The Thief's Daughter (40 page)

Eyric’s eyes widened with shock. “You are a monster,” he breathed out. Owen felt the heaviness of the Fountain still, and it prevented him from speaking out on Eyric’s behalf. He saw the king’s mind shifting, tottering, shutting.

Severn smirked. “If that is what everyone expects, then I shan’t disappoint them any longer. I have no family left. No niece. No nephew. No sister.” His eyes were glaring with wrath. “I won’t kill you, lad. But you will come to wish I had. You are my prisoner.” The king turned to Owen. “My lord duke, I give you charge of the Espion. Have young Urbick assigned to Dunsdworth. Have them both guarded day and night. I forbid him to share a bed with the woman he seduced and deceived. Have Lady Kathryn brought to the palace. I should like to meet the beauty of Atabyrion who came to be queen. And I should like to hear him confess his duplicity to her face.”

“My lord, I beg you, no!” Eyric started, and Severn held up a hand to silence him.

“Take him away.”

Owen was sick at heart. He stared at the king, feeling animosity roil in his heart. Was this how Stiev Horwath felt? Was this why he was so often silent?

Owen grabbed beneath Eyric’s arm and pulled him up. Eyric’s face was white with despair, his hands trembling. When Owen reached the door, he gave Etayne orders to see to the man. Then he paused, and turned as the doors were shut once again.

Severn stood by the fireplace, shaking his head. A strange expression was on his face. An almost giddy look.

“My lord, may I speak to you?” Owen asked.

The king glanced over his shoulder, looking surprised Owen had not yet left. “You’ve seen the girl, haven’t you? Lady Kathryn? Lord Bothwell tells me she is a beauty. Soft-spoken, demure. He could not say what color her hair was because the fashion in her country is to wear headdresses.” Severn looked almost distracted in his thoughts. “When you bring her, I don’t want her wearing Atabyrion fashions. Have a gown made up for her. Let Etayne do it. She should wear black, as if she’s in mourning. Black, but I want the cut to be the finest of any princess. Yes, I want her to wear black. It’s appropriate, after all.”

Owen’s horror grew as the king spoke. He was not himself. Something had altered him. Was it the threat of being thrown in the river? Was it the stress of facing another Ambion Hill? Or had it been his niece’s betrayal? Perhaps he was finally feeling the stress of all his miserable years of loyalty to his brother.

The thought shocked Owen and made him sick inside.

“What did you want?” the king asked peevishly.

“I just wanted you to know,” Owen said, feeling a strange sensation in his stomach. He would not tell Severn that Kathryn was with child. He felt the heavy weight of it pressing on him, but he knew it was a secret he had to keep, just as he had kept so many other secrets from the king.

“To know
what
? Speak, man! You have errands aplenty to attend to. Aren’t you grateful for the new office? The new trust I have put in you?”

Not in the least
, he refrained from saying.

“My lord, I just wanted you to know. To hear it from my own mouth. I loved her. I truly, deeply loved her.”

Severn wrinkled his brow. “The Mortimer girl. Yes, I know.”

Owen felt the stirrings of hatred begin in his heart. “You knew?”

The king nodded and folded his arms. “Mancini saw it first and then I noticed it myself. Yes, you were fond of the girl. But you are barely a man, Owen. There is much you have yet to learn.”

Owen was struggling to control his temper. “You knew . . . and yet you allowed Iago to have her? Your enemy?”

The king shook his head. Then his face became cruel. “You don’t think I know what you’re feeling? Finally someone else understands what
I
had to endure. What
I
had to go through! My Nanette, the daughter of the Duke of Warrewik. She and I were much like you and the Mortimer girl. I loved her deeply, as Warrewik ensured that I would! And then he sold her off to form an alliance with the Prince of Occitania. She was to become their queen.” He gave Owen a look of fierce loathing and rage. “She was wed to our enemy. And when they returned to Ceredigion with an army, hoping to break my brother’s crown, I destroyed her father and her husband. That’s when I realized I was Fountain-blessed. When I was able to persuade her to love me in spite of that.” He came forward, and Owen felt the magic of the Fountain rush to life inside the king. He gripped Owen’s shoulder, and the pain in his elbow howled with the pressure. The magic of the Fountain flooded him, but it could not penetrate him. He stood steady against it, immovable.

“You will understand what I had to endure to be loyal, young Owen,” the king snarled. “You will understand what it feels like to be hated. To be despised. You will learn the cost of loyalty as I did. Then we’ll see if you can smugly talk of love as if that were the single most important thing in the world, the only consideration regarding the destiny of kings and fate! The people love you now. But they will hate you. And then we will see if you do not become the very man that I am!” His eyes were losing focus and appeared to be gazing at something far away. “Yes, they wanted a monster, and now they will get one. And I will make the world howl for it!”

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

Winter

Flakes of snow floated down like leaves, blurring the view from the window of the solar. Owen stood by the glass, wishing that his heart were made of ice. The door creaked and Duke Horwath entered the chamber. His movements were slower. Maybe it had always been like that, but the man looked so much older to Owen’s eyes. Old and weary.

Owen guessed that his expression was sufficiently desolate, for Horwath’s face frowned in sympathy. He came forward and stood by the window, his arm coming around Owen’s shoulder.

“We’ll both miss her, lad,” the duke said gruffly. There was pain throbbing in his voice. “I would like it if you came by Dundrennan now and then. You never need an invitation. Maybe an old soldier can help.”

Owen felt a pulse of gratitude, but it was quickly snuffed out by his misery. “The ceremony is over. The ships have embarked. Will she return, my lord?”

The duke let out a deep, sad breath. “I doubt it. Unless the king calls for her.”

Owen steeled himself, trying to keep afloat. “I’m not sure he will. She always told him what she thought. I don’t think the king will appreciate that now.”

Horwath nodded sagely. “He’s changed. Something within him finally broke. As I said, you need no invitation.” He clapped Owen on the shoulder, careful to avoid his injured arm, and turned to leave.

“You’re riding out to Dundrennan tomorrow? In the storm?”

The old duke nodded. “This isn’t a storm. I’ve ridden in worse. Many were slain in the battle. I have widows to see. The dead to honor.” He gave Owen a heartfelt smile. “Maybe a lad to comfort.”

Owen did not think he would ever smile again. “Safe travels, my lord. Do you have any advice on running the Espion?”

Horwath stroked his goatee. “I think you learned enough from Ratcliffe and Mancini on what
not
to do. If I read the king’s mood right, he’s ready to take the game to the other side of the board.” His eyes narrowed wisely. “Be careful. Study the history of the time of the Maid. It may teach you what happens when kings overreach.”

With a sardonic smirk, Owen nodded to Horwath and watched him leave. His elbow throbbed dully, but it was healing, and he no longer needed the sling to secure it. The flurry was growing thicker outside, making it difficult to see what was happening in the bailey down below. Owen thought about Lady Kathryn and what he was going to say to her. He knew what needed to be done, but it would require her cooperation, and she was not likely to trust the man who had deceived her husband.

He walked out of the solar and started down the steps to the main floor. There were servants everywhere removing the decorations from the wedding celebration of Iago and Evie. He caught himself. Iago and
Elysabeth
. He had to stop thinking of her pet name. It hurt too much when he did.

Dodging around some girls carrying rolls of fabric that had been used to festoon the great hall, Owen retreated to the room of the Espion masters called the Star Chamber. It was near the king’s bedchamber. The room was large enough to fit several chairs. Everywhere there were desks, quills, ink, chests filled with coins for bribes, and one wall was lined with hooks holding keys to all the various locks within the palace. The plush chair was larger than Owen needed it to be, but he sat in it, staring at the mound of letters and missives that arrived daily from ships and couriers across the realm. Like shoveling snow. The walls of the Star Chamber were thick, and Owen bolted the door, signifying that he did not want to be disturbed. He leaned his elbows on the desk and buried his face in his hands, wondering if he had done the right thing. If he had assisted Eyric in overthrowing Severn, would it have changed the fate of the realm? Could he have done so against his conscience? Would knowing what the king had become have changed his decision?

He thought of Evie on a ship sailing for Atabyrion. He imagined Iago by her side, claiming her mouth in a kiss. A searing pain lanced through his heart at the thought. No, he couldn’t think on that! He would drive himself mad. His shoulders trembled with stifled gasps as he tried to control himself.

They would have children. What would she name her son? Would she name him Andrew as so many did, choosing the famous king as a namesake? Or would it be a dearer name?

Owen didn’t hear the sound of the secret door opening. The fire in his heart was too loud. But he sensed a presence in the room. He heard the rustle of fabric. The swish of a skirt.

Then he felt the soothing ripple of Fountain magic.

Owen turned his neck slowly. There she was. Ankarette Tryneowy. Of course, it wasn’t her. It was Etayne, but she
looked
like Ankarette. There was that same tender smile, those wise and sad eyes; even the smell reminded him of her.

“I wondered how best to comfort you,” Etayne said softly as she walked forward, the skirts shushing on the carpet. “I could have looked like
her
.” She shook her head. “Other men would have asked for that. But you aren’t like other men. I could never make you
believe
I was her. You’d despise me, and I never want you to despise me. Who then to comfort you?” The look on Etayne’s face was so full of compassion and sorrow. She put a soft hand on his shoulder. “Let me comfort you, Owen. As
she
would have. I found the letter she wrote you. I searched all the secret places until I found it.”

She handed him a small square of paper, folded over.

Owen stared at her in surprise, feeling his emotions churning relentlessly.

With a trembling hand, he took the paper and opened it.

To my dear Owen:

Before I die, I wanted to write this for you. I’m sad to be leaving the palace of Kingfountain behind forever. This tower has been my haven for many years. There are sad memories here. But good ones as well. Life is like that, you will come to learn. When I am asleep in the Deep Fathoms, I will cherish my memories of you. I wish I could see you grow up and the man you will become. Someday you may be called upon to do something that is against your conscience. I leave my final advice for you. If your master demands loyalty, give him integrity. But if he demands integrity, then give him loyalty. I love you, my little boy. I willingly give my life to save yours. Someday, you may be asked to do the same for another.

Your friend, Ankarette

His eyes blurred with tears as he read her final words. The grief in his heart was unendurable.

“I can see why Mancini didn’t want you to read that,” Etayne said. She smoothed her hand over his hair, then sat next to him on the stuffed chair, pulled his head down against her shoulder, and gently stroked his hair.

He felt the illusion of her magic all around him. But just this once, he surrendered to it and pretended the queen’s poisoner was there with him.

EPILOGUE

Owen had never witnessed a woman giving birth before. He was really of no use at all, for he felt sickened and disgusted by the entire ordeal. He had heaved his stomach out in a bucket near the door, and the sounds of Kathryn’s pangs made him light-headed and utterly dizzy. He was truly the world’s greatest fool to think he could hide such an event from the awareness of King Severn. At any moment, he suspected guards wearing black tabards with the white boar emblazoned on them would come pounding on the door of the sanctuary of St. Penryn and seize the child.

Owen heard the sound of footfalls and feared the worst. A knock came on the door, and Owen drew his sword and pulled back the latch with wobbly fingers, ready to fight. It was the deconeus.

“How fares the lady’s labor?” the deconeus asked nervously.

Owen glanced over his shoulder at Etayne, who knelt by the bedside, offering Kathryn sips of broth and potions to help her keep up her strength. “I could not tell you one way or the other,” Owen answered truthfully.

The deconeus seemed to notice the blade and backed away. “Forgive my intrusion, my lord. I swear to you, by the Fountain and by the chest you hid here, that I will not reveal you. There is no one here at the sanctuary right now, my lord. Not a soul.” He glanced heavenward. “But there looks to be a squall blowing in from the sea. Are you sure you wish to risk the babe’s health by riding in a storm? He is to be our king.”

“May the Fountain make it so,” Owen said, shutting the door in his face when he heard Kathryn moaning in agony again.

He leaned back against the door, blinking rapidly. He had the Espion chasing ghosts all over the realm at the moment. He had even concocted a possible threat from his imagination—both to give himself an excuse to be away from the palace and to keep Severn distracted. The king was desperate to see Lady Kathryn, to get to know her, to woo her. Owen wiped his mouth, remembering all the lies and tricks he had used to forestall the inevitable.

Lady Kathryn had stayed in sanctuary for five months. At first Owen had reported that it was her fear of Severn that kept her away, followed by the excuse of a long illness. And then she went into labor early—months early—and it was all Owen could do to get Etayne and himself there without drawing the notice of the other Espion. Etayne had trained as a midwife, and she had been practicing over the months in anticipation of this birth.

Owen’s job would be to bring the babe to a safe haven, a place where the child could be raised in anonymity. The arrangements had been made with the help of Duke Horwath, though the story Owen had told the duke was not true. He’d spun a tale of a young widow who had lost her husband in the Battle of Averanche, a woman who was carrying her husband’s child but couldn’t afford to care for the babe without a husband. He had promised to find someone to raise the child to be a soldier like his father—to teach him honor and duty and loyalty.

Owen knuckled his brow.

Kathryn lay still. A solemn silence fell over the room. He saw Etayne swaddling the bloody infant. An infant who made no sound.

Kathryn was gasping. “I . . . I can’t . . . hear. I can’t . . . hear . . . him. Is it a boy . . . truly?”

“He’s a boy,” Etayne said in a solemn voice. A voice full of dread. Owen met her gaze and knew the truth. He could see it in her eyes.

The babe was stillborn.

Owen’s heart wrenched with pain. He sheathed his sword and approached the bed, feeling the dizziness threaten to knock him down.

“Let me . . . see . . . him,” Kathryn gasped.

Etayne looked heartsick. She wiped splotches of blood and goo from the babe’s puckered face. She held the boy as tenderly as the mother herself would have, gazing sadly down at the face, the cold, limp face. Owen saw the tears well in Etayne’s eyes as she pressed a kiss to the babe’s forehead.

“Let me . . . hold him,” Kathryn pleaded.

Etayne offered the child to his mother. Sweat made her auburn hair cling to her forehead. She was utterly spent and exhausted from the difficult labor. Her black gown was hanging over a chair, and her white chemise was soaked with sweat and blood. Owen watched Kathryn’s face twist with emotion as she stared down at the little child in her weak arms.

“No . . . no!” she moaned. “It can’t be!” Sobs began to rack her chest.

Owen stared at the babe. And then he knew what he needed to do.

Fighting his doubts, he approached the bedside and took the babe from the weeping mother. Etayne stared at Owen, her eyes widening with the realization of what would happen.

The babe had been born . . . dead.

Just like Owen.

The prophecy of the Dreadful Deadman spoke of a dead king who came back to life. Owen felt the power of the Fountain well inside his heart. He could hear it in the crashing surf beyond the sanctuary walls. He could feel it in the storm clouds scudding across the sky.

Owen cradled the tiny infant in his arms, staring at his waxy skin. He felt the love of the mother radiating from the woman below. He remembered watching as Eyric suffered at Kingfountain, a prisoner bound by bitter fate in companionship to Dunsdworth, maintaining a lie so that his offspring might be kept safe. Owen felt a spark of hope as he stared at the little babe—the hope that a better reign might soon come to the land.

Owen brought the babe’s face close to his lips. He didn’t remember the words. But somehow he knew what to say in a language he’d only spoken once. He felt the power of the Fountain gushing from him as he whispered it.

“Nesh-ama.”

Breathe
.

The tiny eyelids of the quiet king fluttered open.