The Queen's Poisoner (The Kingfountain Series Book 1) (32 page)

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.

“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