The Queen's Poisoner (The Kingfountain Series Book 1) (16 page)

Owen adjusted his grip on the tray. His understanding of the king was beginning to shift. He realized that he, like many, might be looking at him in a way that was not entirely true.

“But why does he . . . why does he . . . I don’t know how to say this. Why does he
act
as if he did kill them?”

Ankarette’s gaze met his. “There is something corrupting about wearing a crown,” she answered quietly. “It changes you. I saw it happen to Eredur too. When enough people believe something of you, it can distort your view of yourself. We mimic the judgments of others. It would take a very strong person indeed to resist the effects of so much ill will. So much aversion. I don’t think King Severn is all that strong. His older brother was stronger, and yet
he
still succumbed to it. Severn is becoming what everyone already believes him to be. When he was younger, he never limped or stooped, despite being born with a crooked back. He limps now because of his battle wounds. His brother trusted him and he walked straight and proud. Now he’s transforming into the monster that his people believe him to be.”

I did not work for Lord Bletchley when he was the master of the Espion. He coveted the “hollow crown” for himself and thought he could intrigue his way to the throne. The faster someone rises to power, the faster they will inevitably fall. King Severn may prove an exception to this rule, I believe.

—Dominic Mancini, Espion of the Palace Kitchen

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Discovered

Owen was a curious boy. He had many questions, and when he wanted answers, he could be persistent. The Mortimer girl had pointed out the new wall, and while Owen was not pleased she had discovered it before him, he could not banish it from his mind. Her suggestion about looking from the poisoner’s tower—though she had not called it by that name—had inspired him to seek the secret entrance. It would have been easy to ask Ankarette for the information, but he wanted to see if he could find it on his own.

He stole away from the Mortimer girl on the pretext of using the garderobe and then slipped into the secret tunnels that honeycombed the palace at Kingfountain. He couldn’t wait until nightfall because then he wouldn’t be able to see very well. The tunnels were musty, but the arrow slits in the walls provided some light, and he had grown accustomed to slinking about in the shadows. He was quiet and careful, always listening for the sound of bootsteps coming from ahead or behind. He had a knack for hearing things out of place and for treading softly. The thought of becoming an Espion had its charms.

From an arrow hole in the wall of Ankarette’s tower, he had a good view of the walled-off area, though it was overgrown with trees. He could see a giant hole in the center of the enclosure. It was the strangest-looking well he had seen. It had eight sides, each with various rows that n
arrowed like a funnel the deeper it went. At first he thought it was a series of benches like the small amphitheater in the garden at Tatton Hall, but this wasn’t a semicircle, it was a full circle. The center of the well hole was a big eight-pointed star. There were crushed stones and pebbles around it and small sluices that led to the eight points around the perimeter.

It looked like a very interesting place to explore. How to find the way in?

Owen spent some time exploring various tunnels around where he thought the entrance must be, but realizing it would require more diligent searching, he decided to wait until after nightfall. After supper, he spent time in the kitchen arranging tiles in the shape he had seen, earning some curious comments from the Mortimer girl, which he chose not to answer because he wanted to surprise her. He was eager for nightfall to arrive so he could begin his search. He would need a candle if he were going to explore new sections of the tunnels, so he made sure to blow out his night candle early to conserve the wax.

As he walked the dark tunnels between the palace’s walls later that evening, he remembered his first nights in the palace and how frightened he had been of all the new sounds. He had grown more accustomed to them and could now differentiate the familiar from the strange. The interior ways were narrow, only wide enough for a single person to pass, but they interconnected the major portions of the palace. Most of the tunnels were as tall as the corridors they lined, and in some places rungs were hammered into the stone to provide access to higher floors. In other places, the tunnels were so narrow a man would have to go sideways through them. Those would have been a problem for Mancini, Owen thought with a smirk, but they were sized perfectly for an eight-year-old boy. At various points, they would connect to the tower stairwells, but some towers had secret ways.

Owen rubbed his hands on the stone walls, feeling the grooves between blocks of stone. He counted the floor blocks too, using that as a measure to help him orient himself. At every junction, there was a symbol carved into a flat stone at the corner, which also provided a way to find something in the dark. He normally kept to the main aisles, running the perimeter of the castle. Tonight, he intended to explore some new ones. His fat candle was impaled on a nail protruding from the stubby bronze candlestick he gripped and held before him as he explored. The normal day-to-day sounds of the castle began to abate as he explored, delving deeper into new tunnels that hopefully hid the secret of the garden well.

Part of him was growing anxious. He did not know how long he had been wandering, but he knew Ankarette would be waiting for him in the tower. He wanted to be able to boast his discovery to her, to prove that he had learned his lessons and could find things on his own. But he could not find any path that led there, and he was getting the feeling that he should turn back and continue his quest another night.

But he was also a stubborn little boy and he really wanted to find it, so he persisted and continued the search despite the nagging feeling in his stomach that increased with each step. He was not entirely certain where he was and thought, with a sick feeling in his stomach, that he might even be lost.

A sound whispered from the corridor behind him. It was a footfall. Not the sound of a boot in the corridor beyond the wall. The sound of someone approaching
within
the tunnel. It was coming from behind him.

The queasiness blossomed inside Owen and a cold sweat started on his brow. Going back was no longer an option. The tunnel was narrow and there was no place to hide, so Owen hurried forward, hoping to find an escape into the main palace corridor. It would be infinitely better to be punished for wandering the hall at night than to be caught in the Espion corridor. His little heart started to hammer wildly in his chest and the blackness in front of him became even darker somehow.

He heard the footfalls again, coming closer.

The boy was starting to panic. Ankarette had warned him this could happen. She had told him it was dangerous to wander the tunnels alone and that he needed to be very cautious and always listen for sounds that were out of place. Such as the footfalls behind him.

The narrow pinch of the corridor suddenly filled in ahead of Owen, the walls closing like an arrowhead. It ended abruptly and finally. It was a dead end.

He gasped with fear and glanced over his shoulder. He could still see nothing, but the steps were getting louder. His mind twisted with regret and shock. He needed to think clearly, but fear had flooded him. He scanned the walls, up and down, looking for ladder rungs to climb. Nothing. Even the ceiling had narrowed, though it was still tall.

His mouth was dry as sand. The wild shuddering in his chest turned into a stampede of horses. He gazed around again, and then he saw the handle latch he had missed. There was a concealed door on one side of the passageway. He almost jerked the latch and flung it wide, and if he had, his time as a poisoner’s apprentice would have ended abruptly. Some faint inner voice, probably Ankarette’s, cautioned him just in time. All the hidden entrances in the palace were equipped with secret spyholes. The spyhole was almost too tall for him, but they tended to favor crouching people. Owen slid open the cover and gazed through it.

It was the king’s bedroom.

Owen knew this because he saw the king inside.

The hearth was blazing, and its flickering light glowed orange off the king’s stubbled cheeks. The king was staring into the fire, one hand supporting himself as he leaned against the mantel. His other hand, from his crooked arm, held his crown. He looked as if he were going to toss the crown into the fire and melt the burnished gold.

There were an infinite number of hiding places in the bedroom. A huge canopied bed made of enormous stained-oak beams, carved and sculpted and glistening with the light. There were fur-lined capes and robes. Several stuffed couches and chairs, any of which would have concealed a small boy. There were chests and wardrobes. Even a garderobe! Owen would gladly have thrown himself down the shaft into the cesspit to avoid being caught. But the door might squeal if he opened it, and then the king would turn and see him. He did not want to imagine what he would say. He couldn’t let that happen!

Still, the steps were coming closer, and he could now see the shimmer of the light on the walls of the passageway. Owen’s options were shrinking with each moment. The first thing he did was snuff the wick of his candle, plunging himself into darkness. Darkness was a blanket in which he could hide. But not from a man with a candle. Who was coming? He prayed it was Ankarette, searching for him, but knew he could not trust to such luck. He quivered with fear.

Then an idea struck. The walls narrowed at the end of the tunnel. He knew he would not be able to climb with the candlestick in hand, so he left it on the floor. Then he wedged himself into the narrowest part of the wall and began using his feet and arms to shimmy up to the tip, pressing against the enclosure to gain leverage. He was small and wiry and quickly began to ascend. His heart was pounding like a blacksmith hammer inside his chest as he watched the glow get closer. Then the candle bearer appeared around the bend.

It was Ratcliffe.

Owen’s terror now multiplied. The master of the Espion. The king’s sworn man. He walked deliberately toward Owen, and the boy feared for a moment that he was already seen. He was doomed. He was probably level with Ratcliffe’s head when he felt the ceiling of the tunnel push against his head. Owen dipped his chin and continued to climb until he felt the tunnel ceiling on his neck.

“What’s this?” Ratcliffe chuffed, gazing down at the smoldering candlestick on the ground. He approached faster and stooped to pick it up. The wick was still smoking and the wax was dripping. Owen thought he might faint. He had stopped breathing as soon as he had recognized the man.

Ratcliffe lifted the candle to his nose and sniffed at it. A stern, angry look passed his face. He looked at the concealed door, the slit still clearly open, and then hastily jiggled the handle with the hand holding Owen’s candlestick.

“Who’s there?” Severn growled as the secret door opened.

“It’s me,” answered the spymaster. “My lord, were you visiting with someone just now? I found this on the ground by the door.”

“I’ve been alone,” came the brusque reply. “Alone with my ghosts.”

“My lord, someone’s been spying on you!” Ratcliffe said with growing alarm. “The wick is spent, the candle dripping. Were you . . . are you testing me, my lord? Did you leave this here to see if I would tell you?”

“Of course not, Dickon!” the king said with rising anger. “You’ve proven yourself loyal over and over. Probably one of your
Espion
,” he added with derision. “Seeking to catch me fondling the princess or some such rubbish. I don’t like those Espion, Dickon. I need them, but I don’t like them.”

Ratcliffe’s tone bridled. “If it weren’t for them, you would have
failed
at Ambion Hill, sire.”

“If it weren’t for them, my nephews would still be alive,” he countered bitterly. “I don’t need to be reminded. So we have another traitor among our ranks. I didn’t set that candlestick there. You didn’t. Who do you think it belongs to?”

“It might be
her
,” Ratcliffe said in a low, dangerous voice. “I think she’s moving freely in the castle again. There are rumors that she’s been seen.”

The king gave a weary sigh. “With all the power that comes from this golden band, why cannot I find a single woman who haunts my steps and overthrows my designs? Even my brother would not tell me who she was.” He grunted with anger.

Owen’s arms and legs were beginning to cramp. The door leading to the king’s chamber was still open, just below him. If he fell, they would no doubt hear it and then see him.

“She may still be here in the room,” Ratcliffe said. “Let me summon the guards to search. The candle was still warm.”

“Do it,” Severn said. “If you catch this
poisoner
, I want her executed immediately. Do you hear that, my dear? You thought to catch me unawares whilst I slept? Call my guards, Ratcliffe. Make sure all the Espion know that helping her is treason in my eyes. Are you hiding over here, my dear? Hmmm?”

The sound of heavy footfalls flooded the tunnel as the two men began to tromp through the chamber. Owen’s fear made him tremble, and his knees and arms were shrieking in pain. Ratcliffe summoned the king’s guard into the room, who promptly and thoroughly began examining every nook within the chamber. If Owen had tried to hide in there, he would have been caught for certain. After several minutes of clamoring, the hunt was called off. Owen’s muscles throbbed and shook, but he would not give up. He held himself perfectly still, wedged up in the corner above the door in the narrowest part of the tunnel. If Ratcliffe had thought to look up, Owen would have been spotted in an instant.

Another voice joined the sounds, a young woman’s voice. “Are you all right, Uncle?” Princess Elyse asked, her voice full of concern. “Someone tried to kill you?”

The sound of her voice sent a surge of relief through Owen. He had not spoken to her in quite some time, and he was grateful to know she was still at the palace. The knowledge did not help his cramping muscles.

Severn’s laugh was self-deprecating. “I’m just a crouch-backed soldier, lass. No one tried to hurt me. Get you back to bed.”

“Who was it?” Elyse pressed, her voice anxious.

“We think it was your mother’s poisoner,” Ratcliffe said venomously.

Elyse’s voice was firm. “I don’t think she would hurt you, Uncle.”