by Jeff Wheeler
Owen set the last tile on the floor. He was sitting amidst a twisting spiral of tiles, which started at his knees and wound farther and farther around him, loop after loop. How many tiles had he placed? A hundred? He did not remember.
Owen noticed that the kitchen was unusually quiet. He looked over his shoulder and saw Liona and the others staring at him, mesmerized by what he had done. He gave Liona a small smile and then tipped over the tile nearest his knee.
The cook startled as the tiles fell, clinking softly and rapidly as they raced around the circles. It only took a few moments for the last one to fall.
“Well,” Liona said with surprise. “I’ll be blessed. That is the most curious thing I’ve seen a lad do.”
Owen flushed at the praise, feeling the pressure of the gazes of the kitchen helpers. And just at that moment, a frantic young woman came rushing into the kitchen, her long dark hair trailing as she ran.
“Has anyone seen a little boy? The duke’s son? He’s missing. Has anyone . . . ?” She was gasping, almost out of breath, but she heaved a sigh of relief as a few fingers pointed his way. She was Monah Stirling, his young governess he had met the previous evening. “There you are! Owen! The king’s breakfast! Hasten!”
The words seemed to remind everyone of their duties. Liona started to call out orders and the servants hurried pell-mell around the kitchen.
Owen had quickly started to gather the tiles into the box, but Monah seized his hand and tugged him away before he could finish, leading him back to his room in the tower.
“There is no time! You must be dressed and ready. Come with me! Lord Ratcliffe is furious!”
There is a great fear of poisoners in any kingdom, but especially in this one. Think what it must do to the constitution of a man to live in constant fear that his next sip or mouthful of food may be the very last. The king’s brother died suddenly, to the surprise of all. Granted, I was told his revels of feasting were quite out of control and his consumption of food and drink gluttonous. I would have enjoyed serving him immensely! But the very suddenness of his death does incline one to suspect the use of poison. The question is—who would poison a king?
—Dominic Mancini, Espion of Our Lady of Kingfountain
CHAPTER SIX
Dickon Ratcliffe
Monah Stirling was not gentle as she helped Owen change into a new suit of clothes. She licked a napkin and roughly scrubbed a smear from his cheek, then stepped back to examine him. “There is no time for a bath, but you will get one later today. What were you doing in the kitchen?”
He stared at her without speaking. His stomach was suddenly upset at the thought of meeting Ratcliffe again . . . and the king. He did not want to breakfast with the king.
Monah mussed her fingers through his thatch of mouse-brown hair and frowned. “Your hair is absolutely wild. What is this pale spot?” She tried to examine the tuft of white hair, but he shrugged away from her.
“None of that, you little brat,” she scolded. Then, snatching his hand, she dragged him down the corridor from his room and back toward the great hall. The castle was teeming with servants now, men and women holding pitchers, vases filled with fresh-cut flowers, rolled rush-matting carpets, urns, and silver dishes. The torches along the corridor hissed at Owen as they passed them, casting long and pointed shadows on the floor.
When they reached the great hall, Ratcliffe was pacing, his face furrowed into a sharp frown of disapproval, but he looked relieved as soon as he caught sight of Owen.
“There he is!” Ratcliffe said with exasperated relief. “Thought you had snuck out of the castle, lad.” His tugged at his fancy collar. “I rather prefer a swim at the baths or the beach, not down a waterfall.”
But I do plan to sneak out of the castle, Owen thought firmly, gazing up at the tall man as he continued to pace. Owen looked over the trestle tables that had been set up in the hall. They were loaded with trays of food. Loaves of golden, sweet-smelling bread, tray after tray of smoked salmon, and a variety of pungent cheeses. A tangled skein of grapes was nestled in a silver dish.
Owen noticed that there were no chairs around and also that he was not the only “guest.” Most were young folk, many were children, and all were part of the king’s court. Were they hostages like he was? He didn’t know any of them and wasn’t sure what to expect. Servants were busying themselves all around him.
“He was in the kitchen,” Monah explained wearily. “I found him.”
“See you do not lose him again!” Ratcliffe scolded. He rubbed his hands together, searching the faces of those assembled. He gave Owen a pointed look. “Be you on time,” he said with an angry frown. “The king is a busy man and must not be kept waiting for fools. Are you a fool, little lord Kiskaddon? Hmmm?”
Owen shook his head but did not speak.
“See that you are not. Ah, the king!”
Owen’s stomach wrenched with fear and he felt a little dizzy. In a moment, one of the side doors opened and the king entered, arm in arm with Princess Elyse, clearly in the midst of a conversation.
“No, it would not be proper,” the king said in a disapproving tone. “You are a princess of the realm. He is only the son of a duke. You are cousins, in some degree, but I will not have you looking after my hostages.”
The king’s gaze swept across the young people assembled in the room, not coming to a rest until it reached Owen.
“The lost has been found then?” he asked with a twist to his lip.
Ratcliffe looked shaken. “My lord,” he said with a shaky voice, “he was . . . he was . . . where was he, Lady Stirling?”
“Playing in the kitchen,” Monah said anxiously, blushing fiercely and curtsying.
The king patted Elyse’s arm. “You see? The boy is hale. You worried in vain.” Then he turned his gaze on Owen, his eyes smoldering with anger. “You gave my niece concern, lad. She fretted for you.”
“Uncle, it is no matter,” the girl said, touching the bent arm hooked with hers like a shepherd’s staff. “I was only offering to help look after him. It would not be a burden, truly.”
The king kept his gaze on Owen. Fear bloomed in the boy’s stomach and traveled down through his legs, which felt weak. “You are no nursemaid, Elyse,” he said softly.
“What am I then?” she asked him meaningfully. “I am not a princess either. I am a bit of fluff, blown about by the wind. Your guests are hungry, my lord.” She gave him a subtle nudge.
The king bowed graciously to her and then gestured that they had his permission to start eating. Owen slowly approached one of the trestle tables, his eyes never leaving the king and the princess. He was curious what would happen, and since Liona had given him something to eat already, he wasn’t hungry. As the young people began chatting amongst themselves, some taking slices of bread or a bit of cheese from the table, they ate nervously, anxiously. Some barely finished more than a bite or two.
What Owen noticed next surprised him. The king roamed among the guests, watching their faces as they plucked from the tables of food. He watched them chew their food, occasionally reaching out to take something from a tray that had already been touched. The king was watching the others eat before eating himself. Was that normal for a king? Surely it was his right to save all the best food for himself.
Owen’s mind seemed to roll over like a wagon wheel. He did not understand the king at all.
After a few moments, the king poured himself a cup from a pitcher of watery wine. He walked slowly through the gathering, observing his guests with cunning eyes, as if enjoying a private joke.
The king noticed Owen was staring at him and began edging his way toward him. Instinctively, Owen began to retreat, trying to keep space between them. Their eyes locked. The king’s eyes were gray with flecks of blue. His cheeks still glistened from his morning shave, and his long black hair was tidy and smooth and fell about his shoulders. He had a sharp nose, angled cheeks, and looked bemused.
Owen stepped around the trestle ta
ble, keeping it between them. His heartbeat thundered in his ears. The king was not wearing the velvet cap he’d had on the previous day, a small detail and Owen didn’t know why it stood out to him.
Severn continued his approach, almost slithering like a serpent, his fine, gleaming golden chain winking in the torchlight.
Ratcliffe approached the king’s shoulder and coughed into his fist. “My lord, a word with you?”
“What is it?” the king asked gruffly, not taking his eyes off Owen.
“How did you know the boy was missing? Did one of the Espion tell you? It was not something you needed to worry about, my lord.”
The king broke Owen’s gaze to look scornfully at Ratcliffe. “Should I have been worried about it? The castle is a maze of corridors and towers. It’s no surprise the boy was lost. What surprised me was that he wasn’t better watched after.”
Ratcliffe flushed with anger. “You would prefer for him to sleep in my chambers so that I might gaze upon him every moment of the day?”
“No, Dickon. I want you to keep your eye on the lad like I asked. I’m trusting you in this. Do not disappoint me.”
Ratcliffe frowned, nodded once, and walked away.
The king turned back to Owen, their gazes meeting once more. Owen found he could not look away. The king limped slightly as he approached the table and rested his hand on the tablecloth. “You haven’t eaten.”
Owen shook his head slowly, unable to loosen his tongue. He quaked with dread.
The king took a heel of bread and pushed it toward him. He nodded slowly to the boy and then turned to face someone else—a young man, probably twelve years old, who was talking with a hunk of bread in his mouth.
The king’s tone was sharp as he addressed the lad. “Eat it, Dunsdworth. Don’t choke on it.”
The boy went crimson with mortification. He tried to chew faster so he could clear his mouth to reply, and the exaggerated motion caused a few titters from bystanders. The king gave the young man a vicious look. Then he turned his gaze on a girl of about ten. “Good morrow, Lady Kate. Your eyes are puffy. Were you weeping already?”
“No, my lord,” the girl stammered fearfully. “My eyes were itchy, ’tis all.”
“Itchy,” the king replied with a chuckle. “It’s probably the smoke. This is a smoky hall,” he said, his eyes roaming the rafters. “Some fresh air will do you well. Try not to wheeze.”
Owen watched as the king prowled around the hall, choosing victim after victim. Age did not spare anyone from his barbed wit. His words were feints and thrusts, always sharp and always ready to draw blood. This was what Owen had to look forward to every day. To be wheedled and teased by a sarcastic king who used children as his royal food tasters.
He felt a soft hand on his shoulder. Turning his head, he saw Princess Elyse standing just beside him. As soon as he noticed her, she dropped her hand and chose a cube of cheese and plopped it into her mouth.
“So you went to the kitchen this morning?” she whispered, giving him a private glance. Though she stood next to him, her body was angled to face the table as if she were only there for the food.
Owen nodded, mesmerized by her presence. It was not just the beauty of her golden hair and hazel eyes. She had a peace about her, a gentleness that seemed totally devoid of any pretense. It was a look that invited Owen’s trust.
“You will be safe there,” she whispered. “Liona is loyal to my mother. I asked the king if I could be your guardian, but he refused. He thinks it’s beneath my dignity.” She frowned slightly. “I had two little brothers . . . you see,” she said, her voice suddenly thick. “You remind me of one of them. He would have been twelve.” Her fingers gently mussed his hair. “I will see you when I can, Owen. But it will not be often. Have courage.” Then she stepped away from him to talk to a set of younger girls, admiring their dresses and their hair.
Owen felt a knot of pain in his heart. He wanted to escape. He needed to find a way out.
But first he would need to know the grounds.
The palace of Kingfountain was built on a wooded hill alongside the mighty river and near the impressive waterfall. From the outside, it seemed massive—all thick walls and pointed turrets—but Owen quickly realized that it was hollow in the middle. The walls were steep and tall and enclosed an interior garden area with trees and walkways and interesting paths. One could walk around the main corridor of the castle in a giant loop, which made it seem like a never-ending fortress. But once Owen had walked it a few times with Monah Stirling, he began to learn the tricks of the place. It was after a walk with Drew that he learned about the exterior grounds. Because it was built on a hill, there was also a lower level, another series of walls and bulwarks to defend from invaders, and even lower down, a third portion that interlocked with the second set of walls. From one of the tower windows, he could see the different layers, all the way down to the horse masters breaking new stallions in the stables far below. There were yards with the royal coaches. There were towers everywhere, including the knifelike one that had caught his eye the first day.
It would take weeks for Owen to visit every hall, explore every staircase, and gaze at every tapestry. But he had an eye for details, and he quickly made little checkpoints for himself—like the suit of armor holding a poleax that led to a gallery of paintings. Or the iron-railed fountain that led to the sanctuary within the palace where he could hear the sound of lapping waters.
Monah was not used to the exercise of being dragged around the palace, and when he finally returned to the kitchen later to rest and find something sweet to eat, she plopped down on a stool and started complaining to the helpers about how Owen had dragged her tirelessly six times around the castle.
He looked for his box of tiles, but could not find them anywhere. Divining his intent, Liona motioned to a worn leather satchel with a single strap and buckles.
“The tiles are over there,” she said kindly. “Drew brought it for you to keep the box of tiles safe. He thought you might want to carry it about. Is it too heavy for you?”
Owen went over and hefted the strap. The satchel was heavy, but he was determined. He grinned at her and shook his head.
“Everyone keeps talking about you and your little tiles and asking where they are. I keep saying, ‘Over there, in Owen’s Satchel.’”
And that was how the boy from Tatton Hall earned his nickname—Owen Satchel.
The next morning, when he came to the kitchen to play with his tiles, he found the box next to the open satchel. Liona had not yet arrived and he was alone. Some of the tiles were littering the floor next to the box. Upon closer inspection, he realized they had been arranged to form little blocky letters.
O-W-E-N.
It was probably Drew. A little message from a friend. He smiled and then put it out of his mind as he began to build.
King Eredur, of blessed memory, experienced all the vicissitudes of kingship. He won the crown. He lost the crown. He won it back. The story is worthy of the epics of any age. Few have studied his reign as closely as I have, and I know that Eredur would not have regained his crown if not for his brother. Not Severn, who was always loyal, but the treacherous Earl of Dunsdworth, the brother who betrayed him and then repented. The truce following Eredur’s victory was uneasy. After all, Dunsdworth’s claim to the crown was what had made him defect in the first place. There is much secrecy and suspicion about how the earl met his fate. Some say he was poisoned. Some say he was drowned in a keg of wine. No one knows the truth. What we do know is this—he was declared a traitor. His titles and lands were forfeit, but they have been promised to his son when he comes of age. I am certain Eredur had his brother put to death in some fashion or other, for I saw the corpse. And his only son, the new lord Dunsdworth, is very much turning into the man his father was. He is a spiteful little braggart and I detest him. The lad is only twelve, and the castle staff live in terror of him.
—Dominic Mancini, Espion of Our Lady of Kingfountain
&nb
sp; CHAPTER SEVEN
Dunsdworth’s Heir
In the two weeks that Owen had lived in the palace, his days had come to follow a routine. He would rise early in the morning and rush to the kitchen with his satchel to begin laying down tiles in intricate new arrangements. Sometimes, there would already be a design waiting for him—a few tiles arranged into a tower or a wall—but he never got there early enough to catch Drew doing it.
Each morning a meal would be shared with the king and the other children of the realm, full of sarcastic barbs and jests as the king wandered amongst his guests, looking for provocation for a taunt. Then Owen would wander the castle and the grounds with Monah Stirling, who would complain incessantly until he found a tree or wall he wanted to climb, giving her the opportunity to rest. In the afternoon, he would sit in the royal library for hours, devouring the books Monah gave him to read so she could gossip with her friends. Once she mentioned a baker from Pisan who was discovered to be Fountain-blessed. When he baked bread, the loaves seemed to magically multiply. The King of Pisan had learned about him and had the baker seized to serve in the palace kitchen. They spent a long time talking about the rare individuals whom the Fountain had gifted with extraordinary magic.
