The Queen's Poisoner (The Kingfountain Series Book 1) (3 page)

As he took in the massive space that had opened before him, Owen nearly stumbled on the carpet trim and had to catch himself. He stared at the huge banners hanging from poles in the wall, the vast ceiling held up by a latticework of timbers, and the gray windows set high in the wall. Some light streamed in through them, but not enough to provide any warmth or comfort. A few servants scurried around the room, carrying dishes and flagons of wine, and a huge fire burned in the hearth. Four fountains gave life to each corner of the throne dais, but the throne itself was empty.

“Where is the king?” Horwath asked.

“Coming, man! Coming! We wait on his pleasure, not ours.” Ratcliffe looked almost giddy with excitement, as if he were about to enjoy eating a pie. Owen glanced at him worriedly, half-hidden behind Duke Horwath’s cape. Then there was a sound. The march of boots, but the step was uneven, almost halting. Owen crept further behind the duke, watching as one of the servants held open a door. A trumpeter raised a horn to his lips and called out a few shrill tones, announcing the entrance of King Severn Argentine, victor of the Battle of Ambion Hill.

The dread sovereign of Ceredigion.

Everyone in the hall rose to their feet in respect.

The king’s older brother Eredur—before he died—was a handsome, amiable man. Strong and courageous and, if truth be spoken, quick to admire the beauty of a lady. He was the eldest of four sons, two of whom are now dead. King Severn is the youngest, the last heir of this great house that has ruled for centuries. He was born twisted like an oak root. He equals his brother in strength and courage, but he has none of his softer qualities. They say the king’s tongue is sharper than his dagger. Having felt the cut, I concur.

—Dominic Mancini, Espion of Our Lady of Kingfountain

CHAPTER THREE

King Severn

A shadow passed over the flickering torchlight when the king limped into the hall. It was the shadow on the floor that Owen first saw, his eyes wide with growing terror. So this was the man who had summoned him to Kingfountain. This was the king everyone feared.

King Severn strode in with shuffling steps, his face grimacing with anger or pain or a mixture of both. What struck Owen first was the blackness of his garb. His long black boots were lined with multiple buckles, and twin ribbons of gold stitching marked the seams with flourishes of holly. His black leather tunic, slashed with velvet and silk, barely concealed a black chain vest that jangled slightly as he limped. A long collar of gold chain denoted his rank. There were thick black leather bracers on his arms, and his hands clenched in strong, tendon-tight fists, one of which gripped the hilt of a dagger lashed to his belt. A thin black cape fluttered as he walked, revealing the distortion of his spine and shoulders. It made his gait uneven, but he walked too quickly for the disfigurement to halt his speed.

He waved at the trumpeter, scowling at him as if the sound bothered his ears, and then mounted the dais with his bold, crooked stride and slumped into the throne.

In the king’s determined pose, one could easily overlook that one shoulder was higher than the other. His posture almost concealed it, especially the way he rested his elbow on the arm bar and cradled his chin between his finger and thumb. His hair was long and black, without even a streak of gray, tucked underneath a black cap with a pearl dangling from the royal badge. For some reason, Owen had expected to see a gray-haired and bearded king, and Severn was neither. The king’s face would have been handsome except for the brooding anger that seemed to twist every feature. He chuffed, out of breath, and cast a glance at those assembled before him.

“Your Majesty,” Ratcliffe said, with a flourish and a bow.

Lord Horwath inclined his head, bending slightly at his waist.

“Out!” the king snapped, waving his hand dismissively at the servants who approached him with silver trays. The servants began scurrying away, clearing the hall.

The king turned his eyes on the duke and then seemed to notice Owen cowering behind the man’s cloak. When those dark eyes fell on Owen, the boy’s stomach flipped over. He would not be able to speak. He was too terrified.

“She sent her
youngest
,” the king said scornfully. His lip curled with disdain. He snorted to himself. “I am surprised. Well, their move is played. Now it is my turn.” He shifted himself on the seat, wincing with pain at the motion. With his left hand, he slid the dagger partway out of its sheath and then slammed it back in. The movement startled Owen, even more so when it was repeated.

“Horwath is surprised to even see you walking about, sire,” Ratcliffe said graciously. “The wounds still pain you, as we all can see.”

“I did not come to the throne to be coddled,” the king interrupted. “I would have left my leg on Ambion Hill and crawled back to Kingfountain with these arms only. I do not need nurses. I need true men. My enemies have all fallen. Save one.” He gave Owen a piercing, wrathful look. The boy blinked wildly, fearing for himself. “What is your name, boy?”

Owen’s mouth would not work. He knew it would not. He stood trembling in front of the king. His tongue was so dry it felt like sand.

The king’s brow furrowed with displeasure as he waited for an answer that could not be pried from the boy’s lips with a lever. Owen felt dizzy with panic. His muscles had frozen with fear, making his legs as useless as his mouth.

“The lad’s name is Owen,” Horwath said in his gruff voice. “And I have not heard a word from him since we left Tatton Hall.”

“A mute?” King Severn said with a dark chuckle. “That will be a fine addition to court. It is already too noisy here.” He shifted again in the throne. “How did they bear the news at Tatton Hall, Stiev?”

“Very ill, as you can imagine,” Horwath said slowly.

The king chuckled. “I can imagine.” He turned his eye back to Owen. “Your eldest brother went over the falls because your father would not keep faith with me. He did not die in battle, with honor, as did this noble duke’s son.”

His parents had told Owen about his brother’s fate, and the boy shuddered at the thought of Jorganon plunging off the waterfall strapped in a canoe. That was the form of execution in the realm, though the lad had never seen it happen. It was awful to think it might happen to the rest of his family.

“His son-in-
law
,” added Ratcliffe as an aside.

The king gave Ratcliffe a nasty look. “Do you think that distinction matters to me, Dickon? His daughter’s husband died at Ambion Hill, and yet he fulfilled his duty to secure this brat instead of returning home to comfort his daughter and granddaughter. His
duty
. . .” he whispered hoarsely, holding up a stiff finger like a spike. “His
duty
rules all. That is why I trust him, Ratcliffe. That is why I trust you both. You remember that little rhyming verse the duke received on the eve of the battle?
Stiev of North, don’t be too bold, for Severn your master is bought and sold
. The note was left in his tent by one of our enemies, probably this brat’s father, to blacken his mind with doubt and fear. You remember what Stiev did, Dickon?”

Ratcliffe folded his arms over his big chest, looking annoyed. “
Anyone
could have left that note, my liege. I am still investigating how it—”

“Does it matter anymore, Dickon?” the king seethed. “It could have been one of your Espion, for all I know. It could have been the queen’s poisoner. Horwath gave me the note at once. Cool as ice from the northern glacier whence he comes. Whence he rules forevermore. Duty. Faithfulness. Those are gems worth more than his gold.” He leaned forward and lowered his fingers to his dagger, making that gesture again—pulling it out partway before slamming it back into its sheath. Each time he did it, Owen flinched.

“I was also at Ambion Hill,” Ratcliffe said with a little whine in his voice. “It was my Espion who discovered the pretender for you while the battle raged.”

The king’s mouth curved into a smile. “I’ll not forget that good service, my friend. You are loyal, which is why I entrust the Espion to you, but I have not forgotten that some of them tried to murder me.” He sneered at the man. “Horwath has always been faithful.”

Ratcliffe’s face went red with anger. “It is not fair, my liege, to fling that at my face! It was not
I
who ruled them back then. That was the lord chamberlain’s doing, and you sent him over the falls for his offense.”

“I did that in my
anger,
” the king replied, leaning back in his seat. He shook his head. “I should have held a trial.” He smoothed his hand across his tunic front, the bracer on his arm winking light from the torches. “Ah, but those were dark days. Treachery around every corner. My brother Eredur kept the tottering dishes from falling. But when he died, they all came crashing down.” His face softened a bit, as if the memory of his brother wounded him still. Then his expression hardened and he turned his gaze back to Owen.

“You are my hostage,” he said in a cruel tone. “You are the pledge of your family’s good faith. Your elder brother was hostage before you and he is dead. If your mother thinks that I will spare a child for
their
disobedience . . .” His voice trailed off, his throat nearly growling with anger. “Then they truly do not understand the determination and
rigor
of their king. You are my ward, Owen Kiskaddon, to do with as I please. You will remain at the palace.” He gestured with an open palm, motioning to the vast room. “This is your home now. Drop coins to the Fountain, boy, that your parents keep faith with me.” His face twisted with barely suppressed anger. “I nearly condemned your father at Ambion too. But I have been learning
patience
.” He chuckled, his mouth twisting into a savage smile. “Rest assured that I will
test
your father, lad. Hopefully he treasures your life more than he did your brother’s. Ratcliffe, the boy is yours to guard. Find him a nursery and a governess. I want to see him each day at breakfast with the other children. Without fail.”

Owen started in surprise. He had been too terrified to understand everything the king was saying, but one thing was clear: Things were more complicated than his parents had explained them. They had said the king had summoned him to the palace to be his ward. He now saw that he would be assigned to another man, a man who clearly didn’t like children. They had told him not to be afraid because there were many kind people at the palace. That was another lie. He was confused, frightened, and homesick beyond enduring.

“He . . . he is
my
problem now?” Ratcliffe said with obvious disappointment and bitterness. “I thought you were giving him to Horwath!”

The king looked up at the ceiling, as if he were searching for his patience in the rafters. “He is duke of the
North
, Dickon! His son-in-law is dead and he must go comfort his daughter and children. The battle is won, man! But I will not rest easy until we have had peace for a season! I have had naught but troubles and calamity these last two years!” His voice rose to a booming thunder. He started to rise from the throne, but he almost instantly slumped back down. Perhaps his leg pained him. “You oversee the Espion. Pick a man to watch the lad; that is all I am saying. By the Veil, man! Grow a spleen!”

Ratcliffe’s expression was black with fury, but he said nothing. The king winced and sagged back in the throne, his mouth tight with anger and emotion.

A big hand rested on Owen’s shoulder. The boy looked up and saw the hand belonged to Horwath, who gazed down at him. He said nothing, but his expression seemed sympathetic.

Ratcliffe mastered himself quickly, still burning from the rebuke. “Well, my liege. Let me find a
wet nurse
for the
baby
,” he said in a voice dripping with sarcasm.

Owen was
not
a baby, yet to his horror, tears pricked his eyes and he started to silently cry. He had just started trusting Horwath and now the man was going away to the North. Now his care would be in the hands of Ratcliffe, who was exactly the kind of impatient, boisterous fellow that Owen feared most. His own parents had given him up as a hostage to a king capable of lashing out at even his closest allies in a moment.

“He’s
crying
?” Ratcliffe said with disgust. “Well, more tears to water the fountains. Dry your eyes, lad. Come . . . stop that at once!”

His little heart was breaking to pieces, and he could no more stop the tears than he could the waterfall rushing outside the palace.

“Stop that!” Ratcliffe chided, stomping forward.

A woman’s voice pierced the great hall. Though it was soft, it was commanding. “What needs to stop, my lords, is all this yelling. You’ve frightened the poor dear out of his wits.”

Owen turned to look at her, but his eyes were too swollen with tears to see much beyond her long golden hair. She knelt in front of him and took out a lace kerchief, which she used to dab Owen’s eyes. Then she brushed Horwath’s hand away from Owen’s shoulder and rested her small hand where his had been. The blurry picture of her came into better focus, revealing a girl a little older than Owen’s eldest sister, Jessica. She had eyes that were green with blue streaks and the prettiest face he had ever seen.

Of all the myths of Ceredigion, Our Lady of the Fountain was the most widespread. The girl smiled at him kindly, looking into his eyes with compassion and warmth. She was the embodiment of the legend of Our Lady—a woman of wisdom, compassion, and consummate gentleness able to bring even a battle-hardened knight to his knees through the power of her presence. As in the legend, the newcomer seemed to quiet the storm of wrath that had been raging just moments before.

“Uncle,” the lady said, glancing up to the man on the throne. “Let me take the boy to the kitchen for a honey cake while Lord Ratcliffe is making arrangements for him. By your leave?”

When Owen chanced a look at the king, he was shocked by the change in his demeanor. His storm of anger was spent, and the tightness around his eyes softened as he gazed at his niece. His hand rested on the dagger hilt, but it did not loosen the blade. The hard frown turned to a small, calm smile. “If you wish so, Elyse,” he said, then gestured his approval and a dismissal of them both.

“Take my hand,” the lady said, rising slowly and offering hers. Owen took it greedily and relished the softness of her fingers. Her gown was made of the sleekest lavender and blue silk, with a white sideless surcoat and a woven gold front.

Owen gazed up at the duke, wanting to thank him but still unable to speak. It pained him to stay silent.

The duke stared into Owen’s eyes, the old man’s expression unreadable to a boy so young. His thick goatee helped conceal the lines of his mouth. He nodded once to Owen, as if offering his own dismissal. Owen left the comfort of his cloak and followed the lady out of the hall.