The Queen's Poisoner (The Kingfountain Series Book 1) (25 page)

She stopped, rubbing a hand along her arm, and shook her head. “This part is difficult to talk about. Only the queen in the sanctuary of Our Lady knows the whole story.” She sighed. “The king, fearing another rebellion, ordered me to poison his brother.”

Owen stared at her. It was so quiet in the room they could hear her every breath.

“It was not the only time the king had asked me to act against his enemies. I knew by then that attempting to reason with Lord Dunsdworth would be a waste of breath. He was so ambitious, so determined to take the throne for himself. When I began to prepare myself to finish this hard task, I poisoned his cup of wine, knowing that he loved to drink it. Unfortunately, he did not get the cup. His pregnant wife did.”

Ankarette’s shoulders slumped. “The poison”—she swallowed, trying to master her emotions—“was subtle. Even I didn’t realize what had happened until it was too late. It brought on her contractions early. I was trained as a midwife, but I could not save the child . . . or the mother. My mistress died in my arms.” Her eyes were haunted, her mouth grim. Owen had always wondered why Ankarette was so sad. Perhaps this was the reason.

“Lord Dunsdworth was devastated. I returned to my family to grieve. I could not bear to tell the king how I had failed him, but I told the queen. She promised to protect me. It was to protect her children and their rights that I had been commanded to act as I did.” She sighed deeply, smoothing her skirts. “Lord Dunsdworth went mad with grief. He sent his officers to arrest me, accusing me of poisoning his wife. Before the king could find out, I was tried and found guilty of murder. I assumed the royal guard would come for me in time, which is why I allowed myself to be arrested.” She shook her head sadly. “I was tied up in a boat and thrown into a river at the head of a waterfall.”

She looked from Owen to Evie and back again. “Only one in a hundred can survive such a plunge. It was not the Fountain’s will for me to die. It broke my neck and much of my body, but I survived. My fate was kept a secret. The queen cared for me herself and helped me to heal—not just my body but my heart as well. The king charged Lord Dunsdworth with treason for executing me on his own authority. He was locked away in a tower here at the palace. They tried to drown him with wine, giving him so much that it would kill him, but he lingered and lingered.” She paused again, shuddering. “When he did not die, the king ordered me to poison him again. And so I did. Mine was the last face he looked upon in this life.”

Owen felt so strange and conflicted he didn’t know what to say. He only stared at her, trembling slightly.

Her voice ghosted from her bowed head. “His son, the boy you know as Dunsdworth, saw me in the kitchen today. He recognized me because I used to serve his family. He has believed for many years that I was dead and that his father was put to death because of me. Now you two know a truth that no one else in the realm understands. King Severn doesn’t know who I am. Nor does Ratcliffe. Not even your grandfather knows the truth, my lady. I still serve my queen, in her own prison, but I am not here to poison anyone. I never want to do that to anyone again if there is no need.”

She raised her sad face to look at the children. Owen’s heart ached for her. And as he had done for his mother so many times, he went to her and embraced her, resting his head on her shoulder and patting her in comfort.

“Does that mean,” Elysabeth Victoria Mortimer said, her voice trembling, “that if the king dies,
Dunsdworth
could rule us?”

Ankarette looked at the girl for a long moment before giving a firm nod.

“What have we done?” the girl moaned.

Owen felt sick to his stomach as well. But his ears picked out a sound he hadn’t been expecting. The sound of many boots coming down the hall. Toward them. He felt the thrum on the stone floor.

Ankarette saw his look and unsheathed a dagger.

Ratcliffe is determined to discover the leak. He’s been snooping around even more lately, always asking questions, prying for secrets. I can’t trust any news I hear from him, for anything he offers has either already been shared with the king or is a trap to ferret me out. I need to learn of something before Ratcliffe does if the poisoner’s plan is to work. The best place for news has always been the sanctuary of Our Lady. I can always tell when an Espion is riding toward the palace with something to report. What I need is a poison, something to stall the rider with stomach cramps, delay his arrival by even an hour. This is so risky. I’m not assigned to the sanctuary anymore. Why am I even considering this?

—Dominic Mancini, Espion of the Palace Kitchen

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Feathers

“They’re coming,” Owen whispered to Evie. He thought Ankarette would hurry to the secret door, but instead she rushed to the headboard of the bed and plunged her dagger into one of the pillows, ripping the case open. She tossed the pillow to the girl and a cloud of feathers came trailing out.

“Hit him with it!” Ankarette gasped, and Evie needed no more coaxing than that.

A plume of white feathers exploded into the room as the ruptured pillow smashed into Owen’s chest. A half moment later, another torn pillow was sent spinning at Owen. He caught it, and suddenly the two children were filling the air with goose down as they clubbed each other with the sagging pillowcases.

Ankarette ducked to the floor and rolled under the bed as the bedroom door jolted open and Ratcliffe entered with four soldiers, swords drawn.

He started choking on the feather fluff immediately. It was like a blizzard from the North had settled on the room.

Giggling uncontrollably, Evie whopped Owen on the side of the head with a well-placed blow. She came at him again, but he held up his featherless pillow hood to block the blow and then whipped it around to catch her in the face. She gasped with pretend outrage, but her gasp was drowned out by a thundering roar.

“What in the
devil
is going on!” Ratcliffe bellowed.

Feathers were everywhere, sticking like leaves to Evie’s hair, her nightclothes, Owen’s tunic. The swirling swarms of feathers started to settle as both children froze in place and stared at the new arrivals.

A bit of fluff landed on Elysabeth’s lip and her mouth squirmed as she attempted to blow it off. The face she made was so funny that Owen grunted, trying to suppress a laugh.

Ratcliffe stomped on the feathers, his balding head wet with sweat, and the feathers clung to it, making him look completely ridiculous.

Evie stared up at him, her jaw quivering with subdued laughter.

It only made Ratcliffe angrier. “You think . . . you think this is amusing, Lady Mortimer? Amusing? I come to hunt down this missing
brat
, only to discover you both destroying His Majesty’s
pillows
? I ask you, I
ask
you!”

But she was giggling uncontrollably now, pointing at Ratcliffe’s snowy head. Owen felt a twinge of fear, but there was nothing he could do, he couldn’t stop laughing either. It only made matters worse that some of the soldiers were trying to smother
their
smirks and failing.

“Out! Out!” Ratcliffe shouted. “You little scamp, back to your room. I’ll report this to Berwick and make you both pick up every, single, f-f-f—” His scolding was interrupted when a feather went into his mouth, just at that very word, and started to choke him.

One of the soldiers guffawed, and then they were all laughing. Ratcliffe’s color went red as a tomato as he roughly grabbed Owen’s shoulder and propelled him out of the room, kicking up another plume of feathers. Owen looked back at Evie. She was smiling mischievously, and when their eyes met, she gave him a wink. He winked back at her.

Goose down swirled in the room, and Owen felt a pulse of warmth. Ankarette was hidden beneath the bed, safe. Twice in one day.

She truly was a clever woman.

The next morning, Owen was arranging tiles in the kitchen before breakfast when Evie arrived, later than usual. She wore a dark green gown with a wide, braided girdle paired with her favorite boots, of course. Owen knew she had arrived by the sound of her walking, but also because of what Liona said.

“Ah, here’s the other
guilty
one. Bless me, but both of you children were up to wickedness last night. There are evil feathers floating in the air all the way to the throne room, you two. The king will not be pleased. Look at you, lass, you have one stuck in your hair still!”

“I did it on purpose,” she replied without even a hint of remorse. “Owen has a white patch in his hair and now I do as well.”

He looked up swiftly and nearly knocked over the tower he was carefully building in his surprise.

Liona laughed and shook her head as she continued slaving at the ovens. Evie grabbed two round muffins from the table and wandered over to where Owen was kneeling, her eyes gleaming with the shared secret. When she reached the bench, she set down the muffins and crossed over to him.

Owen turned back to his tower, trying to finish it so he could topple it. He noticed the white feather in her hair, just over her left ear. She had done a little braid on that side and stuck the piece of goose down through the upper part of it.

“We were almost caught,” Owen whispered conspiratorially.

“I don’t think I’ve ever laughed so hard,” she answered with a grin. “I’ll never forget Ratcliffe’s face. That crown of feathers stuck to his balding head! I still want to laugh when I
think
on it!” She held her stomach a moment, her smile infectious.

Owen added another part of the tower. This was one of the tallest ones he had built, and it was starting to sway, which was a bad sign.

“What did Ratcliffe say after he dragged you out? Did he hurt you?”

Owen shrugged. “Not really. I think he expected . . . her . . . to be with us.” He placed the next tile delicately and it stayed up.

“When she pulled that dagger,” Evie whispered, “I was afraid for just a moment. But what a brilliant idea! I don’t mind cleaning up all the feathers. It was worth it.” Her hand snaked over to touch his. “Thank you for telling me,” she whispered. “You are my dearest friend.”

He gave her a sideways smile and then prepared to place the final pieces, moving very slowly and with painstaking gentleness as he put them on. He was at it for quite a while when she drew closer behind him and offered him one of the muffins.

Then she picked up the other one and nibbled on the edge. “Pumpkin . . . my favorite! I love pumpkin muffins and pumpkin soup and pumpkin tarts. Have you had oyster stew before? Oysters are rare, but we have them in the North. Mussels, too. We usually harvest them in the fall. Our cook would make pumpkin muffins and we’d eat oyster soup in trencher bowls to go with them.” She smiled dreamily as she took another bite from her muffin. “Are you ready to knock it down?”

“You can,” Owen said, backing away from the tower. He set up the final trail of tiles that led to it.

“A kind gentleman!” she praised. After taking another bite of muffin, she set it down on the bench and knelt in front of the tiles, gazing at the structure with admiration. “Do you know where she lives?”

Owen nodded. “I’ll . . . I’ll take you there sometime.”

Jewel waddled into the kitchen, her expression sour, and she was muttering something about two children in desperate need of a willow switch to their backsides. Liona began repeating the story of their nighttime adventures. It seemed the whole palace had heard about it.

“I wish Jewel would go away. She’s fat and she smells like . . . like a garderobe. Ugh. I’m going to ask Papa to send her away.”

Owen stared at her. “You mean Grandpapa.”

Her finger paused before it could topple the tile. “Yes. That’s what I meant.”

“Do you miss your Maman?” Owen asked gently.

She scrunched up her face a little. “She’s still . . . sad. She grew sick of all my talking. I was only trying to help. Grandpapa thought it best if I came with him to the palace. I think she’s grateful I’m gone.”

She nudged the tile with only enough force for it to start the first wobble, and then the whole structure came shattering down in a rain of tiles. She clapped her hands with wild eagerness, her smile dispelling the shadow that had been there only a moment before.

“I love it when they fall!” she breathed.

“There he goes again,” Jewel moaned. “Owen Satchel and Evie. I tell you, Liona, I cannot keep up with those two. I think I’m going to visit Brad the blacksmith to see if I can borrow some ankle fetters to clap on them.”

“She’s so rude,” Evie whispered, giving Owen a devious look. “We might lock her in the privy, you know.”

“We’d only get in more trouble,” Owen said.

Together they started picking up the pieces of tile and stacking them in the box by Owen’s leather satchel. It was nearly time for breakfast with the king and face his scolding for the fate of the pillows.

“Do you like your nickname?” she asked him amidst the cleanup. “I’ve been meaning to ask you since the cistern. I like it, but if you don’t, I won’t use it.”

He gave her a sincere look. “Owen Satchel?”

She nodded vigorously. “What did you think I meant—
Kisky
?”

“Don’t ever call me that. I don’t mind if people call me Owen Satchel.”

“To me, you’ll always be Owen Kiskaddon. Elysabeth Victoria Mortimer Kiskaddon. It sounds very important.”

Owen smiled and sighed.

“What?”

“Have you gotten used to ‘Evie’ yet?” he asked.

“Only when you say it.”

“I
am
the only one who says it!”

She set her hands down on her lap. “I hate being called Lady Mortimer. That’s my
mother’s
name. I’m not the lady of anything right now. I’ve never had a nickname, though. Until now. I always make people say my
whole
name.”

“When I was a baby, my sister called me Ugwen. They still tease me with it.”

She giggled at the name. “I like it better than Kisky! But people have pet names for each other. When we’re older, you can change mine to something like
darling
or
dearest.
Do you know what Ankarette means?”

He looked at her in surprise. “No.”

She nodded with enthusiasm. “It’s a Northern name. It comes from a different language. Ankarette is how we say it in Ceredigion, but the name comes from the Atabyrion name Angarad. Let me say it again. An-GAR-ad. It means
much loved one.
It’s a girl’s name. It’s so pretty.” She reached out and touched his little white tuft of hair.

“Where are thuh troublemakers? Ovur there, makin’ another mess? Another spill?” It was Berwick’s voice, and it was full of wrath. “Get you two over here. By the Fountain, what a mess! Come on. You two are thick as thieves. I’m in a
fine
feather today at the mess you’ve made!”

Owen and Evie glanced at each other, feeling the laughter starting to bubble up inside them at his choice of words.

Berwick had a mean scowl on his face. He looked full of thunder. “Come hither, you two,” he grumbled as he towered by the bench. Only then did Owen notice that beyond the anger he seemed fearful. “Come with me now. We’ve not a moment to lose.”

Their smiles faded.