back, his delight was so contagious.
“What?” she laughed.
“The sun just lit your eyes up, green as fairy-fire,” he said softly. “You look like a bewitched cat. Any self-respecting Midlands biddy would be crossing herself and strapping you to a ducking stool if she saw you.”
Wynter chuckled. “Oh, shush,” she said, turning to look out at the water again.
The peaceful sounds lulled gently around her. In the brambles above them a robin began to sing.
“What is your name, girly?”
Wynter sighed. It was a question that had been asked more than once in her life. As usual she didn’t answer; she just treated Christopher to
that
smile and
that
look, the combination of which would let any courtier know that the question should never be asked again. But Christopher was no courtier, and the subtleties of such body language were completely lost on him. He waited a polite moment, and then when she still didn’t reply he pressed on.
“Wynter, well it ain’t a
real
name is it? It’s the same here as in the North, ain’t it? Wynter-baby. It’s a foundling title. Or it’s what they temporarily call babies when their mothers die before naming them, ain’t it?” Wynter continued to gaze at the water and didn’t answer. “Well
…”
Christopher sounded uncertain now, as if finally aware that he was trespassing on unwelcome territory. “Um
…”
he said. “Did… did your dad not name you, then? When he got back from—”
“Jonathon named me,” she said abruptly, “while Dad was still on the run. He thought it would please my father to call me after my… he named me after my dead mother.” She felt her face harden with the bitterness she now harboured towards the King. Until recently she had always considered this as nothing worse than a sad mistake, but now it had
Relax, brother
, she thought,
it is Northlander fur traders, that is all. Or Musulman pilgrims on their way home from the Moroccos. Plenty of people use rein bells. There does not have to be a dark reason for everything
.
“Just a small rest now,” Razi warned. “We move on soon.”
“Bloody monarch,” muttered Christopher, leaning back on his elbows and looking across the vast expanse of slow moving water. “Always giving orders
…”
The small rest turned into a deep sleep and it was about twenty minutes later when Wynter jerked awake. Someone was rustling about at the tree line and she snapped to attention, her hand on her knife, but it was only Razi walking up the rock towards the trees. He smiled at her and whispered, “It’s all right, we’re not leaving yet.”
“Where are you going?” she asked.
He rolled his eyes, holding up his short-spade and grinning. “Never question a man heading into the trees with a spade in his hand, Lady!”
She grinned and waved him off. He strolled away into the dappled shade, “I may be a while,” he called back lightly.
Wynter reclined on her elbows, enjoying the quiet. The water was peaceful and chuckling against the round stones of the shore, the river gleaming like polished soapstone. Wynter felt like a fox peering from its den into the heat of the day. It struck her then that Christopher was not by the water’s edge and she scanned the sun-baked rocks and the gently buzzing reed-beds with a small frown.
She turned to call after Razi and realised that Christopher was right beside her. He must have come up into the shade after she’d fallen sleep, and he sat facing her, his back against the rocks, his hands folded peacefully on the flat plane of his stomach. His hat was low over his eyes, and as her vision adjusted to the shade Wynter realised that he was watching her with a soft kind of intensity.
“Hello,” she whispered.
The sun chose that moment to step from behind the clouds, and Christopher’s face was flooded with reflected light, all his fine-boned features abruptly jumping into sharp relief. Something amused him and he grinned at her. Wynter had to grin back, his delight was so contagious.
“What?” she laughed.
“The sun just lit your eyes up, green as fairy-fire,” he said softly. “You look like a bewitched cat. Any self-respecting Midlands biddy would be crossing herself and strapping you to a ducking stool if she saw you.”
Wynter chuckled. “Oh, shush,” she said, turning to look out at the water again.
The peaceful sounds lulled gently around her. In the brambles above them a robin began to sing.
“What is your name, girly?”
Wynter sighed. It was a question that had been asked more than once in her life. As usual she didn’t answer; she just treated Christopher to
that
smile and
that
look, the combination of which would let any courtier know that the question should never be asked again. But Christopher was no courtier, and the subtleties of such body language were completely lost on him. He waited a polite moment, and then when she still didn’t reply he pressed on.
“Wynter, well it ain’t a
real
name is it? It’s the same here as in the North, ain’t it? Wynter-baby. It’s a foundling title. Or it’s what they temporarily call babies when their mothers die before naming them, ain’t it?” Wynter continued to gaze at the water and didn’t answer. “Well
…”
Christopher sounded uncertain now, as if finally aware that he was trespassing on unwelcome territory. “Um
…”
he said. “Did… did your dad not name you, then? When he got back from—”
“Jonathon named me,” she said abruptly, “while Dad was still on the run. He thought it would please my father to call me after my… he named me after my dead mother.” She felt her face harden with the bitterness she now harboured towards the King. Until recently she had always considered this as nothing worse than a sad mistake, but now it had
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