The Queen's Poisoner (The Kingfountain Series Book 1) (8 page)

He banished the thought and waited to be found. It took Monah longer this time, and she complained again about the game.

Owen decided he needed to try the door to see if it was too heavy. On his third turn, he quickly slipped away and approached the wall with the pitted metal door. There was a locking mechanism next to the iron handle. If the door was locked, he would be stuck. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Monah sitting at the fountain’s edge, her head back, her face angled toward the sun. She seemed to be enjoying herself, not counting at all.

The door was made of wrought iron and had wide slats, some going up and down, others going across. Inside the gaps were decorative iron flowers, so there was no way to see through it. Owen grabbed the cold metal handle and pulled.

The door swung open without a sound.

He quickly peered through the gap, beneath which the forest descended at a steep decline. There was a well-worn dirt trail, marred by horseshoe prints. The opening in the wall was big enough to admit an animal, though not with a rider in the saddle. It was undeniably the secret exit Liona had described. There were no guards posted down below, and the thicket beyond the door was dense enough to hide his passage.

There was no reason to wait.

In his mind, he heard Liona’s voice.
If you are a brave little boy . . .

He glanced back one more time at Monah, sunbathing, her head tilted to one side. Fear painted shadows in his heart, but the thrill in his stomach chased those shadows away. Yes, Owen
was
brave. He was alone in the world now, so he needed to be. If he could find protection at the sanctuary, then it was well worth the risk. They would look for him in the kitchen. They would look for him all over the grounds. But they would not find him quickly enough to stop him.

Owen steeled his courage, feeling his legs wobble with the pent-up excitement. Then he slipped through the crack in the door, gently shut it behind him, and raced toward freedom.

The populace of Ceredigion is inherently superstitious, especially in regards to quaint traditions involving the Fountain. When there is a wish or an ambition that a husband, wife, or child wants fulfilled, they hold a coin in their hand, think hard on the wish, and then flick the coin into one of the multitude of fountains within the sanctuary of Our Lady. Coins glisten and shimmer beneath the waters. They return the next day and find the coin still there. Mayhap two days. But invariably the coins vanish and that poor soul believes the Fountain has accepted their offering and will consider their wish. I know for a fact that the sexton of Our Lady dons wading boots, grabs a rake, and harvests the coins for the king’s coffers every few days. He always leaves some behind, for a partially full fountain invites more donations to the king’s treasury. It is considered the height of blasphemy to steal a coin from a fountain. It amazes me how this superstition prevents even a hungry urchin from stealing a coin that would buy his bread. The children whisper that if you take from the fountain and are caught, you will be thrown into the river and whisked over the falls. The power that tradition wields over simple minds is truly amazing. Whenever some poor fool shows a natural talent, be it baking or growing flowers, how quick people are to announce that person as blessed.

—Dominic Mancini, Espion of Our Lady of Kingfountain

CHAPTER EIGHT

Her Majesty

Owen was breathing hard by the time he left the woods and started down the road. Sweat slicked his hair to his forehead, and he joined the carts and wagons and torrent of folk marching along toward the bridge. He worried that he would be spotted by the guards and seized at the gate, so he searched the crowd for a group of people who looked like a family. As soon as he found one, he increased his speed and fell in step with them as they passed the gatehouse. No one paid him any notice.

After leaving the shadow of the portcullis, Owen felt his nervous heart begin to give way to a thrill of excitement. Monah was probably still searching for him, and even after she reported him missing, it would take time before anyone figured out how he had escaped. His plan was simple. Go to the princess’s mother in the sanctuary of Our Lady and beg enough coins to hire a coach to take him back to Tatton Hall. He knew of dozens of places he could hide on the grounds, without his parents’ knowledge, and he would live among them as a ghost. It was a three-day ride by horseback to Westmarch, which meant a wagon would take longer, but the thought of being back home in a week made him grin with eagerness. He would trick the king and no one would be the wiser. Not even his parents would know where he was, so it would not be
their
fault if Owen was missing. He was still hurt that they had chosen him to go to the palace, but he didn’t want them to get in more trouble.

As he crossed the bridge, his confidence began to wane and his stomach started to growl. He broke off a crust from his pocket and chewed it slowly to ease his hunger. Every noise made him whirl around and stare back, as if twenty knights wearing the badge of the white boar might be charging after him. Beneath him he could feel the churn of waves crashing against the bridge and hear the roar of the waterfall. He feared he would never make it, and yet the sanctuary drew closer.

It was a beautiful structure, but he had gazed at it with dull eyes when Horwath had brought him past it weeks ago. Still, he remembered all the grubby men loitering at the gates and felt a shiver of dread. The clomp of hooves startled him, and he moved to the side quickly as a rider passed. Owen felt the panicked sensation that everyone was looking at him. He refused to meet anyone’s gaze as he pressed onward.

As he walked, he took notice of the brickwork along the island wall that defended the earth from being washed away. There were patterns in the bricks he had not noticed before, perhaps because huge clumps of hanging ivy covered part of the brickwork, one batch hanging low enough to tease the waters rushing by at great speed. A fence surrounded the entire grounds of the sanctuary, which was on the north side of the island in the midst of the river. Huge trees towered up beyond the fence, and on the side facing Owen, he spied a huge circular stained-glass window in the shape of a sundial. Spikes and turrets rose from the edges, and long gutters and support struts held up the walls. It was narrow and tall and a huge steeple jutted from the crown of the structure, high enough to pierce the clouds.

Owen was so busy gazing at the structure that he stumbled against the backside of a man pushing a cart and earned a quick scolding for his carelessness.

After crossing the bridge onto the island, Owen bent his way toward the main gates. Sure enough, there were feckless men loitering there. Owen mustered his courage and walked through the gates, feeling a jolt of relief once he had passed them. No man could force him from these grounds. Not even the king.

None of the fountain-men, who were muttering among themselves, paid him any mind. Owen gazed at the tall posts with lamps dangling from hooks high above. There were families walking the inner parks and his heart grew sore at the sight of them. He hungered to see his family again, even from afar, and to calm himself, he reflected on where he would hide first when he returned to his estate.

There was a large reflection pool before the steps leading up to the sanctuary doors, which were open, revealing a sunlit entryway. He stopped at the pool, staring into the placid depths, and saw coins gleaming in the bottom. A fat man sat on the edge of the pool, beefy arms folded. He was tossing crumbs to pigeons pecking near his shoes. Owen watched with fascination as the man deftly sprinkled the crumbs, sometimes this way, sometimes that, and the crowd of feathers moved in response, making clucking and cooing noises all the while. The fat man smiled at their squabbling.

Then suddenly the man lurched to his feet and stomped, causing the birds to flap and flee in a cloud of exploding gray plumage. The sudden motion shocked Owen and his heart hammered frightfully in his chest. The fat man laughed boisterously, clutching his girth as he sat back down. He wiped his eyes a moment, still chuckling to himself, and then dug into a pocket for more crumbs and began sprinkling them again on the paving stones.

Sure enough, pigeons began to return a few moments later, flapping down from the trees where they’d fled. They approached cautiously, heads bobbing, and then the braver ones began to peck at the crumbs. Once they did, the others deemed it safe enough and soon the entire area was thick with fowl again.

The fat man had scraggly brown whiskers along his jowls. His hair was thick and wavy, cropped close to his ears, and he had a sad smile, as if he were bored beyond his wits and tormenting the birds was his only way of entertaining himself.

“They keep coming back,” the fat man said with a tired sigh. He had not looked at Owen, but his voice was pitched just enough to reach the boy’s ears. He had the accent of a foreigner, but his voice was pleasant and he spoke the tongue of the kingdom well. “I can frighten them off a hundred times a day, but they keep coming back for crumbs.” He sighed, resting his bread-throwing hand on his paunch. “They cannot resist their need to eat. And I suppose neither can I. It’s a sad truth. If I were not so lazy, I would walk over to the muffin vendor and get a tasty morsel. Those would provide tantalizing crumbs indeed! But when you haul around this much baggage, lad, even a little walk is a burden.”

Owen stared at the man’s mouth as he talked, watching the way he formed his words. He had a gentle, coaxing voice. Then he glanced at Owen and smiled in a friendly way.

“Here to make a wish, lad?” he asked.

Owen blinked, realizing he was formally being addressed. He nodded sheepishly.

The man pitched his voice lower. “They say
that
side of the pool brings better luck.” He pointed to the other side of the reflecting pool from where he sat. “But if you
really
want a wish granted, you must toss a crown into the wisdom fountain inside. The statue of the woman with the spear is the true Lady of the Fountain. She’ll grant your wish. If you have a whole crown.”

“I don’t have a crown,” Owen said.

The man pursed his lips. “Well . . . that can’t be. A lad with such a noble look . . . I thought you’d have a whole bag of crowns. ’Tis a pity. But if your wish is important, that’s where you must make it. Here, I’ll lend you a crown.” He dug through another pouch, humming a little to himself, and pulled out a fat crown. He put it under his thumb and flicked it, sending the coin spinning in the air toward Owen, who caught it without dropping it.

“Well done, lad, well done!” the fat man said.

Owen stared at the crown and saw it was not from Ceredigion. A different language was scrawled on it and it looked nothing like the coins from his realm. He rubbed his fingers over the letters and spelling he couldn’t decipher.

“Can you read it?” the fat man asked, chuckling.

Owen shook his head, turning the coin over in his hand.

“Not many from these parts can. That is called a florin. It’s about the same weight as a crown. I’m Genevese—the lake kingdom. Do you know where that is, lad?”

Owen stared at the man. He had never met a foreigner before. “I’ve seen maps,” he said shyly.

The man nodded. “Maps. You looked like a smart one. I bet you can read and know your numbers too.”

Owen looked at him in surprise.

“I knew it!” the man said, chuckling and clapping his hands. The birds pecking near his feet were getting angry that he hadn’t put any crumbs down in a while. “Well, there is your crown, lad. Go make your wish and run along to your mother.”

“Thank you,” Owen said, surprised that he wasn’t too shy to speak. The man had a way about him that both frightened Owen and intrigued him. He was not like other adults.

“Name is Mancini,” the fat man said with a nod.

“Thank you, Mancini,” Owen said.

“Someone in your family is sick? Is that why you’re making a wish—what was your name again?”

“Owen,” the boy replied, only then realizing he should not have said it. He blinked with surprise.

“Well met, Owen,” Mancini said. “Go make your wish. I think I might fetch that muffin after all.” He groaned and tried to rise, but it seemed to require more effort than he had to give. “Sometimes,” Mancini said, breathing hard, “I have to lean back before I can push myself up again. Once I leaned back too far and . . . splash! Went into the fountain!” He gave Owen a wink and a grin and the boy giggled. “Took four men to pull me out. What a mess. Almost drowned.”

Owen smiled, enjoying the warmth that came with the laughter. The image of the fat man flailing and spluttering in the water made it even funnier.

Mancini leaned back and then swung himself forward. This time he made it back up to his feet, tottering a bit, and Owen watched him as he waddled away. Once the fat man was gone, Owen walked around to the other side of the pool. He made a wish that the queen would be able to help him and then pitched the florin into the water where it plopped and promptly sank to the bottom. He started to walk around the grounds a bit more, admiring the fountains and searching for the princess’s mother. He thought the best place to look would be within the sanctuary itself, so he mounted the wide stone steps. The floor of the sanctuary was made of black and white marble squares, reminding him of an enormous Wizr board, but without the pieces. He loved playing Wizr, and even though he was only eight, he was good enough to beat some of his siblings. His father still bested him every time.

Owen stood on a white square, which was just wide enough for him to fit in without his feet touching the edges. The hall was enormous, and a huge fountain splashed and played in the middle of the chamber. There were higher-ranking visitors inside the sanctuary, as demonstrated by their stylish clothes and felt hats. Owen felt a little more comfortable now, and the effect of the fountain was soothing. There were tall columns and pedestals topped with white marble statues, which looked to Owen like life-size Wizr pieces. Of course, they would be very difficult to move. Not surprisingly, he saw some older men sitting around normal-size Wizr boards and playing matches. He walked among them, looking for a woman who resembled the princess.

It took quite some wandering before he managed to find her, but the time seemed to pass quickly. The princess’s mother was talking to the sanctuary sexton, a man with white robes, a black cloak, and a mushroom-shaped hat. The sexton was in charge of the grounds. The deconeus was in charge of performing the water rite for newborn babies. Owen had been around such people his entire life, so he recognized them by their robes. But Owen easily recognized the princess’s mother. This was the queen dowager, the wife of the king who had died two years before. She was trailed by a younger woman, probably no more than twelve, who looked to be her other daughter.

Owen waited patiently until the queen dowager’s conversation with the sexton was finished, although it took quite a while. Once they were done, the queen dowager took the girl’s hand, and the two of them slowly walked back toward the fountain in the center of the huge chamber. Recognizing his opportunity, Owen quickly walked up to her, trying to quell his growing nervousness.

As he walked, the girl holding her mother’s hand looked at him curiously and tugged on her mother’s arm. It felt as if a cloud of butterflies had filled Owen’s stomach.

The queen mother stopped, responding to the tugging, and turned to face Owen. She was a beautiful woman, tall and lithe and regal. Her hair was the same color as her daughters’, elegantly styled with braiding and brooches.

Just as Owen was about to reach the dowager, he heard boots tromping into the sanctuary, loud and fervent and very familiar. Twisting around, he watched with horror as Ratcliffe strode into the sanctuary, his face contorted with anger. He marched straight toward Owen and looked as if he would jerk the boy’s arm out of its socket and drag him out.

“Come here, boy,” the queen mother said to Owen, her voice soft but urgent.

Owen’s legs were shaking violently, but he managed to close the gap separating him from the queen mother as the burly man continued his approach. The cap was off Ratcliffe’s head, crushed in his fist, and his balding dome looked moist with sweat. He was livid but also flushed with relief to have found Owen.

“There—you—are—young—man!” he barked angrily in a clipped tone. He closed the distance with several long strides, attracting the gaze of everyone in the room, which made Owen cower against the queen mother’s gown. She put her hand on his shoulder and he saw the glittering jewel of the coronation ring on her hand.