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

by Jeff Wheeler

  He smiled, gazing around at the arches and the hanging pots on pegs. “I like it here,” he said shyly, feeling much calmer now that he was distanced from the king’s fury. He did not want to meet him again, yet he knew he would have to share breakfast with him every day.

  The princess knelt down again next to Owen. Her eyes were serious and she petted him fondly, as if she had always known him. “Liona will help take care of you. I am going to find Master Ratcliffe to help him choose a governess for you.” She stroked his arm. “I will watch out for you, Owen. So will Liona. There are many here still . . . faithful.” She hesitated before saying the word. Then she straightened, her dress shimmered with colors in the light, and the beams made her golden hair radiant. She looked like a queen herself.

  “Thank you,” Owen mumbled, gazing up at her.

  Liona’s nostrils tightened. “The next round of loaves is nearly done. You can always smell them. I will look after the child, Princess. Fear not. There are so many here, he won’t be underfoot.” She gave Owen a look of intrigue. “My husband is the woodcutter of the castle,” she said mysteriously. “He knows all the best haunts to wander and wouldn’t mind a companion on his journeys around the hill. He decides which of the king’s trees to keep and which he will cut and make into firewood. He’s off tromping in the woods right now, or you’d find him here with a flagon of ale and his feet up on a barrel. But I keep a tidy kitchen, as you see, so he knows to leave his dusty boots outside. Let me fetch you another honey cake!” She winked again and quickly went over to the clay pot to do just that. Another girl had stepped in to remove the loaves from the oven.

  “Thank you, Liona,” the princess said.

  “Anything for Your Highness’s family,” Liona answered, her look dark and serious. She hugged Elyse again.

  “Now I must see to finding a suitable governess,” the princess said, tousling Owen’s hair one last time.

  The cook stared wistfully at the princess as she left the kitchen, but as soon as she was gone, her expression changed from wistful to annoyed. Owen’s heart sank. Had it all been an act?

  “And here he comes,” Liona said with a huff. “It’s enough to sour a pudding. There is the king’s butler, Master Berwick. He’s from the North, Owen. Some men from there are not to be trusted. I pity your lord father. Truly I do. I made my promise and I will keep it. I’ll look after you, lad. You will always have a place here in the kitchen.” She smiled down at him, buoying his spirits.

  The sound of boots jarred Owen’s attention, and then an old, wrinkled, leathery man strode in quickly, wheezing as he approached Liona. He was tall with a barrel gut and leathery brown skin. He had a bald dome splotched with liver marks, but there was a wreath of thick, curly hair around his ears and neck. He wore the king’s livery, black and gold with the boar insignia.

  “Luke at ye,” he said derisively to Liona. “Standin’ idle at sucha time ’fore supper?” Owen had always struggled to understand people with thick Northern accents. It was as if they were in too much of a hurry to finish all the syllables in their words. “When’s the quail egg pie gonna be finished for the master? Aun’t you started it yit?”

  The look on Liona’s face curdled. “Have you not enough to worry about, Berwick, that you must meddle in my kitchen?”

  “I wuddun meddle if it were run sharp. The master tain’t a patient man, nor doz he brook laziness.”

  “Are you saying I am lazy?” she asked, her voice hardening. “Do you have any idea how long it takes to feed a palace this size? How many loaves of bread we make in a day?”

  “Five hundred and six,” he said with a sneer, and snapped his fingers at her. “I tally the flour bags. I know the eggs and yolk. I am the king’s butler and managed his castle in the North—”

  “Which was much smaller than this one, I might remind you, Berwick!”

  Owen stared up at the tall butler. He smelled like something strange—cabbage, perhaps.

  His stare attracted the attention of the older man. “And whose whelp is this young’un? Another sorry case whose papa won’t work?”

  “This is the Duke of Kiskaddon’s son,” Liona said, pulling Owen against her apron. “He’s not a whelp, you rude man, but of noble blood.”

  The butler looked at Owen in surprise. “Faw!” he spluttered. “Kiskaddon’s brat! I pity him then! His bruther ended in a river.”

  Liona looked cross. “He’s the king’s ward. That’s nothing to be pitied.”

  The butler snorted. “Ward? I think not. He’s the king’s hostage. Just had a little chat with Duke Horwath, a mighty fine lord, on his way back to the North. This lad’s days are numbered.”

  Liona’s expression hardened, her face turning pale. “You will stop such talk,” she said angrily. She motioned for Owen to go sit on a nearby crate and then walked up to Berwick and started to give him a tongue-lashing in a low voice.

  Owen sat on the small crate, his joy in finding the kitchen starting to wane. The king’s threats roiled his stomach. Even though the kitchen was comfortable, warm, and had that wonderful yeasty smell, he could not keep his eye from that daggerlike spire out the window. It felt as if the king were watching him even here.

  “No, you watch your words, croon!” Berwick said angrily. “My master may call down a new cook from the North, and then what would you do? But if you mind me and do as I say, all will go well for you.” He gave Owen a dark look and harrumphed, shaking his head as if the boy were already a cold slab of dead fish.

  Liona’s eyes sparked with anger as she returned to him, wiping her fingers vigorously on her apron front. She muttered under her breath for a moment.

  “I need to get the king’s supper ready,” she finally said, her voice pitched low. Owen noticed that she would not look him in the eye. “There used to be more children playing around the castle. When the queen and king ruled, it was different. Men like Berwick would watch their words better.” Her lips were taut. “If Berwick only knew, if he only knew.” She cast a surreptitious glance at the boy, and then dropped her voice very low. “Are you afraid, Owen?”

  He stared at her and nodded mutely.

  She hastily walked over to another table and then brought over a bowl with some flour and other ingredients already inside. She cracked an egg with one hand and emptied the yolk into the bowl. She then began kneading the mixture with her strong fingers. Owen felt she wanted to say more, so he waited for her to speak.

  She glanced around the kitchen again, making sure no one else was nearby. “My husband and I walk the grounds often,” she said softly, almost in a whisper. “He knows it best. There is a porter door that is always unlocked. Always.” She glanced around again, and when she continued, her voice was even softer. “Owen, your parents did not send you here to be killed. You have friends. Like the princess. Like me. The princess’s mother is in sanctuary at Our Lady. She has been there for the two years since her husband’s brother seized the throne. Mayhap she would help you, Owen. Do you know where the sanctuary is?”

  Owen stared at her, his heart pounding fast. “We passed it . . . on the way here.”

  “You did,” she said, kneading the dough as if she were trying to strangle Berwick. “If you go to that sanctuary, not even the king can make you come out. You would be safe there.” She glanced back at the crowded kitchen, her eyes darting around worriedly. “If you are a brave little boy.”

  A little spark of hope lit in his chest. “I’m brave,” he whispered softly, gazing hard at her. But as he looked up at her, he saw the knifelike spire through the window again.

  I am a foreigner to Ceredigion, so I found the political intrigues and bad blood to be almost incomprehensible at first. Let me summarize it thus. The ruling houses of this kingdom can be likened to members of a large family who hate each other fiercely. The grievances go back to the founding of this dynasty, nigh on three centuries ago. These family members make an art out of warring with each other. King Severn’s enemies are all in their graves,
or should I say all his male enemies are. He is still estranged from the queen dowager, his brother’s wife, who continues to plot against him from the sanctuary of Our Lady. But in my assessment, her power and her once-great beauty are now waning. My bets are on the crouch-backed king. Rumor has it he fancies his niece, Princess Elyse. It’s a sordid rumor embellished by the queen dowager. Pay it no heed.

  —Dominic Mancini, Espion of Our Lady of Kingfountain

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Ghosts

  They had assigned Owen to his brother’s vacant room, and he found he could not sleep at all. Everything about it, even the smell, was strange and unsettling. He had always been very sensitive to sounds, especially unfamiliar ones, and the palace was full of sounds—creaking timbers, the tapping of boots on stone, the distant murmur of voices, the rattle of keys in locks. There was always some commotion outside his door. So Owen sat up on his small wooden pallet and pulled the curtains wide, letting the moon shine through the window. And as he sat and stared at the moon, he tried to calm the frantic beating of his heart and quell the dreadful homesickness that festered there.

  That night, he made several decisions. And he made a promise to the moon.

  He knew the world of adults was very different from his own. For reasons he did not comprehend, his parents had abandoned him. He had the vague sense that they’d been forced to offer up one of their children and they had chosen him.

  In the dark, he wrestled with the feelings that accompanied that realization. He shed more tears, but the tears weren’t sad. They weren’t angry. They were . . . disappointed. When the tears were finally spent, he ground his teeth and dealt with the harsh truth that his parents were not going to save him. He had the intuition that if he stayed at the castle and did nothing to save himself, he would probably not survive. So he had to figure out a way to change the end of the story and not end up in the river.

  Being the youngest in the family, Owen had learned some simple truths in his short life. Because he was the youngest and the smallest in Tatton Hall, the adults around him thought he was weak and could not do things for himself. They always offered to help him, which annoyed Owen and made him even more determined to prove he was capable. He hated it when his suggestions and ideas were not taken seriously, especially when one of his “little speeches” caused his parents or older siblings to laugh at him.

  Owen had learned that there was a certain power in being the youngest. He was a strong-willed little boy who’d learned the power of tantrums in getting his way. He used this tactic judiciously, of course, for he was normally soft-spoken and gentle.

  It also did not escape Owen’s notice that adults fawned over him, especially his sisters. He had learned that being adorable, affectionate, and quick to give hugs and smiles and little kisses earned him treats and stories and attention. By being quiet, especially at night, he could stay up longer because they would forget he was there.

  Power. There was power in being able to control how others reacted to you. That reminded Owen of his favorite pastime, the one that he could spend hours and hours doing—placing little tiles in a line and then knocking them down.

  He had seen one of his siblings do this once. Maybe Owen had been a baby and the falling tiles had made him giggle. It was one of his earliest memories. Soon he was the one stacking the tiles, and he learned there was an immense thrill in using one tile to topple many. As he grew older, his stacking became more and more elaborate. The lines became crooked. Sometimes he used other objects as barriers and changed the height of the structures he prepared. Sometimes he’d build towers out of his tiles and trigger them to collapse.

  Nothing made him more intensely furious than when someone knocked down his tiles accidentally—or purposefully. He even raged at himself when he did it. Stacking the tiles, placing them in exactly the formation he envisioned, helped him sort through his troubles.

  Owen made two decisions that night. The first he told to the silver moon. “I will escape from here,” he vowed. No matter what his parents did or did not do, he would not give up until he had found a way to flee the king who filled him with such terror. He did not want to join the ghosts of this castle.

  His second decision was to make his stay at the castle bearable until he figured out a way to escape. For that, he needed a box of tiles.

  Out of all the places he had seen so far, the kitchen was the place he liked the most. It was bright and cheerful. Liona was just the sort of woman he knew would help him. He would ask her for some tiles and for permission to stack them in a corner of the kitchen.

  He was so excited to begin that he waited restlessly until the moon faded from the windowpane and the sky began to brighten. Cooks were in the kitchen early. If Owen was to have breakfast with the king, he wanted to at least have something to look forward to after.

  Still wearing the rumpled clothes in which he’d traveled, Owen made it back to the kitchen on his own, stealing away soundlessly between shadows. He found the way quite easily, his nose drawing him there as much as his memory of the way. It was still early, and the only two people in the kitchen were Liona and a man he assumed was her husband.

  “Look at you, here before the cock crows,” Liona said cheerfully. “The Fountain bless you, lad. Are you hungry already?”

  Owen looked at the man, suddenly overwhelmed by nervousness. Strangers always did that to him. He was furious at himself when his tongue refused to unknot enough for him to speak. The man had reddish hair and a beard with flecks of gray in it. He wore leathers stained in tree sap, and a gleaming woodsman’s axe hung from a hoop in his belt.

  Liona noticed his hesitation and patted the man’s shoulder. “Drew, this is Owen. I told you of him.”

  The woodsman turned to look at Owen with a shy smile and a twinkle in his eye. He nodded and then crouched down on the tiled floor. “You are the duke’s son,” he said in a cheery, soft-spoken manner. “I can see the blood is true. You look like your brothers. My name is Andrew, but folk just call me Drew. Good morning, Owen.”

  Owen wanted to return the greeting. The man was friendly and easygoing. But Owen still could not bring himself to speak.

  “Tend to the fire, Drew,” Liona said, briskly warming her hands. “Owen, you will be supping with the king this morning, so I best not ruin your appetite, but no one walks out of my kitchen hungry. There is bread from yesterday.”

  Owen grinned at her, grateful to have found this ally.

  He quietly retreated to a bench to watch her fix him a little plate as Drew coaxed the ashes back to life. Owen had seen men do this before and it fascinated him how a heap of gray ashes, if blown on consistently, could catch fire anew. He stared at Drew as he puffed away, and was thrilled when the crackling sound of the reviving fire met his ears. He wanted to learn how to do that. He thought he could, but he would come back the next day and keep watching to be sure. Then he would try it himself.

  Liona tousled his hair after giving him the plate. He ate hungrily, watching as servants began to arrive to prepare the morning meal.

  “Liona?” he asked in a small voice. Too small. She had not heard him.

  “The lad is calling you,” Drew said gently, rising from the ovens.

  Liona had dough on her fingers when she approached him. “What is it?”

  Owen licked his lips, grateful that Drew had noticed his need. Though he was still nearly tongue-tied with shyness, he was determined to get his tiles.

  “Is there . . . is there a box of tiles?” he asked, looking into her eyes imploringly. “That I could play with?”

  She looked at him confused. “Tiles?”

  “Like these,” he said, tapping his shoe against the floor. “Small ones . . . like these. I like to play with them.”

  Drew gave him a strange look, then said, “I believe there is.” Liona needed to deliver instructions to the kitchen help, so she asked her husband to fetch them. Shortly thereafter, he returned with a wooden box that held a substantial number of tiles
. Some were chipped and damaged, and there were many different sizes and colors. Owen’s eyes widened with delight when Drew handed him the box.

  “I’m on my way to the woods,” he said in his kind voice. “Maybe you’d care to join me later and I can show you the grounds?”

  Owen looked up at him and nodded vigorously. Still his tongue would not loosen. He wanted to thank Drew for the tiles, but a familiar choking feeling had stolen his ability to speak. He gazed down at the box in his lap, trying to force the words to come. The best he could do was to bob his head up and down once.

  Drew smiled at him and walked away. Owen clenched his fists for a moment, angry at himself for not speaking. But the wonderful box on his lap was too enticing for him to continue his fit. He abandoned what remained of his plate of food and took the box over to a corner of the kitchen where no one was bustling. He quickly sorted the tiles by size and shape and color and then began placing them in a row.

  As soon as the first one went into position, his mind took off as if it were an arrow launched from a bow. The process of taking out the pieces and putting them down was so familiar it was automatic, and he was almost blind to the pattern he was making on the floor. In his mind, he sorted through the details of what he had learned since leaving his family. The different people he had met began to come together in his mind, and as they did, he realized he had feelings about each one. The king, he feared. Duke Horwath, he respected. Ratcliffe, he despised. Princess Elyse, he adored. Liona and Drew would be like his new parents. Berwick was annoying.

  Owen had heard a great many things spoken and some of them he did not understand. What he did understand was that the king would kill him if his parents did not prove they were loyal. Every day he stayed in Kingfountain would only increase the danger. If he made it to the sanctuary of Our Lady, the king’s sister-in-law might be able to protect him. She was Princess Elyse’s mother and had been queen up until two years ago when King Severn had stolen the throne from his brother’s heirs. The princes were dead. Owen risked sharing their fate. The solution seemed obvious: He needed to find a way to escape the palace and make it to Our Lady without being caught by the king’s men. But how could he arrange that? What would he need to do? He needed to know the grounds. Drew knew the grounds. Drew had even offered to take him for a walk.