The Queen's Poisoner (The Kingfountain Series Book 1) (34 page)

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.

In the center of the courtyard was a raised well made of stone and mortar. Owen clambered up onto the edge of it and stared down into the black depths. He could hear a faint gurgling, but it was too deep for him to see the shimmer of water.

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.”

Anger churning in his heart, Owen gave Mancini a sulky look. “She’s more clever than you, though. She’ll think of a way.”

Mancini snorted. “Well, if she’s slipped into the castle, she won’t be slipping out, I can tell you that.”

“You sound very sure of yourself.” It was Ankarette’s voice, ghosting up to them from the lip of the well. Owen startled, and Mancini had to lurch forward to keep from falling backward into the well in pure surprise.

Owen’s faith in the queen’s poisoner had been vindicated once again. He leaned over the edge of the well, staring down into its dark throat. “Are you down in the well?” he whispered, his voice echoing down the shaft.

“I am,” she replied, her voice kind but tired.

“I can’t see you,” Owen said.

“But I can see you,” she answered. “All is well.”

“I’m beginning to believe in all this Fountain nonsense,” Mancini grumbled nastily, having partially recovered from his shock. “Where are you?”

“There are tunnels honeycombing beneath the castle,” she whispered. “It’s one of the reasons that castle was named Beestone. This is a famous castle, Owen. Or an infamous one. Several kings have started their reign here. Studying the past sometimes helps us make the future. Dominic, have you found what I asked you to find?”

Owen gripped the edge, his heart afire with hope.

The spy frowned distastefully. “Yes, but it’s not good news, Ankarette. It would seem the king means to execute the lad’s family tomorrow. I was just telling him that. The Espion are all betting on it, coins changing hands.”

“Thank you. Yes, it does seem very likely that the king will make an announcement tomorrow. This is the bit of news I needed to confirm. Do you know what time the Assizes will start? When must Kiskaddon arrive before he’s guilty of treason?”

Mancini frowned, his arms folded. “Tenth hour. I heard he’s camped a league away.”

“Dominic, I need you to go to him. I can’t ride that far and be back in time. You must go to Lord Kiskaddon and you must tell him to come to the Assizes tomorrow. He cannot be late.”

“Why would he listen to me?” Mancini said.

“Because I sent you. He will trust you because his wife trusts me. Believe this. You must persuade Owen’s father to come without a retinue. Without arms. He must put himself completely at the king’s mercy.”

Owen shivered.

The incredulous look on Mancini’s face said it all. “Are you serious?”

“Quite so. You must deliver this message for me. Tonight. If you leave now, you can be at his camp and back before dawn. See if you can persuade him to come with you. He cannot be late to the Assizes. Will you do this?”

“I’m risking my neck,” Mancini grumbled. “Will you not tell me your plan? I haven’t been able to get the book. The king keeps it with him at all times.”

“He’s struggling to understand what is written in it. I need to know what’s in that book.”

“But the king won’t let go,” Mancini said.

“He’s not the only one who’s read it. Where are the Espion staying? Where is Ratcliffe?”

“What?”

“Where is Ratcliffe?” More insistently this time.

“The . . . all the Espion are staying at the Holywell in town. It’s near Castle Hill, on the—”

“I know it,” she said, cutting him off. Her voice sounded more tired, more pained. “Go, Dominic. Go warn Kiskaddon.”

The spy grunted as he leaned away from the well and marched off toward the torchlight. Owen was grateful he was gone.

“Are you feeling sick?” Owen whispered into the well.

There was a long pause. “I’m very sick, Owen. And we’re running out of time.”

He fidgeted nervously. “I wish there was a way
I
could help,” he said miserably. “I saw the book on the king’s bed today. I started reading it, but Ratcliffe took it away.”

“That was clever of you,” she said, sounding pleased. “You could tell John Tunmore is Fountain-blessed just from reading it, couldn’t you?”

“Yes,” Owen said. “Ankarette, what is the Dreadful Deadman?”

She was quiet a moment. “How do you know about that name?” she finally asked. “Was it in the book?”

“In a way,” he answered, feeling confused. “While I was
reading
the book, I heard the name. I heard it twice. The voice said King Eredur wasn’t the Dreadful Deadman. Then it said Lord Dunsdworth—not the boy, but his father—was also not the Dreadful Deadman. What is it?”

“I don’t know for certain,” Ankarette said, her voice soft and subdued. “It is a superstition, mostly. One that is whispered about late at night. It is a legend of the first king of Ceredigion, the one who ruled before Occitania invaded our lands. I told you before of his Wizr. Myrddin was Fountain-blessed and could see the future. There are stories that he left a prophecy. Before he disappeared, he said that the first king of Ceredigion would return someday. He would come back from the dead to rule Ceredigion
and
Occitania. This prophecy was named the Dreadful Deadman, for when he returns, there will be much war and bloodshed. This legend is not written down, but the people believe in it. It is rumor ladled on gossip and served in a trencher of lies. King Eredur claimed he was the Dreadful Deadman. It’s a ploy many have used to become king. But that is the nature of prophecies. They are much speculated about. I know the Occitanians
fear
this prophecy. To them it is certainly dreadful. But in this case, Owen, I cannot tell you what is true and what is false. I do not know.”

Owen rubbed his hand over the cool, smooth stone of the well. He kept staring into the depths, wishing he could see her. “Are you truly down there?” he asked.

“I am,” she answered, a smile in her voice. “Now, you said you wished you could help.”

“Can I?” he asked, growing more hopeful.

“Owen, you are the biggest help of all. You are the one who is going to save your family.”

He leaned forward so far he almost fell in. “Really? How?”

“You are going to tell the king your family is guilty of treason.”

His hope suddenly wilted. “Ankarette?”

“Listen to me, my boy. The verdict of the Assizes has already been determined. There must be enough evidence in that book to condemn your parents. I cannot do anything about that. The king has already made up his mind. He will use Duke Horwath to execute his will and deliver the king’s justice. No matter what is said tomorrow at the Assizes, your family will be declared guilty of treason and will be attainted. Do you know that word?”

“No,” Owen groaned miserably. He wanted to be sick.

“Attainder means the forfeiture of land and rights as a consequence of
a sentence of death for treason or felony. It means the king will strip away
Westmarch from your family and put them to death. Then
he
can claim
the duchy as royal lands or give them to another person. That is what hap
pens. That is what is
going
to happen tomorrow. What I need to know
is
what is in that book. Because you are going to have a dream tonight, Owen, and you are going to share it with the king before the Assizes begins. You will confess your family’s treason. That exhibition of your
power will not only astonish the king, but the fact that you used it to benefit him will put you in a position of trust. The Assizes, Owen, is
your
test
of loyalty. Your parents have already failed theirs. They failed it months
ago when your father didn’t fight for the king at Ambion Hill until it was too late. Your father is useless to the king now, for he can never trust him again. What Severn needs to know is if
you
will be faithful to him.”

Owen felt tears stinging his eyes. “But I don’t want my family to die!” he gasped. He felt utterly miserable.

“I know, I know,” Ankarette soothed, her voice thickening with pain. “But you can save them, Owen. Listen. Don’t let your grief run away with you. I’m doing the best I can to help you.” Her voice trailed off and Owen stifled his own sobs, wanting so much to reach into the black hole to comfort her.

“Listen to me . . .” she whispered, her voice so soft. “Your dream will reveal your parents’ treason. I will find out what’s in the black book so I can tell you tonight. It will solidify your reputation as one who can see the future.”

“But how?” Owen asked, confused. “What my parents did was in the past. Why would knowing that convince the king I can see the future?” The sound of approaching boots met his ears, and when he looked up, he saw Duke Horwath approaching, a look of concern on his face.

“He’s coming,” Owen whimpered nervously.

“Listen carefully,” Ankarette said. “Even if someone is attainted, found guilty, the king can show mercy and pardon them. We will
make
the future. Your dream will predict that the king will pardon your family and banish them from the realm. Exile. That is what your dream must tell him. I will work out the details tonight. I’ll find you before dawn.”

“He’s almost here!” Owen warned.

“And in your dream,” she whispered, her voice ghosting up from the well hole, “the rat dies.”