The Queen's Poisoner (The Kingfountain Series Book 1)
Page 26
“My . . . my . . . lord . . .” the man wheezed, trying to catch his breath. “You keep a . . . hazardous pace. Horseflesh . . . was not intended . . . to work this hard. I implore . . . Your Majesty . . . to slow down.”
“Or do you mean your flesh?” the king said with a chuckle. He clapped Horwath’s shoulder. “Onward, lads. I’ve ridden nearly every corner of this kingdom on my brother’s orders. He said a soldier should always know the ground he travels. Where are the fens and fords. Where are the falls. Over yonder,” he added, pointing, “is an estuary called the Stroud. At the head of that muggy estuary is a little castle called Glosstyr. My brother made me its duke and the constable of that castle on my ninth birthday.” He looked down at Owen, his face scrutinizing the young boy, who was nearing his ninth birthday. “Loyalty bound me. And it still does.”
The king slapped his thighs. “That’s where we will be spending the night.”
Horwath whistled through his teeth. Owen had the sense that it would be a long journey.
The king smirked. “Try to keep up, Master Mancini. Or at the least, try not to kill the horse or yourself getting there.”
I don’t think the princes of the various realms fully appreciate that King Severn Argentine is first and foremost a soldier. Or maybe they do and that’s why they fear him so much. We rode thirty-five leagues in a single day, changing horses three times at various castles. We did not make it to Glosstyr until well after midnight, but the king’s energy only improved as the day waned. I am nearly fainting with fatigue. If I were to guess, the king intends to swoop down on Westmarch unexpectedly, for we are traveling faster than pigeons can fly. Even if Ankarette left before us, I don’t see how she can reach Tatton Hall first.
—Dominic Mancini, Espion of the Piebald Nag
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Beestone
The royal palace in Westmarch had been dubbed Beestone Castle, although it was not clear why. The reason for the location was much more apparent, for it had been built on Castle Hill overlooking the city of Knotsbury and its surrounding valleys and farms. It was an impressive castle, a royal castle, with squat round towers on each side of the main gate and drawbridge, and the entire hill was enclosed by thick, sturdy walls. Sharp, stony cliffs surrounded the circumference of the hill, making the castle impregnable to attack and able to withstand sieges. It was not opulent, but it was safe and secure. Right now the main bailey was teeming with horses and soldiers bearing the colors and badges of the white boar. Archers strolled the ramparts, and Owen spied the king’s flag fluttering from pennants overhanging the walls.
Amidst such confusion, no one took much notice of the small little boy sneaking around and exploring the castle from one end to the other. It was much smaller than Kingfountain, he soon realized, and the wind here was sharp and cool. The view from the bulwarks was impressive, but Tatton Hall was too far away to see.
Owen felt uneasy and wondered how Ankarette was going to find him. The royal retinue would not be arriving with the baggage carts from Kingfountain for several more days. As a result, there were mostly soldiers around the grounds. A woman would surely stand out among them, but Owen was confident that she would find a way.
While he was wandering the battlement walls, a squire bearing the badge of Duke Horwath found him and took him to the royal apartments where the king was meeting with the duke. There were knights and servants coming in and out of the sitting room, heralds waiting to bring messages. Owen looked at all the tall men and felt out of place as the only child among them. He missed Evie and wished she were here to explore the castle with him. He missed his tiles too, and the serenity they gave him. While the adults were talking, Owen found a Wizr set by the table near the king’s luggage and began playing with it and admiring the pieces.
Then he noticed the black book on top of a chest. It felt like his stomach was suddenly full of worms, all wriggling and twisting. The book seemed to call to him, whispering to him to open it. He glanced over at Duke Horwath and the king, but the king was doing most of the talking and his back was to Owen. The king’s hand tugged on his dagger hilt in his habitual nervous gesture. He looked tall and strong, and while one of his shoulders was slightly higher than the other, his posture and gestures seemed to hide the fact.
Owen glanced back at the book. He had a craving to start reading it. If he stole it, he knew it would be missed. But what if he could learn something about his family in it, something that could help them?
He knew what Elysabeth Victoria Mortimer would do. He reached into his pocket and rubbed his thumb on the braid she had cut off and given him. Then, steeling himself, he inched his way over to the bed, as if he were merely curious. His fingers shook a little as he reached out and touched the book’s binding.
He glanced back one more time, and when he saw everyone else was still thoroughly engrossed in conversation, he carefully opened the book and started reading.
The Occupation of the Throne of Ceredigion by King Severn (unfinished), written by Master John Tunmore.
King Eredur, of that name the Fourth, after he had lived fifty and three years, seven months, and six days, and thereof reigned two and twenty years, one month, and eight days, died at Kingfountain the ninth day of Averil, leaving much fair issue . . .
—He was poisoned—
Owen started when he heard the whisper in his mind. A tremulous feeling began to unfurl inside him. As soon as he had started to read the little black book, a gentle murmuring sound began to fill his ears, so subtle he had not noticed it swelling. Then the thought struck him with the force of a blow. King Eredur had been poisoned.
Owen blinked, feeling giddy and worried at the same time. He kept reading.
That is, to wit: Eredur the Crown Prince, a lad thirteen years of age; Eyric Duke of Yuork, age ten. Elysabeth, the eldest, fairest princess of the realm, whose fortune and grace are those of a queen. Selia, not so fortunate as fair. Bridget the virtuous. This noble prince of great fame, Eredur, deceased at his palace of Kingfountain, and, with great funeral honor and heaviness of his people, was put in a royal barge and commended to the river in the hopes that he would become the Dreadful Deadman prophecy fulfilled, and return from the watery grave. His body was taken by the Fountain, not seen hence.
—Eredur was not the Dreadful Deadman—
Owen started again when the voice whispered to him. His stomach clenched and twisted, his heart feeling like the burning coals in the brazier nearby. Owen was so wrapped up in reading, he could hear nothing else in the room. His eyes were fixed on the page.
He read next about how Eredur had taken the throne and the wars that had happened along the way. Much of this history he had learned from Ankarette.
Many nobles of the realm at Wakefield were slain, leaving three sons—Eredur, Dunsdworth, and Severn. All three, as they were great princes of birth, were great and stately, greedy and ambitious of authority, and impatient of partners. Eredur, revenging his father’s death, attained the crown. Lord Dunsdworth was a goodly, noble prince and at all points fortunate, if his own ambition had not set him against his brother and the envy of his enemies had not set his brother against him. For were it by the queen and the lords of her blood, the king was persuaded to hate his own brother or the proud appetite of the duke himself, intending to be king, Lord Dunsdworth was charged with heinous treason, and finally, attainted was he and judged to the death. Not thrown in the river, but drowned in a keg of wine. Whose death King Eredur, when he knew it was done, piteously bewailed and sorrowfully repented.
—Dunsdworth was poisoned by Ankarette Tryneowy. His craving of power and wealth made him go mad chasing the treasure in the cistern waters. Dunsdworth was not the Dreadful Deadman—
If the walls of the palace crumbled around him, Owen would not have noticed. He was so engrossed in the book he could not pull his eyes away. He read on.
Severn, the third son, of whom we now entreat, was in intellect and courage equal with either of his brothers, i
n body and prowess far beneath them both: little of stature, ill-featured of limbs, crook-backed—his left shoulder much higher than his right—hard-favored of visage, and warlike in his demeanor. He was malicious, wrathful, envious, and, from afore his birth, ever perverse. It is for truth reported that the duchess his mother had so much ado in her travail that she could not be delivered of him uncut, and, as the fame runneth, also not untoothed. Able captain was he in war, for which his disposition was much better met than for peace. He was close and secret, a deep dissembler, lowly of countenance, arrogant of heart; outwardly companionable where he inwardly hated, not refraining to kiss those whom he thought to kill; dispiteous and cruel, not for evil, but often for ambition. He slew with his own hand—
The book was suddenly snatched out of Owen’s hands and Ratcliffe waggled it over his head. “Do you see what the lad is reading, my lord? Look at him, he was transfixed!” He then whapped the side of Owen’s head with the book and gave him a shove.
Duke Horwath stepped forward, putting himself between Owen and Ratcliffe.
“He was reading it, you say?” the king asked, suddenly interested and concerned.
“Did you not see him?” Ratcliffe said sharply.
“I saw him,” came another voice, much younger. Owen glared at Dunsdworth, who had appeared in the doorway and was giving him a malicious smile. In Owen’s mind, he saw a man inside a bucket, clawing at the bottom as if trying to reach a treasure he could not grab. The vision was enough to make him shudder.
But the king stepped forward, blocking his view of Dunsdworth. “You were reading my book?”
Owen had been caught. There was no denying it. His tongue felt like it was sticking to the roof of his mouth. Fear made him want to cower, but he reached inside his pocket and gripped the braid of Elysabeth’s hair.
“I wanted to play Wizr,” Owen said, his mouth finally able to move. “But everyone was talking, so I started playing with the pieces. Then I saw the book.”
“Did you understand it?” the king asked incredulously.
Owen nodded.
“There are hard words in there, lad. It’s not a child’s book. Did you truly understand its meaning?”
Owen stared at the king, whose eyes were now boring into his. “I . . . like books,” he said sheepishly.
The king snatched the book from Ratcliffe’s hand and then thumbed through it. “I like books under normal circumstances. But this book . . . there are falsehoods written in it. Falsehoods about me.”
“I know,” Owen said, nodding.
The king’s brow wrinkled. “What do you mean you know?”
Owen blinked, feeling more and more confused. How did he know? How could he describe the voice he’d heard while reading it?
“I . . . I felt it. As I read,” Owen said simply. “I felt the parts that weren’t true.”
The king’s eyes narrowed. “We will speak of this later,” he murmured, then stuffed the book into his belt. “Dunsdworth! Play Wizr with the lad.”
The older boy scowled fiercely at the command, and Owen groaned inwardly as he walked to the Wizr board. Dunsdworth sulked as he took up the white pieces and set them up, incorrectly. It hurt to watch him, but Owen gritted his teeth, knowing Dunsdworth wouldn’t care the pieces were in the wrong positions.
“What news from Tatton Hall?” the king demanded of Ratcliffe in an undertone. Owen had clearly not heard the spymaster or Dunsdworth enter the room earlier, for he had been too caught up in reading the book. As Owen silently began moving pieces, he kept his eyes on the game board while his ears listened keenly to the king’s conversation.
“I hate this game,” Dunsdworth seethed.
I hate you, Owen almost said, but managed to bite his tongue in time.
“As you requested, my lord, I delivered your summons to Duke Kiskaddon at Beestone Castle. As you can imagine, he wanted to know the nature of the summons. I explained that you were holding the Assizes. He then had the temerity to ask whether he would be participating in the Assizes as a justice.” Ratcliffe chuckled.
“And what did you tell him?” the king asked with amusement.
“I said, of course, that Duke Horwath was the chief justice and he would learn more when he obeyed the summons.”
“Do you think he will come, Dickon?” the king asked softly.
“If he doesn’t, he’s guilty of treason. If he does, he’ll be found guilty of treason. Either way, we have him.”
“There are three estuaries with ports in Westmarch,” the king said. “Mold and Runcin in the South and Blackpool in the North. No one sails from any of those ports without my approval. And the King of Occitania would not want his territory to help Kiskaddon.”
“The only place he can go is sanctuary. And you can be sure, we have Espion watching all of them and watching the estate. He won’t be able to use the privy without us knowing.”
There was a smile in the king’s voice. “Thank you, Dickon. You’ve done well. It’s time for the lad to see his parents again. You told them I brought the boy with me?”
“Indeed, my lord. They know the price for open treason.”
“He was guilty of that at Ambion Hill. Stiev, how long would it take for him to summon his retainers and an army from the borderlands?”
Duke Horwath’s voice was gruff. “Do you think he will, my lord?”
“Beestone has a thousand men, and more have been arriving all day. A thousand more will join us from the North. How many can Kiskaddon summon, and how quickly?”
“Only a few hundred men by tomorrow. Maybe half of that. It would take him a fortnight to collect the rest of those who owe him service, and I doubt they would join him against you now that you are already established here. You didn’t give him enough time to react.”
The king chuckled. “That was my intent. The wolf is at the door. The sheep are bleating. What will you do next, Kiskaddon? It’s your move.”
Owen made his final move, having defeated Dunsdworth in five turns. His stomach was twisting into knots. Dunsdworth grunted with disgust at the loss and swore under his breath.
When Owen made it to his bedchamber after the evening meal, his thoughts whirling with both what he had read and what he had overheard, he realized that his parents had failed their test of loyalty and his own life hung in the balance.
He stopped in surprise.
On the floor in his room was the satchel he had left behind at Kingfountain. Tiles on the floor spelled his name: O-W-E-N.
My master taught me certain maxims. A prince ought to inspire fear in such a way that if he does not win love, he avoids hatred. He can avoid the hatred of his people as long as he abstains from the property of his subjects and from their women. But when it becomes necessary for him to proceed against the life of someone, especially one of the nobles who hold so much power, he must do it with proper justification. But above all things, he must keep his hands off the property of others, because men will more quickly forget the death of their father than the loss of their patrimony. History teaches this plainly, and many a king has lost his crown after stealing what belonged to another man. It’s ironic that even though it causes more trouble to take away land than to kill, it’s more difficult to find justification to take someone’s life. That’s why it’s best to strike your enemy down after he’s given you the opportunity to do so. The Assizes of Westmarch are just such a pretext.
—Dominic Mancini, Exhausted Espion of Beestone Castle
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Well of Tears
It was after nightfall, but there were enough torches to illuminate the castle bailey as if it were day. There was no end to the clattering of wagons as arrivals from the king’s court continued to ascend to Beestone Castle throughout the night. Soldiers wearing the badge of the white boar were everywhere, but Owen made his way through the bailey yard anyway, careful to keep away from adults who might send him to bed. After seeing his name spelled with tiles, he had been searching for Ankarette.
The sound of boots coming up behind him warned him that he was no longer alone, and he scuttled back from the edge as Mancini approached, holding a gleaming florin in his hand.
“Ready to make another wish?” the fat man asked with a grin. He offered the coin to the boy, putting Owen in mind of their meeting long ago at Our Lady.
The boy shook his head.
Mancini pursed his lips and nodded knowingly. “I agree. It’s a waste of a good coin. I mean, look at this piece. I could buy several muffins with it and gain an hour’s satisfaction. Or I can plop it down a well shaft and never gain a single thing from it. If wishes were horses, beggars would ride, eh?” Mancini sat on the edge of the well, next to Owen, folding his meaty arms over his chest. He clucked his tongue softly. “Frankly, lad, I don’t see how she can pull this one off. The guards at the gate are letting only Espion pass back out. The baggage continues to arrive, but naught are leaving. Word amongst us is your lord father has ridden down from Tatton Hall with an escort of a hundred men. He’s camped about a league away from the city. Doesn’t look good for him.”
Owen’s twisting nerves grew worse. “I trust her,” he whispered softly.
“Trust is a pretty dish, lad. But this is the king’s trust we are talking about. If I were in Severn’s place, I’d use the Assizes to my advantage to destroy a threat known to me. A dish may be a pretty thing, but it’s easily broken. Even if you fit the pieces back together, it won’t hold a meal. Your father broke the king’s trust at Ambion Hill. Your brother already paid for that with his life. Bets are being waged among the Espion that your father will go into the river tomorrow.” He clapped Owen on the back. “I hate to bear bad news, but I just don’t see how Ankarette can change his mind.”