by Jeff Wheeler
Mancini chuckled. “I thought you were behind his escape?”
Owen was surprised when she shook her head no.
“Not directly. I just helped him unlock the door. And because of you, the king has Our Lady under constant guard. Deconeus Tunmore has merely shifted his prison from one cell to another. He won’t last long in there. He needs freedom. Are you ready for your next assignment, Dominic? Or will you quit now?”
He squinted, looking puzzled. “I think I am done,” he said ominously. “If you are pushing Tunmore to lead the Espion, then our interests no longer align.”
“The king will not trust Deconeus Tunmore,” Ankarette said. “Have no doubt of that. We need to get that book.”
Mancini shook his head. “Impossible.”
She knelt down by Owen’s side and rubbed his shoulder. She glanced over at Mancini. “You can never fully earn the king’s trust, Mancini. There are too many barriers. But someday Owen will lead the Espion. And he will need you, and you will need him. Your fates are entwined together. You must help the boy when I am gone.”
Mancini looked shocked, his mouth hanging open. “But I thought . . . we agreed . . . that I would lead the Espion!”
“And you will!” she said smiling. “Through Owen. The king is sending you with him. Don’t you see? It gives you permission to be near him, to advise him. To help him gain the information he needs to survive. I’ve wrapped your fates together in silk threads. You need each other to be successful. I won’t be able to come with you.”
Owen started in surprise. “You’re not coming?”
“I can’t, Owen,” she said. “I’m very sick. It is difficult even coming down the steps into the kitchen. Mancini is going. He will help you, and you must help him.”
Owen blinked back tears. “I don’t want him to help me.”
“You should have mentioned that down in the cistern, boy,” Mancini said sharply.
“He already has,” Ankarette said. “Owen, he saved your life. He was the one who rushed down to save you. He was there for you. He pulled you and Elysabeth Victoria Mortimer from danger.”
Mancini came closer, looming over them both. “I don’t want to be saddled with this brat!” he chuffed.
She looked up at him. “He will not always be this small, Dominic.” She stroked Owen’s hair again. “Do you remember the last time the Fountain touched someone so young?”
Mancini snorted. “That Maid of Donremy was a trick of the King of Occitania!”
“No, Dominic,” Ankarette said. “She was Fountain-blessed. She was just a little girl, but she led the army that overthrew Ceredigion’s influence in Occitania. There are many who remember her. Duke Horwath remembers her. Her legend will last for centuries to come. Owen . . . our Owen will be like that. Remember the Battle of Azinkeep? The King of Ceredigion defeated twenty thousand and only lost eighty of his own men. He became the ruler of Occitania when he married the princess and her father died. He was Fountain-blessed.”
Mancini shook his head. “But we’ve only been pretending the boy is! You expect me to keep up the ruse forever? To continue to deceive the king into thinking the boy is something he’s not? I couldn’t possibly . . . !”
Ankarette closed her eyes, breathing softly, as if she were in great pain. “You must, Dominic. Because I tell you, I tell you truly, the boy is Fountain-blessed!” She opened her eyes, piercing the spy with her gaze. “I know what I speak of. He can hear it. He can sense it. He must learn how to become what he has the potential to be, and for that, he will need help. It really takes one who is Fountain-blessed to teach another. Tunmore trained me. I won’t be alive long enough to teach him that.” She turned to Owen, running her hand along his arm. “That is why the Fountain sent me to you. From the very moment of your birth. Owen, it takes years to learn about your powers. To be able to control them. To fuel them. It takes a rigor of will and self-discipline that most simply do not have. That you can already tap into this, even slightly, is a sign you’re just as special as I’ve always thought you were.” She gazed at the structure he had made out of the tiles, unable to hide a pleased smile. “But for someone like us, the rigor of it is not even work. We enjoy it.”
Owen’s heart was on fire. He grabbed the silk fabric of her dress, the lacings at her front. “You have to come! I . . . I can’t do it without you! Please, Ankarette! Please! I can’t do this!”
She gave him a sympathetic but firm look. Her hand rested on his shoulder. “You must, Owen.”
Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes. “No! I’ve lost Elysabeth Victoria Mortimer. I’ve lost my parents. I can’t lose you too! I need your help! I won’t know what to do if you are not around to tell me what to say!”
“The boy is right,” Mancini said darkly. “I’m a poor substitute for your cleverness. Besides, you have not upheld your end of the bargain. You promised me your story! You promised me the tale.”
She sighed and patted Owen’s shoulder with a trembling hand. “I gave him the story,” she said to Mancini. “If you want to learn it, you must keep him alive.”
Mancini ground his teeth in frustration. “You tricked me.”
“No,” she said. “I always deliver what I promise. In my own way. But you of all people know it is a double pleasure to deceive the deceiver.”
He gasped when she said this and Owen didn’t know why. The look he gave her was full of incredulity . . . and respect. Something she had said had shot straight into his heart, leaving him flummoxed. Ankarette slowly rose.
Mancini was stuttering. “You are the most duplicitous, the most conniving, the most scheming . . . the best spy I have ever met!” He gave her a grudging smile. “You’ve read my journal. Even though it’s written in Genevese ciphers.”
She gave him a slight curtsy and a triumphant smile.
“I’ll be blessed,” he replied with a belly laugh. “Well, lad. I hope Tatton Hall has a decent kitchen and a wine cellar. I’m off to bed.” He chuckled to himself as he staggered to the steps.
When he was gone, Ankarette knelt again, looking Owen directly in the eyes.
“There is something I didn’t tell you,” Owen said nervously. “About the cistern.”
“What is it?” she asked, smoothing the front of his tunic in a motherly way.
“I’ve been there before with Evie. When I jumped into the water, I saw a treasure.” He told her of the treasure he had found—how at first he could not reach it, but then he clung to a chest to keep himself and Evie from being swept away in the flood.
The queen’s poisoner listened carefully to his story, watching his face most intently. There was something about her keen interest that intrigued him. From the look in her eyes, it was as if he were sharing the most interesting story imaginable. She waited patiently until he was done and then she grew serious.
“Was the treasure real, Ankarette?” he asked her at the end of the story, hoping she would say yes.
She reached out and rubbed the sides of his arms, holding him fast. “That you can even see it means many things, Owen. People see many things in the water. Sometimes glimpses of the future. Sometimes of their own death. I don’t know what you saw or why. I don’t know if it’s real or not. But I do believe the Fountain is trying to speak to you. Your powers are blossoming even faster than I expected they would. Your life is about to change.”
He wasn’t sure he was ready for it.
“Please come with me,” he begged her.
She licked her lips, then let out a painful breath. She gazed at the floor for a moment. “I will try,” she whispered, and Owen felt his heart jump with a thrill.
“You will? Oh, Ankarette!” he gushed, throwing his arms around her neck and squeezing her in the biggest hug he had given her yet.
She leaned into the hug, patting his hair. The panic he had felt rising all day began to subside.
A wagon. A wagon—this bloody kingdom for a ride in a wagon!
—Dominic Mancini, Espion of the Ribal
d Horse
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Strawberries
There was a great deal of mirth and amusement in the torch-lit yard as everyone watched Mancini try to mount his enormous horse. Owen wanted to stay and watch, but Duke Horwath had other ideas and the boy could hardly insist otherwise. The final embers of the late-summer heat wave were barely cooling. The night was dark but still muggy and Owen’s jacket and hood were uncomfortable as he got situated behind the duke’s saddle.
The king maneuvered his steed close to Horwath’s.
“Where is Ratcliffe?” Horwath asked gruffly.
The king tugged one of his black gloves on more snugly. “He rode ahead last night with several of the Espion to secure the way.”
“What village are we stopping in tonight? Stony Stratford?”
The king snorted. “I wouldn’t dare. The queen dowager has a manor near there. That was where Bletchley warned me of her treachery two years ago.” His expression soured with the memory. Then he gave Horwath a pointed look. “You must do your duty at the Assizes, my friend. Be ready.”
“Loyalty binds me,” replied the duke, dipping his head in a nod.
Owen wondered what the king had meant by duty, but even thinking about it made him sick with worry for his family. The clash of horseshoes on stone nearly drowned out the rushing noise of the waterfall as the king’s men crossed the bridge to the island of Our Lady. Firelight gleamed in the sanctuary, but the new day was still hours from dawning. As they passed the gigantic sanctuary, Owen saw dozens of soldiers wearing the badge of the white boar, patrolling the closed gates. Many dipped their pikes in salute to the king as he passed. There were no street vendors, no smoked sausages for sale, but Owen could see a few timid faces peeking at the entourage from behind drawn curtains.
Soon the island and the city of Kingfountain were behind them and the world opened up into hills, woods, and roads. When Owen had traveled from Tatton Hall, the scenery had passed him in a blur. It was different now. Many of the men they were with carried the badge of the Duke of Horwath, the lion with the arrow piercing its mouth. And the symbol of the white boar was ever present. These were the king’s soldiers, men who had fought with him at Ambion Hill. There were swords strapped to saddle harnesses. There were armor and shields. The host looked as if it was prepared to make or rebuff an attack.
The pace was brutal and bone-jarring, and Owen kept fading in and out of consciousness as he clung to Evie’s grandfather. At midday, they stopped in a copse of massive yew trees to rest their mounts and eat the provisions collected earlier from one of the many towns along the way.
The trunks of the trees looked like they were made of massive cords wound up together into a huge rope that jutted straight up and sent out spear-like branches. Owen remembered from his reading that yew was the favored wood for making bows. This was what he thought of as he sat under the shadow of the giant tree and nibbled on a mincemeat pie that was cold and too peppery.
Duke Horwath was next to him, silently gnawing on his meal and offering no conversation. He took a large gulp from a leather flask and then offered it to Owen, who accepted it gratefully to ease the burning of his tongue.
Owen kept looking up at the massive trees, for there were many, and the smell was interesting. He liked being outdoors and was a little jealous that Elysabeth Victoria Mortimer’s father had taken her into the mountains of the North so often. Owen’s father had lavished most of his fatherly attention on the older boys, treating Owen as if he were too delicate for hunting.
“How old is this tree?” Owen asked the grizzled duke.
Horwath seemed surprised, not by the question, but that Owen had possessed the courage to ask it.
“Older than Ceredigion,” he said gruffly.
Owen crinkled his nose. “How can that be? How can a tree be older than the land?”
The duke gave him an amused smile and brushed some crumbs from his silver goatee. “Not the land, my boy. The kingdom. The tree is older than the kingdom. The Occitanians came to this land almost five hundred years ago and earned the right to rule by the sword. Less than a hundred years ago, we did the same to them in their realm. Beat them bloody. And then they drove us out again.” He sighed and shook his head.
“The Maid of Donremy,” Owen said softly, earning another curious look from the duke.
He frowned at the words and then nodded. “I was a young lad myself. Your age. I still remember her.”
“How did she die?” Owen asked, though he thought he knew. He had heard her story before Ankarette mentioned her.
The duke looked down at the ground, almost as if he were ashamed. “They couldn’t trust her fate to a waterfall, lad. Some said if she were put in a boat, she would step off it and walk back up the river and away from the falls. No, she met a winter’s death. The only thing that can tame water is cold. It’s the only thing that can make it sit still.” He wiped his bearded mouth again, lost in the distant past. “She was taken to a high mountain and chained there. With only a shift. She lasted a few days, but then she died.”
Owen wasn’t hungry anymore. The thought of perishing on a frozen mountaintop made him shudder.
The sound of boots crunching fallen detritus roused his attention. King Severn had joined them against the huge trunk of the muscled yew tree. The hours in the saddle seemed to have reinvigorated him and he looked less sullen, more at peace.
“Telling the lad stories of the Maid?” the king asked with a wry smile. He unhooked his leather flask from his belt and tilted it high. After finishing his drink, he wiped his mouth on his forearm and gave a satisfied sigh. “You are an old man, Stiev. You lived those days. When a half-mad boy ruled Ceredigion. His uncle, though, he was the one with the power. There is always an uncle in these stories,” he added with self-deprecating humor.
Horwath chuckled softly. “Aye, my lord. Are we truly staying at Tatton Hall?”
“No. I wouldn’t trust the lad’s father so much. We’ll be staying at the royal castle, Beestone. And we will summon Lord Kiskaddon to attend us. And when he comes, well . . .” He paused, giving Owen a smirk. “We shall see, won’t we?”
“You aren’t going to trust the Espion to that Genevese man, are you?” Horwath asked, after a long pause.
“I’ve considered it,” Severn said with a shrug. “Would I had a man as crafty as Tunmore to serve me.” His face began to darken, his jaw tightening with anger. “I’ve been reading his book, you know.” He dangled the water skin from one of his gloved fingers, letting it sway back and forth until it almost clapped against his leg. “This is the title. The Occupation of the Throne of Ceredigion by King Severn.” He frowned as he said the words. Owen watched his face closely. “As I read that screed, I swear I almost started believing it. He tells an eloquent tale and comes across as a philosopher, not a . . . a deconeus. He was writing it to be published, I think. That city where we caught him is a major trading hub. Imagine how far he could have spread his lies.” He tugged his dagger loose in the scabbard and slammed it down. “But what truly makes me furious, Stiev, is how he covered his own part. His own crimes.”
“What do you mean?” Horwath asked.
Severn leaned forward, wincing as if his back were paining him. “I won’t even tell you all he said about me. That I was born feet first, with teeth, and only ever kissed those I meant to kill. That I plotted my nephews’ deaths from the start.” His breath hissed out with frustration. “Never mind the lies. How can you expect otherwise from a man who lives on the graces of others, one who has committed high treason not once, but twice? No, what angers me most is his complete denial of his own complicity. Remember the plot Catsby told us about, how Tunmore conspired with the others to murder me the morning when we met at privy council? How I charged Hastings with high treason and he confessed all in front of the council?” He clenched his fist with his pent-up emotions, bringing it to his mouth in frustration. “You were there, Stiev. Yet in the book, the saintly Deconeus of Ely
says I asked him to fetch strawberries from his garden! His garden!” He looked nearly apoplectic. “I was nigh on being murdered, my son and wife were to be put in the river or worse, and I asked him for strawberries? And he says that when he went to fetch them, I turned on Hastings and murdered him. I never sent Tunmore away for fruit. He was there the whole time! It’s a bald-faced lie, and from a man of the Fountain, no less.” He seemed so uncomfortable that he rocked forward and stood, then began pacing. “And the thing is, Stiev. The fact of the matter is that while reading it, I wanted to believe it.” He grunted with contempt. “I wanted to believe those lies about myself. Is this what men think of me, Stiev? Truly? Not just my enemies, forsooth. But do the common people believe I murdered my nephews? That I conspired and connived for my nephews’ throne? I took it. Yes. But only after the Deconeus of Stillwater told us—us!—that my brother’s marriage to his wife was invalid. That would make all of his children illegitimate. Can I believe that of my brother? Of course I can! He was a rake! He had our brother Dunsdworth killed because he learned of it. By the Fountain, does everyone see me this way? That I would murder my brother’s sons after snatching the throne from them?” His face was a rictus of frustration. He never looked down at Horwath. He wasn’t truly seeking an answer.
“My lord, my hair and beard are quite gray,” Horwath said in a low, coaxing tone. “So I suppose it entitles me to some wisdom about the nature of men. It has been my experience that while it’s easy to persuade most men of some new thing, it is more difficult to fix them in that persuasion. In the end, the truth will out eventually.”
The king folded his arms imperiously and gave the old man a curious look. “The truth will out,” he said, his tone showing he was not fully convinced.
Their attention was diverted with the arrival of a horse, a lathered monster of a beast holding the panting, disheveled, and thoroughly exhausted Dominic Mancini.
“You’ve arrived just in time to leave,” the king snorted contemptuously.
