The Queen's Poisoner (The Kingfountain Series Book 1) (7 page)

And that was how the boy from Tatton Hall earned his nickname—Owen Satchel.

The next morning, when he came to the kitchen to play with his tiles, he found the box next to the open satchel. Liona had not yet arrived and he was alone. Some of the tiles were littering the floor next to the box. Upon closer inspection, he realized they had been arranged to form little blocky letters.

O-W-E-N.

It was probably Drew. A little message from a friend. He smiled and then put it out of his mind as he began to build.

King Eredur, of blessed memory, experienced all the vicissitudes of kingship. He won the crown. He lost the crown. He won it back. The story is worthy of the epics of any age. Few have studied his reign as closely as I have, and I know that Eredur would not have regained his crown if not for his brother. Not Severn, who was always loyal, but the treacherous Earl of Dunsdworth, the brother who betrayed him and then repented. The truce following Eredur’s victory was uneasy. After all, Dunsdworth’s claim to the crown was what had made him defect in the first place. There is much secrecy and suspicion about how the earl met his fate. Some say he was poisoned. Some say he was drowned in a keg of wine. No one knows the truth. What we do know is this—he was declared a traitor. His titles and lands were forfeit, but they have been promised to his son when he comes of age. I am certain Eredur had his brother put to death in some fashion or other, for I saw the corpse. And his only son, the new lord Dunsdworth, is very much turning into the man his father was. He is a spiteful little braggart and I detest him. The lad is only twelve, and the castle staff live in terror of him.

—Dominic Mancini, Espion of Our Lady of Kingfountain

CHAPTER SEVEN

Dunsdworth’s Heir

In the two weeks that Owen had lived in the palace, his days had come to follow a routine. He would rise early in the morning and rush to the kitchen with his satchel to begin laying down tiles in intricate new arrangements. Sometimes, there would already be a design waiting for him—a few tiles arranged into a tower or a wall—but he never got there early enough to catch Drew doing it.

Each morning a meal would be shared with the king and the other children of the realm, full of sarcastic barbs and jests as the king wandered amongst his guests, looking for provocation for a taunt. Then Owen would wander the castle and the grounds with Monah Stirling, who would complain incessantly until he found a tree or wall he wanted to climb, giving her the opportunity to rest. In the afternoon, he would sit in the royal library for hours, devouring the books Monah gave him to read so she could gossip with her friends. Once she mentioned a baker from Pisan who was discovered to be Fountain-blessed. When he baked bread, the loaves seemed to magically multiply. The King of Pisan had learned about him and had the baker seized to serve in the palace kitchen. They spent a long time talking about the rare individuals whom the Fountain had gifted with extraordinary magic.

Owen perked up and listened, for he loved reading about the Fountain-blessed. When he came across such a tale in a book, he would slow
down and savor it. There were stories about knights who could not be defeated in battle. Sorceresses who wore helmets instead of headdresses and could summon rain and magic down on their enemies. The magic could manifest in so many different ways. Unfortunately, the stories rarely included enough detail. Even the gossip about the baker boy revealed nothing about how the magic happened.

Owen always spent the final hours of his day back in the kitchen. He was the first one there and the last to leave, and while he lived in a state of fear, he knew that he could find some measure of comfort and calm in that one sacred place.

Until Dunsdworth found out.

Owen was lost inside himself, ignoring the bustle of the kitchen as the cauldrons were scrubbed clean, the floors were swept—except where he knelt and arranged tiles—and dough was left to rise in bowls during the night. He heard none of the commotion, yet the commotion was part of the haze that made the kitchen so comfortable. He could not stand absolute silence, where every rattling lock or clomping bootstep could mean disaster. The noises of the kitchen, particularly Liona’s soothing voice and the orders she gave, helped create enough of a lull for him to concentrate on his tile stacking.

He knelt along the fringe, carefully building another section, when suddenly the entire thing came crashing down around him, startling him.

Owen rarely triggered a collapse himself anymore. He sat up, watching as the hours of work vanished in seconds, and then heard the sniggering chuckle behind him. He turned, his face turning white with rage when he saw Dunsdworth standing behind him, arms folded, his boot clearly the offender.

“Awww, poor lad!” Dunsdworth soothed with a wicked smile. “You should be more careful with your
toys
!”

A blistering pain of fury exploded in Owen’s skull. He began to shake with rage as he stared at the older boy with undisguised loathing.

Dunsdworth was twelve or thirteen and he was not a small lad. He was easily a head or two taller than Owen and even had muscles beneath his tailored doublet. A dagger sheath hung from his belt. He made it no secret that he longed to wear a sword as the adults did.

The look he gave Owen was provoking, as if he wanted the young boy to rush at him with fists drawn so he could enjoy knocking him down.

His sneer seemed to say—
Well? What are you going to do about this?

With shaking hands, Owen stared at the devastation around him, at the ruins of his work, and he could barely think from the rage squeezing his heart. But he knew, instinctively, that Dunsdworth could overpower him.

“What? You say nothing?” the older boy scoffed. Then he lowered his tone. “You waste your time here, little Kisky. You should be in the training yard with
me
, earning some bruises that will make you into a man. Your father must be ashamed of you. Quit playing with toys. What? Are you going to cry? Shall I fetch a wet nurse to dry your eyes?”

Owen turned away, humiliated, and began to stack the tiles back into the box with trembling fingers. He would not try setting them up again. It was too late in the day for that. But he could not bear the antagonizing look on Dunsdworth’s face. And yes, he was afraid he would start crying.

Owen started again when the heel of Dunsdworth’s boot came down on some of the tiles and crushed them. The sound, so out of place in the kitchen, made his heart leap with fear. He turned and watched the older boy grinning at him, defying him to say anything. Staring into his eyes, Dunsdworth stomped again and cracked some more.

“Out! Get out of here!” Liona barked, storming up to the bully with a stern look. “Get you gone, Lord Dunsdworth. Out of my kitchen. Leave that little boy alone.”

Dunsdworth gave the approaching cook a disdainful look and hooked his thumbs in his wide leather belt.

“Poor boy, you mean,” Dunsdworth said saucily. He ground some more tiles under his heel. “Playing with bits and scraps like a beggar. I came because I was hungry. Give me a muffin, cook.”

“I should box your ears!” Liona said angrily. She was a short woman, but Dunsdworth was only twelve, so they were of a size. Though she looked angry enough to thrash him, the bully looked unconcerned.

“You touch me,” Dunsdworth warned, “and I’ll have my revenge.” He raised a hand and closed it around the dagger hilt. “Now fetch me a muffin!”

Liona scowled at him and huffed to herself, but she grabbed a leftover muffin from a tray and thrust it into his hand. Using the older boy’s distraction to his favor, Owen dragged his satchel nearer and furiously started picking up the rest of the fallen pieces before they too could be destroyed.

Dunsdworth took a bite, thanked Liona rudely with a wad of it in his mouth, and then sauntered out of the kitchen. Owen’s mind was black, but the imminent threat of pain was leaving and his smoldering heart began to cool. Heaving a sigh, Liona knelt by the fallen tiles and helped him collect them.

“I’ll ask Drew to find you some more,” she offered, touching his hand with her own. “That boy’s a rude sort. I hope we did not make an enemy of him today.”

Owen frowned and breathed through his nose. “You should see how the king talks to him,” he said. “He’s treated the worst of us all.”

“True, but that doesn’t excuse him to scold and tease smaller children. What sort of life is this?” She mopped her forehead. “Always living at risk of the king’s wrath.” She stopped gathering tiles, though she remained kneeling by him.

Owen looked at her and saw a strange expression in her eyes. “What is it, Liona?”

“You still wander the grounds with your maid?” she asked him softly.

He nodded, intrigued, as he grabbed another fistful of tiles and stacked them carefully in the box.

“You know the garden with the horse fountains and the hickory trees? It’s on the lower ring of walls.”

“I do,” Owen said, gazing into her eyes. The tiles were cold in his hands.

“There is a porter door in the wall,” she confided. “An iron door. They never lock it. The king’s Espion use it to get in and out of the palace without the guards seeing. Drew told me of it. I’ve not told a soul I know.” She paused and glanced over her shoulder again, licking her lips. “You cannot tell anyone that I told you, Owen,” she said, when she finally returned her gaze to him. “I would lose my place. Or worse. There is a trail leading down to the castle road that goes to the bridge to Our Lady. Get you to sanctuary, Owen.” She reached down and squeezed his knee. It tickled, though he knew that was not intended. “Seek out the queen dowager or her daughter, Elyse. Sometimes she is there. Even a child can claim sanctuary.” She rose in a hurry and busied herself by the bread ovens, then grabbed a fistful of flour from a sack and spread it on the table nearby. She looked pale and a little nervous and didn’t so much as glance at Owen again.

Owen was grateful for her help and excited by the possibility of escaping his life in the palace. He had arrived when the moon was half-full and now it was nearly full. If he managed to claim sanctuary, perhaps his parents could come and visit him? He was heartsick and missed them dreadfully.

After he finished cleaning up, he slung the satchel around his shoulder and started off to find Monah. It was after dark, so he would have to escape the next day. He had just the idea to slip away from his governess.

“I don’t
wish
to play the seeking game,” Monah complained, trudging after Owen down the hill. “There is a groomsman I want to talk to. Let’s visit the stables!”

Owen kept a strong pace, and the girl’s long skirts made it difficult for her to keep up with him. He was so excited that he had not been hungry all day, but he had still eaten as much as he could and slipped some food in his pockets for later. Worried that his sly thoughts might show in his eyes, Owen had done his best to stay away from the king and Ratcliffe.

“Slow down!” Monah said, tromping through a thin hedge. Owen wove between the shagbark hickories, heading toward the wall. “Can we not go to the stables, Master Owen? I will get you a treat.”

“I want to play the seeking game!” Owen said firmly. He could hear the murmuring of the fountain as they came nearer. Soon he could see it, the circular fountain with the huge rearing horse in its midst. Beyond, he spied the porter door, and his heart raced with excitement.

He turned and grabbed Monah’s hand as she finally caught up to him. “I will hide first. You wait by the fountain and count to twenty! No . . . fifty! Then find me.”

Monah was breathing hard and came to rest on the fountain’s edge. Her dark hair was sticking to her forehead. “I don’t want to chase you through the garden, Master Owen. I’m weary. Let me catch my breath.”

“You won’t have to
chase
me,” Owen said, straining with impatience. “Once you find me, we’ll trade turns. You will hide, and I will find
you.
”

She winced and looked around the park, rubbing her arms. “The park is so big,” she said. “I don’t want to climb any trees. Why do you not wish to visit the stables? You said you liked horses.”

“No, I didn’t,” Owen said petulantly. “Please, Monah? I used to play the seeking game with my sister.” He gave her a pleading look and a small pout that always worked on his elders. He put his hand on her leg. “You are so like her.”

“How long must we play this?” she asked wearily.

“Four turns,” Owen said.

She frowned. “Two turns.”

“
Four
turns,” Owen insisted. “They will be quick. I won’t hide far, and you will be easy to find.”

She sighed with exasperation, then covered her eyes and started to count.

Owen sprinted away like a squirrel and took cover behind a tree far from the porter door. He hid in the crook where the branches forked, and he watched Monah as she counted. Over the babble of the fountain, he could not hear her. His heart raced with eagerness. He was going to make it more difficult for her to find him each time and then slip away on the fourth turn.

When she reached fifty, she rose and began walking in his direction. He deliberately let his head poke up from the forked branches so she could find him, though he pretended to be incensed to have been caught so soon. Then he quickly rushed back to the fountain, calling out loudly so that she could hear his counting over the noise of the water.

He spied her resting beneath a tree, her dark hair blending in with the bark, and gave her a little tickle when he found her. She squealed and scolded him before rushing off to the fountain for her next turn. A little pang of guilt threatened him. What would her punishment be for losing him? A scolding from Ratcliffe, probably. Owen’s freedom was worth that much.

But the little feeling of guilt still squirmed in Owen’s chest. Crushing it down as best he could, he hid in another spot, lying down by a hedge where she would have difficulty seeing him from a distance. His position gave him a view of the porter door and he found himself wondering if he would be strong enough to pull it open. What if the hinges were rusty?