The Poisoner's Enemy

by Jeff Wheeler

  “Look!” one of the other Espion said fearfully, pointing. “Over there! A fresh wall of troops! Morvared must have sent in a reserve. They’re rushing to strike the king!”

  It looked like the flooding of a river, the mass of soldiers riding out from concealment to join the battle. Eredur’s men were nearly cut off from the other portions of the army led by his able lieutenants.

  “That’s the prince,” Bennet said with a hushed tone. “That’s the mad king’s heir! He’s joined the fight.”

  Ankarette straightened in her saddle, gazing at the woods. This was the moment. This was what Thomas had been waiting for. It was the final pang of birth, the scream before the squealing of a babe.

  Sir Thomas and his hundred knights swarmed out of the forest, as if her thoughts and his had been sewn together by thread. She thrilled inside, so proud to watch as his riders emerged from the grove, brandishing swords and swooping down to join the fray. A cheer went up from Eredur’s army. It was a cry unlike anything earthly. Tears swelled in Ankarette’s eyes as she watched the soldiers and the man she loved sweep down on the enemy like hawks, scattering the Occitanian soldiers. Her mount snorted and tossed its head, anxious to partake in the violence below. She soothed it, eyes fixed on the scene. The battle unraveled in that moment, the energy spilling out of it.

  “It’s time,” Ankarette said to the Espion. “If the reinforcements came from the concealment over there,” she said, pointing, “that’s where we will find Morvared. Hasten.”

  They gave curt acknowledgment of her orders and then charged down the hill, sweeping around the flank of the battle in the rear. Her escort blocked her on all sides, although she didn’t fear being attacked. Few of the soldiers had mounts now, save for hers and Thomas’s men. There were corpses all around. The defeated soldiers were running now, scattering to the winds.

  Whoops of victory and cries of despair began to fill the air as the resolution of the battle was finally acknowledged on both sides. Ankarette ignored the jubilation, focusing her attention. This would be dangerous. Morvared would have armed knights with her, but she had nowhere to flee. The ports were all blocked now. All she could do was hide.

  They slowed their mounts as they reached the small woods from which the enemy soldiers had emerged. Weapons were drawn, and the noise of the scraping scabbards made her edgy. They pressed deeper into the copse, passing soldiers who were slipping and hiding behind trees trying to escape Eredur’s men. As they passed a larger bush, she saw an Occitanian man, hair swept forward, cringing there, holding up his hands in the sign of defeat.

  “Where is the queen?” she asked him in his own language.

  The man blanched and pointed the way. His eyes were full of terror, his skin white as milk.

  The defeated soldiers were straggling away and being rounded up by Eredur’s men. Ransoms were being pled for and accepted. Knights were taken into custody. She looked down at the cringing man.

  “Show us. Now.”

  The man, anxious to have his life spared, rose on trembling knees and walked ahead of their horses. Soon, the trees parted and the makeshift camp of the Occitanian army spread before them. Breakfast fires were guttering out. Blankets had been left in the dirt. Spears and cook pots were unattended. There was no one left.

  Ankarette summoned her Fountain magic, feeling for threats and the presence of others. Bennet cast her a worried look as she nudged her stallion forward. Then she heard voices, the noise of people arguing. Motioning for the Espion to follow, she pressed onward. The voices were speaking in a frenzied rush of Occitanian. They came from the center command tent. Three horses were tethered outside.

  “You must come, Your Majesty!” implored a man’s voice. “The fighting is over. We’re defeated, yet again, by these dogs of Ceredigion! We must fly, my lady! Now!”

  “Where is my son?” said the high, trilling voice she recognized from Shynom. Ankarette knew it was the queen. “You promised he would be safe at all costs.”

  “I did, my lady. I know of my oath. But he is slain. I saw it happen with my own eyes. Duke Severn struck him down in cold blood as he pleaded for mercy. There was no pity in Glosstyr’s heart to move him. He said the prince was a coward for trying to sneak away from the battle. Your husband won’t survive a fortnight. We must away, Your Majesty. All is lost. All is in ruin.”

  “Bring me his corpse, then!” Morvared snarled. “Bring it so that I may weep over it. Bring it to me!”

  “We cannot!” said another man. “There’s naught more we can do. Come, my lady! Leave these two here.”

  Ankarette realized that Morvared wasn’t alone. Warrewik’s daughters were probably with her.

  “No!” the queen said fiercely, her voice throbbing with tears. “My son. You promised me that he would live. He would live!”

  “She won’t listen to us,” said one of the others as Ankarette’s cadre approached the tent.

  “Shhh! I hear horses!” The voice was panic-stricken.

  Two knights rushed from the tent, swords drawn, to face Ankarette and her dozen Espion.

  “Lay down your arms,” Ankarette said in their language. The two men looked at each other, then at the number of foes. They tossed down their weapons, their faces crumpling with misery.

  Ankarette nodded for Bennet to subdue them and then slid out of her saddle. She walked swiftly to the tent and heard these words before she entered.

  “Your husband’s brother killed my son,” Morvared said in a strangled, tear-stricken voice. “A life for a life, then. We can all join them in the Deep Fathoms!”

  Ankarette parted the curtain, drawing her dagger. Queen Morvared stood there with a knife in her hand, and Isybelle and Nanette cowered before her, their eyes wide with terror.

  She remembered Hux’s warning. If she killed the queen, then she herself would die.

  “Ankarette!” Isybelle cried out in desperation, seeing her.

  Morvared turned toward the tent opening. When she saw the poisoner standing there, she raised the knife and prepared to plunge it into Isybelle’s chest.

  Ankarette stepped forward and hurled her own dagger. The blade pierced Morvared’s wrist, impaling it. Blood bloomed from the wound, and the former queen dropped her own knife from the spasms of pain. Ankarette strode in and subdued the older woman swiftly, bringing her to her knees before she slid the dagger out of her wounded wrist. Morvared groaned in agony, shuddering with tremors. Ankarette snatched a linen napkin from a small camp table and squeezed it around the wrist, watching as the blood began to soak it.

  “You dare deny a queen her vengeance?” she said savagely, her eyes full of hate.

  “You are not a queen that I serve,” Ankarette answered coldly. She had made an implacable enemy. One who would never forget or forgive her. So be it. The wound in Morvared’s wrist was not fatal, but it would pain her the rest of her life.

  Isybelle and Nanette hugged each other, sobbing from the close brush with death. Isybelle looked at Ankarette with warmth and gratitude as she kissed her sobbing sister’s hair. The next moment, Bennet burst into the tent, looking concerned and confused.

  “Take them out of here,” Ankarette told him, nodding to the two young women. “They are not hostages to ransom. They are noble daughters of Ceredigion. Take them to the king.”

  Bennet grinned triumphantly. “And what of her? What of that woman?”

  “I need a healer!” Morvared spat, shuddering. Even in defeat she was proud.

  “Leave four men with me,” Ankarette said. “I will take her to Blackpool, to the Arthington. Tell the king to find us there.”

  “I know the place,” Bennet said. “And I’ll tell Sir Thomas as well.” He gave her a wink.

  Never had a meal tasted so good. Never had a fire felt so warm. Never had a couch been so comfortable. Ankarette had fallen asleep at last, for the first time in days. It was pain that awakened her, pain in the pit of her stomach. It was a gnawing, cruel poison and it poked at her insides like l
iquid fire. She opened her eyes, wincing, and realized how dark the room was. She had sat down on the couch in the common room and fallen asleep without realizing it. She jerked awake, trying to rise.

  “Shhhh,” Thomas whispered. “No need to fret, lass.”

  He was sitting at the edge of the hearth on a small stool, his elbows propped on his knees. He looked haggard and weary and there was a look of deep sadness in his eyes.

  Her heart began to tighten. “What’s wrong?” she asked him, covering her burning stomach.

  He tried to smile. “I didn’t want anyone to wake you,” he whispered. “You looked so peaceful . . . until the end.” He bit the edge of his knuckle, trying to compose himself. “This victory, Ankarette, should be yours. Eredur is so grateful. We have Morvared in custody and she’ll soon be taken back to Kingfountain. Are you . . . are you ill? Do you feel the poison again?”

  “My stomach hurts,” she said, wiping sleep from her eyes. “What’s wrong, Thomas? You don’t look the same.”

  He sighed heavily, sitting up more. “I can never hide anything from you. It’s not fair.”

  She straightened on the couch, feeling her worry grow like a wildfire. She rested her arms on the edge of the couch and laid her head on them, looking at him sideways. His demeanor had changed. Why hadn’t he awakened her with a kiss? He was chafing, wrestling within himself. It did not take long for her to realize why.

  And once the suspicion reared up inside her, she recognized it to be true. A spike of pain jabbed her heart.

  “I see,” she said, her voice raw. “Tell me.”

  He looked at her in misery. “I don’t want to tell you,” he whispered hoarsely.

  “I already know what it is,” she said, sitting up. “Just say it.” Her heart was turning blacker and blacker as the thoughts gripped hold of her.

  He looked up at the ceiling for help. “Ankarette, I did not ask for this dilemma,” he said. “It was thrust on me. As much as it pains me, I have a decision to make.”

  “Just tell me, Thomas,” she said softly, gazing down.

  He tried, starting once and failing. His breath came out slowly as he tried to subdue his feelings. “Eredur has given me leave to marry Elysabeth Horwath. It would make me the heir of Dundrennan.”

  She wasn’t surprised by his pronouncement. Only pained by it. She bit her bottom lip. “So he has he made you the Earl of Sur, then? Your brother’s earldom?”

  “Yes,” he answered flatly. He laced his fingers and stared down at them, looking absolutely miserable.

  Thomas had always been ambitious. He had wanted to serve in his own right, not run around doing the bidding of others. His role in the battle would be spoken of for years to come. He’d be a hero to the people, a favorite of the king’s. He’d been in love with Elysabeth Horwath for years and, until now, had always been rejected by her. He was getting everything he had ever wanted.

  And yet his eyes were full of remorse because he cared for someone else now. Someone more like him in temperament and loyalty. A truer friend. She knew his feelings for her were real and powerful, but she could tell he’d already made his decision. Much of him still wanted those old dreams.

  That was why he did not hold her. That was why he looked so wretched. An earl did not marry a midwife’s daughter without infamy.

  She could make this easy for him. Or she could ruin his heart. If she loved him, could she deny him his ambitions? After all, she had ambitions of her own. While Thomas had spoken about leaving the subterfuge and politics behind, she thrived on it. It fed her Fountain magic. And in her current state, with Hux’s poison destroying her from the inside, she might not even live long enough to discover the cure.

  “Thank you for telling me,” Ankarette said, barely able to master herself. “I think it is the right thing. You will be an excellent leader. And the kingdom needs you.”

  He stared at her in disbelief. “How can you say that?” he whispered in pain. “I love you, Ankarette Tryneowy. It feels as if my heart is being wrenched out of my chest. Would that I had died on the battlefield instead. Would that I could go to the Deep Fathoms in my brother’s place.”

  She savored hearing the words, his profession of love, but she shook her head. “I wouldn’t wish that, Thomas. We both knew this might happen. I think we were willing to content ourselves with dreams of what might be otherwise. Back in Brugia, anything felt possible. But not now. Not anymore.”

  “Is it that easy for you to walk away?” He looked hurt.

  “None of this is easy,” she answered, wincing with discomfort at the pain inside her middle. “Remember how people looked down at Queen Elyse when the king chose her? She had pedigree I will never have, even if the king were to grant me a title. You would be the object of ridicule. I couldn’t bear that, Thomas.” She sighed, forcing herself to speak it, to make it easier for him to leave her. “There’s another reason. I don’t know how much longer I have. My stomach hurts because of the poison Hux gave me. I’m going to try and find a cure. But it is likely to be fatal, I know that much . . . and I fear I will never be able to carry a child because of it. You must become a duke. A father. You must support Eredur’s fragile throne. He needs you. Just as he needs me, only in a different way. That is why he is giving you a choice. It’s up to you.” She paused, her heart pounding fast in her chest. “But it is truly for the best if we remain as friends. It will be painful, but in time . . . most wounds heal.”

  His cheek rested on the edge of his knuckles. A tear streaked down the side of his face. He stared at the wall, anywhere but at her.

  “It will be all right, Thomas,” she said comfortingly, trying to help him endure his feelings. Trying to endure her own.

  He turned his face and looked at her with a longing that almost made her reach for him.

  “I’m glad I met you, Ankarette,” he said. “I will never forget what you have done for me, for my life.” He wiped away the tears. “Look at me, I’m a wreck and you haven’t even cried!”

  “I will, Sir Thomas,” she said gently. She reached out, took his hand, and squeezed it, trying to fill him with strength. “Just not now.”

  He squeezed her hand back, his eyes glistening. The smile he gave her was full of both warmth and pain. “If I ever have a daughter, I’m going to name her Victoria. People are saying this victory is mine. But truly, Ankarette, it has been yours.”

  EPILOGUE

  The Mad King

  Ankarette climbed the stairs to Holistern Tower, her heart heavy with the duty she had to perform. Part of her had died that day at the Battle of Hawk Moor. Perhaps it was the sense that all life was sacred. For how could that be so when death came so swiftly, indiscriminately, and in such massive numbers? When one duke’s ambition had led to such carnage?

  After the battle had ended, the king had pronounced his younger brother Severn and Duke Horwath as the chief justices of the Assizes to determine the individual guilt of those who had fought in the battle. Ankarette had enjoyed seeing Isybelle again at the palace. Dunsdworth had been officially pardoned and would inherit half of Duke Warrewik’s vast wealth. The duke’s other daughter, Nanette, the prince’s widow, would inherit the other half. There was talk that Severn had been seen in the palace garden with her, holding her hand.

  Eredur had asked Ankarette if she would go back to serving Isybelle for a time, to make certain that Dunsdworth’s ambitions remained in check. He would call on her, on occasion, for her skills as a midwife—or at least that was his ruse. She had agreed to continue being his poisoner so long as she was allowed to save the lives of five people for every person he asked her to kill. He had agreed without hesitation and promised her that he did not intend to use her abilities maliciously. Queen Morvared was being held for ransom in Kingfountain. Eredur never wanted to see her face again. He would not release her without extracting a heavy price from Occitania. In fact, he didn’t intend to release her at all. But he kept her alive, and samples of the antidote continued to arrive.
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  As Ankarette reached the top of the steps, the Espion guarding the mad king’s room nodded to her. They knew her well. Without being asked, one unlocked the door and opened it.

  She heard the raving noises within, the screams and frightened cries of a man completely mad and wild. One of the Espion guards twitched his nose with revulsion at the sound.

  As Ankarette walked inside, the mad king quieted. He looked worried, fretful, his hands chafing each other. His eyes were guiltless. Innocent.

  She took a deep breath and steadied herself. “Good evening, my lord,” she said. “I’ve heard you weren’t feeling well. Would you like a cup of tea? It will help you sleep tonight.”

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  I have enjoyed immersing myself in the world of Kingfountain, but it is time to take a break from it for now. Last night, I learned that a fan named his newborn son Owen after the Duke of Westmarch, and he even sent me a picture of the little guy. What a sweet experience! I’m completely humbled by his decision.

  As I’ve said in the past, Ankarette was born in my mind decades ago when I was working on my history degree in college. The events of this novel are pretty much factual. Sir Thomas and Ankarette are invented, but nearly everyone else is based on real players during the famous War of the Roses, my specialty.

  Back when I was studying this era, I didn’t know why this particular part of history touched me so deeply. Was it because I loved Sharon Kay Penman’s novel The Sunne in Splendour so much and felt that Richard III had been maligned by historians? Who could have predicted that his bones would be discovered and put to rest in Leicester Cathedral within my lifetime! But perhaps the tie was more personal. Years ago, as I was perusing some family history that my Aunt Donna had provided for me, my eyes fell on the death date of one of my ancestors: August 22, 1485. I knew that date because it was the date of the Battle of Bosworth Field where Richard III was killed. That ancestor, I discovered, was John Howard, the Duke of Norfolk (aka Stiev Horwath, the duke of the North). I stared at the page, dumbfounded, realizing that one of my own ancestors had fought for Richard III in that battle and had died.