The Queen's Poisoner (The Kingfountain Series Book 1)
Read The Queen's Poisoner (The Kingfountain Series Book 1) Online
Authors: Jeff Wheeler
BOOKS BY JEFF WHEELER
The Kingfountain Series
The Queen’s Poisoner
The Thief’s Daughter
The King’s Traitor
The Covenant of Muirwood Trilogy
The Banished of Muirwood
The Ciphers of Muirwood
The Void of Muirwood
The Legends of Muirwood Trilogy
The Wretched of Muirwood
The Blight of Muirwood
The Scourge of Muirwood
Whispers from Mirrowen Trilogy
Fireblood
Dryad-Born
Poisonwell
Landmoor Series
Landmoor
Silverkin
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2016 Jeff Wheeler
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by 47North, Seattle
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and 47North are trademarks of
Amazon.com
, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781503953314 (hardcover)
ISBN-10: 1503953319 (hardcover)
ISBN-13: 9781503953307 (paperback)
ISBN-10: 1503953300 (paperback)
Cover design by Shasti O’Leary Soudant
First edition
To Lincoln
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE The Duke of Kiskaddon
CHAPTER TWO The Duke of North Cumbria
CHAPTER FOUR The Cook and the Butler
CHAPTER SEVEN Dunsdworth’s Heir
CHAPTER FOURTEEN Elysabeth Victoria Mortimer
CHAPTER FIFTEEN Ankarette’s Stratagem
CHAPTER SIXTEEN Loyalty Binds Me
CHAPTER NINETEEN Deep Cisterns
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO Fountain-blessed
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Lord Dunsdworth
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE Secrets of Wine
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE Deep Fathoms
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE The Assizes
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE Strawberries
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE Well of Tears
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX The White Pig
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN The Queen’s Midwife
CHARACTERS
ARGENTINE FAMILY
Eredur Argentine: previous King of Ceredigion, deceased under mysterious circumstances
Dunsdworth Argentine: middle brother of Eredur, attainted of treason and executed; has a son with the same name who is ward to the king at the palace
Severn Argentine: King of Ceredigion, youngest brother; usurped throne from Eredur’s sons who are missing and presumed murdered
Elyse Argentine: eldest daughter of Eredur
LORDS OF CEREDIGION
Lord Kiskaddon: Duke of Westmarch
Lord Horwath: Duke of North Cumbria
Lord Asilomar: Duke of East Stowe
Lord Lovel: Duke of Southport
Lord Ratcliffe: master of the Espion, the king’s spy service
Lord Bletchley: supporter of King Severn’s usurpation, master of the Espion, executed for treason
There was a battle fought and a battle won. There was much disquiet about the king’s odds of victory. Despite his years of battle experience, his faithful friends, and the resources of Ceredigion behind him, many predicted that the upstart would win. There was treachery, of course. There were omens read in the waters. Duke Kiskaddon forbade his men to engage in the battle on either side, even with his eldest son a hostage to the king. A poor decision for the duke. His son was sent over the waterfall after the king’s victory. What other vengeance will be wrought upon that treacherous duke, I can only imagine. Though I chuckle to myself. I shall enjoy watching it immensely. Long live the crouch-backed king!
—Dominic Mancini, Espion of Our Lady of Kingfountain
CHAPTER ONE
The Duke of Kiskaddon
Lady Eleanor sat at the window seat of her chambers, gently stroking her son’s head in her lap. Owen was her youngest child, the one who had barely survived his birth. He was a frail lad of eight, though he looked younger than that. His hair was a mousy-brown color, thick and untameable despite all their efforts, and she loved gliding her fingers through it. There was a little patch of white hair above his left ear. His siblings always asked her why he had been born with such a strange patch of white in his dark hair.
It was a mark that set him apart from his siblings. She considered it a reminder of the miracle that happened after his birth.
Owen stared up at her eyes with his deep brown ones, seeming to know she was fretting and in need of comfort. He was an affectionate child, always the first to come running into her arms. As a babe, he would murmur his parents’ endearments while clutching their legs or hugging them.
Maman, Papan. Maman, Papan. Maman, Papan.
He had loved more than anything else to burrow into the sheets of his parents’ bed after they had awoken for the day, stealing the ebbing warmth. He stopped doing that finally at age six, but he had not outgrown the hugs and kisses, and he always wanted to be near, especially to her husband, Lord Kiskaddon.
Thoughts of her husband made her stomach churn with worry. Eleanor glanced out the window overlooking the well-sculpted gardens of Tatton Hall. But she found no comfort in the trimmed hedges, the vibrant terraced lawns, or the large foaming fountains. A battle had raged the day before, and she still awaited word on the outcome.
“When will
Papan
come?” the little voice asked. He looked at her with such serious eyes.
Would he even come home?
There was nothing she dreaded more than the battlefield. Her husband was no longer a young man. He was more statesman than battle commander now, in his forty-fifth year. She glanced at the empty armor rack stationed by their canopied bed. The curtains were open, showing the neat folded sheets. He always insisted on the bed being made every day. No matter what troubling news arrived from court, her husband relished the simple rituals of sleep. Though some nights he would lie awake for hours pondering the troubles of Ceredigion, he was still most at peace when they were together, alone, in that canopied bed.
“I don’t know,” Eleanor whispered, her voice husky. She continued to smooth his thick locks, her finger pausing to play with the tuft of white. Her husband had been summoned to join the king’s army on the battlefield to face the invasion, and her oldest son was a hostage in the king’s army to ensure her husband’s good faith. Word reached her before the battle that the king’s army outnumbered their enemies three to one. But this was not a match of mathematics. It was a test of loyalty.
Severn Argentine was a hard king to serve. He had a barbed whip for a tongue and it drew blood whenever he spoke. In the two years since he had usurped the throne from his older brother’s children, the kingdom had been fraught with machinations, treason, and executions. It was whispered the uncle had murdered his nephews at the palace in Kingfountain. The very possibility made Eleanor tremble with horror. She, a mother of nine children, could not bear the thought of such wickedness. Only five of her children had survived childhood, for they were all of sickly constitution. Some of her sons and daughters had died as infants, and each new loss had broken her heart. And then there was her lastborn, little Owen. Her miracle.
Her dear, thoughtful boy was still staring into her eyes, almost as if he could read her thoughts. She loved to catch him playing by himself, to watch at the edge of the door as he knelt on the floor and stacked tiles before toppling them over. She often caught him in the library, reading to himself. She no longer remembered teaching him to read, he had been so young. It was something he seemed to have learned all by himself, like breathing, and he just inhaled the letters and words and sorted them effortlessly in his mind. But, though he was a particularly intelligent child, he was still a child. He loved to run outside in the gardens with his siblings and join the chase for a white ribbon tied to a pole through the hedge maze. Of course, he could start wheezing when he did this, but that did not deter him.
She would never forget the sorrow she had felt when the royal midwife had announced the babe stillborn. There was no cry, no wail like those that had announced the births of Eleanor’s other eight children. He came into the world bloody and silent—fully formed, but not breathing. It had devastated her to lose what she knew to be her lastborn, her final child. Her husband’s tears had joined her own as they wept over their lost child.
Was there nothing to be done? Were there no words of solace? No skill that could be rendered? The midwife had crooned to the dead babe in her arms, kissing his tender, puckered head, and suggested they mourn with the babe together as husband and wife. Lord Kiskaddon and Lady
Eleanor cradled the baby in their arms, burrowing in the sheets of the bed,
and wept for the child, hugging and kissing him. Speaking to him softly.
Telling him of their family and how much he would be loved and needed.
And then the miracle happened.
It was the Fountain, she was certain of that. Somehow the babe had heard their pleading. The eyes of the dead child blinked open. Eleanor was so startled, she thought she had imagined it at first, but her husband saw the same thing. The eyes opened.
What does it mean?
they asked the midwife.
Perhaps he bids you good-bye
,
she said softly.
But moments became hours. Hours became days. Days became weeks. Eleanor glided her fingers through her boy’s thick hair. He smiled up at her, as if he were remembering it too. He gave her a crooked little smile, pressing his cheek languidly against her lap. His eyelashes fluttered.
“Maman! Maman!”
It was Jessica, her fourteen-year-old, running in with her blond curls bouncing. “It’s
Papan!
He rides here with a host!”
Eleanor’s heart seized with surprise and swelled with hope. “You saw him?”
“From the balcony!” Jessica said, her eyes eager with excitement. “His head was shining, Maman. He is with Lord Horwath. I recognized him as well.”
That made no sense at all.
Lord Horwath ruled the northern borders of the realm. Her husband ruled the west. They were peers of the realm, equals. Why would Stiev Horwath escort him to Tatton Hall? A stab of worry smote her chest.
“Owen, go with your sister to greet your father,” Eleanor said. The boy closed his hand on the fabric of her dress, his eyes suddenly wary. He balked.
“Go, Owen!” she bade him earnestly, pushing herself up from the window seat. She began pacing as Jessica grabbed the little boy’s hand and pulled him with her toward the doors. There was a great commotion as word of the duke’s return spread through the manor house. The people loved him, even the lowliest of scullions respected their kindhearted master.
Eleanor felt as if needles were stabbing her skin as she paced. Her heart raced in her chest. She was her husband’s closest advisor. So far her advice had steered him safely through the churning rapids of intrigue that had pitted the noble houses of the realm against each other in several brutal wars. Had that changed?
She heard the sound of boots coming up the stairs. Eleanor wrung her hands, biting her lip as she awaited the news with dread. He was alive! But what of her eldest? What of Jorganon? He had gone into battle with his father and the king. Why had Jessica not mentioned him?
Her husband entered the room, and with one look, she knew her son was dead. Lord Kiskaddon was no longer young, but his face had a boyish look that belied the bald top and the fringe of gray stubble around the sides and back. He was a sturdy man who could spend hours in the saddle without his strength flagging. But now his jaw was clenched and unshaven, and the sadness in his eyes took away from his youthful appearance. Her husband was in mourning. And not just the death of their eldest son. She knew at once he had news that was even worse than the death of their son.
“You are home,” Eleanor breathed, rushing to his sturdy arms. But his grip was as weak as a kitten’s.
He kissed the top of her head, and she felt the pent-up shuddering inside him.
“Jorganon is dead,” she said, hoping it was not true, but knowing that it was.
“Yes,” he said hoarsely, his mouth pressing against her hair. He pulled away from her and stared down at the ground.
“What happened?” Eleanor pleaded, grabbing his hand. “Tell me the worst of it! I cannot bear to see you in such anguish, Husband!”
He had tears in his eyes. He—who rarely showed his emotions so nakedly. His cheek twitched. “The king . . . won. The battle is named the Battle of Ambion Hill. It was a close battle, Eleanor. So close. A moment longer, a breath of
wind
could have changed it. A trickling stream could have overturned it. I wish . . . if you had been there to advise me . . . but you were not!” His expression crumpled and he stared at her pleadingly. “Forgive me!”
Eleanor felt her legs quivering. “For what?” she choked.
His lips were pressed so tightly they were white. “Horwath led the battle for the king. His men were hard-pressed. It looked possible that he would fail. The king ordered my army to support Horwath’s.” He shook his head as if he were still living in that perilous moment when all could be lost or won. “I refused.”
“What?” she gasped.
“The king is the last of his dynasty. His only son died a year ago. His wife died next—poisoned, they say. It seemed as if the Fountain had judged him and he was doomed to fail at Ambion. We both believed that or we never would have—”
“Shhh!” Eleanor warned furtively, glancing at the door.
“We
suspected
the new king would be in our favor if we did
not
intervene. In that moment of peril, I believed the king’s army would fall. Severn threatened to kill Jorganon on the spot.” Her husband knuckled his forehead, his words breaking into sobs. “What have I done?”
Eleanor rushed to her husband and held him tightly. He was a wise and capable man, but such qualities did not aid him in navigating the politics of King Severn’s duplicitous court. It was why he so often sought her counsel. She too had suspected Severn’s reign would be mercifully short. Yes, she had advised her husband to appear to support the king. But not to support him too well. To be slow, to appear confused by commands. She bit the edge of her finger.
“But the king’s army prevailed after all,” Eleanor said weakly. “And now he thinks you a traitor.”
“From where I sat, it looked like Horwath would be destroyed. The men were fighting slothfully. No one’s heart was in it to defend Ceredigion from the invader. But then the king summoned his knights and rode into battle himself. The conflict was raging below them when they made their charge. I watched it, Eleanor. There were only twenty . . . maybe thirty knights in all, but they came like a flood. As if the very Fountain were driving them. They clashed with lances and swords. The king himself unhorsed his enemy and then jumped from his injured horse and killed the man with his own sword. The invaders swarmed him, but he fought as if he had the strength of a dozen men. They fell away from him, and when they saw his triumph, Horwath’s men became demons!” His eyes were wide with shock and amazement. “Severn defeated them by himself. Even with his twisted leg and his hunchback, he was unstoppable. I rode hard to join the fray and helped capture the fallen army. The king’s crown had fallen from his head during the fighting and I found it in a hawthorn bush. I told him . . . I told him that I was loyal.” His face went white.
Eleanor felt her knees losing strength. She clutched to her husband, as if they were alone on an island and the waves of the sea were crashing around them, trying to drag them into the surf. Her ears were ringing with the words.
“The king ordered Jorganon’s death. He
mocked
me, saying perhaps I still had sons to spare. And so he sent Horwath with me to bid you the tidings. Thus sayeth King Severn Argentine to the Lady Eleanor Kiskaddon:
Choose you another son to be hostage, to live in the palace of Kingfountain under His Majesty’s wardship. Prove your good faith and obedience. Pick the son who will stand as surety for your house
.”
Lady Eleanor would have fainted, but she somehow managed to keep her feet. She looked up at her husband. “I must trust that man with
another
of my children?” Her heart hammered violently in her chest and she quailed under the weight of her grief. “That . . . that . . .
butcher
?”
“Stiev Horwath has come to bring the child to Kingfountain,” her husband said, his look full of misery. “If we do not choose, he will execute our entire family for treason now.”
Lady Eleanor sobbed against her husband’s chest. It was a choice no mother should be forced to make. Should she sacrifice one child so that all the others might live? But King Severn was ruthless and cunning. Would the child she selected be the
only
of her children to survive?