The Queen's Poisoner (The Kingfountain Series Book 1) (36 page)

The wish to acquire more is admittedly a very natural and common thing; and when men succeed, they are praised rather than condemned. But when they lack the ability to do so and yet want to acquire more at all costs, they deserve condemnation for their mistakes.

—Dominic Mancini, Espion of the Palace Kitchen

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

The Queen’s Midwife

“What is the meaning of this, Horwath? Unhand me! Unhand me, I say!” The voice was Ratcliffe’s, and the attention of those gathered in the royal chamber shifted from the grieving king and his niece to the master of the Espion. On Horwath’s barked command, several soldiers wearing the arrow-pierced lion had marched forward and seized Ratcliffe.

Horwath’s face was impassive, cold, and very menacing. “Search him,” he ordered brusquely.

“This is outrageous!” Ratcliffe snarled, struggling against the soldiers, but he was quickly overpowered. “What do you hope to find? A bag of gold? Of course I have a bag of gold! This is preposterous!”

“My lord duke?” one of the soldiers said, bringing forth a folded scrap of paper, the red waxy seal already broken. “It was in his pocket.”

Ratcliffe’s eyes widened with shock. “Where did you get that? I did not have that in my pocket. You must . . . you must have put it there!” He bucked against the soldiers, trying to free himself, and one of them clamped an arm around his neck to subdue him.

Owen stood by the princess, watching with building interest as Elysabeth’s grandfather unfolded the note and started reading it aloud.

“Master Ratcliffe, long has my master desired to earn your good opinion. Rumor crosses our borders that your master has a new Fountain-blessed. A little brat from Kiskaddon. Please arrange an accident to remove this threat to us. In return, you will inherit the lordship of one of our many pleasant estates on your borders with income received from the king’s coffers annually. Be quick, Master Ratcliffe. Your prompt cooperation will be amply rewarded.” Horwath’s frown and boiling anger intensified as he read. “Yours et cetera, Grey.”

Ratcliffe’s face turned as white as milk.

The king rose to his feet, his look so full of wrath and disappointment that it made Owen cower.

“How could you—
you
—turn traitor, Dickon?” the king said in a husky whisper. “You, above all, know my heart. You, above all, have shared my history. I am not sure I can trust anyone now. For greed or gold? Was it worth it, old friend?” His hand closed against his dagger hilt, and for a brief instant, Owen feared the king would plunge the blade into Ratcliffe’s heart.

“My lord,” Mancini said politely.

The king turned his savage gaze to the Genevese man.

“There was an incident—quite recently—when I discovered little Owen and the duke’s granddaughter at play. Well, to be honest, they were being rather
naughty
and had found their way into the palace cistern. I happened to tell Master Ratcliffe this fact shortly thereafter and . . . well, rather coincidentally, the gate winches of the cistern drain were tugged on. That’s why the palace ran out of water. The two children were nearly swept into the river. I had no proof it was not an
accident
, of course. Until now. I thought I might mention it.”

Ratcliffe’s face turned green and he hung his head as if all his strength had failed him.

The king stared at Owen in mixed surprise and horror. “Is this true, lad?”

Owen stared at the king purposefully. He nodded and then looked at Duke Horwath. “Mancini saved both of us. He broke down the door and caught us before we went over the falls.”

“By the Fountain!” the king exclaimed. He knelt in front of Owen and mussed the boy’s hair, looking at him with wonder and the utmost relief. “Is this true? Were you spared the horrors of it? I almost cannot bear to look at you without weeping anew.”

It took him a moment to master his emotions. Then the king rose like
a thunderhead, and when he next spoke, his voice was full of menace and
warning. “You desire wealth and fame like a sick man craves his drink. But
you were not meant for so much power, Dickon. You are as inept as you are ambitious. This message reeks of the smell of Occitania, the nation that has always sought our overthrow and humiliation. For this, you would have murdered two innocent children . . . just like Bletchley. How could you, man? How could you?” His jaw was clenched with rage.
“My lord
duke of North Cumbria, acting as chief justice, arrest this man of high treason and commit his body to the waters. May the Fountain spare
his life
if he be innocent or bury him in the Deep Fathoms with all the
moldering
treasures of the world for him to feast his greedy eyes on without being able to touch once his skin turns to bones. Out of my sight!”

The soldiers hauled up Ratcliffe, but his legs no longer seemed to work. His face dripped with so much sweat that he looked like a melting candle.

Duke Horwath, stiff and imperious, stood in front of him. “I arrest
you on grounds of high treason, by the name of Dickon, Lord Ratcliffe of
Brent.” He grabbed the chain of office around Ratcliffe’s neck and snapped
it, then hurled it to the floor like refuse. That done, he smacked Ratcliffe across the face so hard it rocked his head back. He nodded curtly to the soldiers to drag him away, and as they did, Owen heard the man sobbing.

The king’s frown was fierce and determined. He stared after Ratcliffe, his heart closing with another wound.

“Uncle, I am so sorry,” Princess Elyse murmured. “But in truth, I am
not
surprised. I have had fears for Owen’s life since he came to Kingfountain.” She came and stood behind Owen, resting her hands on his shoulders. “That is why I asked if
I
could look after him.”

The king nodded at her words. “I should have listened to you, Niece. I should have heeded your counsel. I would have you near me to always give me your advice. To help me steer this ship of state. You are wise beyond your years. I would value your suggestions.”

The princess smiled, pleased. “I would like that, Uncle.” She squeezed Owen’s shoulders. “So may I look after him now?”

The king smiled wanly and then shook his head. “No, Elyse.”

“But why not? What are you going to do with him?” Her voice had an edge of worry.

“Indeed. What will I do with him?” the king muttered calmly. His gray eyes were serious and intense as he looked into Owen’s. “I will make him into a duke. A lord of the realm. He will need to be taught. He will need to be trained. When I was nine, my brother made me the Duke of Glosstyr, and I was sent to the North to be trained by my uncle Warrewik. After the Assizes, I will name Owen the Duke of Westmarch, and he will be sent to the North under the wardship of my faithful friend, who knows the price of loyalty. There is a little granddaughter, I believe, who was recently sent back to Cumbria?”

The duke’s stern mouth broke into a smile. “She is, Your Grace. She
was
. I think a season or two up in the North would strengthen this little pup. Make a man out of him.”

“Then I give his wardship to you, Stiev. Make a man out of him. Make a lord out of him.” The king stared at Owen with kindness. “For your parents’ treason, I
will
pardon them. For your sake, Owen. They will never be permitted back to Ceredigion on pain of death. But I will not forbid you from seeing them. My lord duke, when you draw up the attainder, please be sure that Owen is excluded.”

“I will, Your Grace.” The duke was still smiling, and Owen could imagine why.

The king knelt down on the ground and picked up the broken chain and badge that Horwath had thrown down. He rose, staring at the fine workmanship of the badge, the symbol of the rose and star made of gold. Then he looked warily at Mancini.

“For now,” the king said with almost a threat in his voice, and offered the medallion to him.

“Your Grace,” Mancini replied meekly, bowing.

Owen hurried back to his bedchamber, and his heart gave a shiver and a lurch when he found it empty. His heart was boiling inside, ready to burst with relief. He had to tell her.

“Ankarette?” Owen whispered, carefully padding to the other side of the bed. He found a bloodstain on the floor.

His heart was hammering faster and faster. “Ankarette?” he whispered again.

She was gone.

“Owen.”

Her voice was so soft, muffled, he almost didn’t hear it, but it came from under the bed. Owen dropped to his knees and looked and found her curled up under the bedframe, her head resting on her arm.

Afraid, he crawled under the bed beside her. Her face was pale, her eyelids purple and bruised. She looked so weak and tired, as though she lacked the strength to even move.

“Are you hurt?” he asked.

“I’m very sick, Owen,” she whispered, her voice so faint that he had to bring his ear near her mouth to hear her. “I’ve been sick for months.”

“But you will get better now,” Owen said, his mouth tightening into a frown.

“No, Owen.” She sighed deeply. Very slowly, she lifted her fingers and grazed his hair. “Tell me . . . what happened.”

He swallowed some tears before they could spill. His throat was thick and tight. He burrowed himself against her. She felt cold. Her hand limply stroked his hair.

“I’m going to be a duke,” he stammered. “Duke Kiskaddon, like my father. The king is giving me Westmarch. But I’m going North first. To be with Evie and trained by her grandfather. I’m . . . I’m not going to see you again, am I?”

“Sshhh,” she soothed. “I’m going to the Deep Fathoms now. Where
I can rest. Where I can sleep without pain. Sshhhh, don’t cry.”

He was crying. The tears were hot against his cheeks. “I don’t want you
to go,” he moaned. “You need to keep teaching me. I can’t do this without
you. I
am
Fountain-blessed, Ankarette. You were right about me. The king
tried using his magic on me and I . . . I turned it back on him. I felt it. So did he. Someone sent Ratcliffe to kill me. I . . . I need you, Ankarette!”

She was quiet for a while, so still it felt as if she wasn’t breathing. Her hand still stroked his hair. He sobbed quietly into her, burying his face in her gown. She let him grieve, gently patting his back.

“I know about Ratcliffe’s message,” Ankarette said, her voice quiet and distant. “I put it in his pocket last night at the inn. It was hidden among his papers.” She paused, struggling for breath. “Owen, remember how I said that secrets always try to get out? Do you remember that?”

“Um-hmm,” he said, hardly able to speak through his tears. He looked up at her face, and the loving smile he saw there made his heart hurt even more.

“There’s one more . . . in my heart, trying to get out. I think it’s been . . . keeping me from dying. But I need . . . to let it out now.” She sighed, her eyes closing as if she were falling asleep. Or dying. “I was trained . . . to be a poisoner . . . from a midwife. That’s common, actually.” Her hand strokes were getting slower. “So many of the herbs . . . and medicines that can save . . . can also kill. One of my favorites . . . is nightshade. It’s used . . . in childbirth . . . when the mother has too much pain.” Her voice trailed off again.

“Ankarette?” Owen pleaded, shaking her gently.

Her eyes fluttered open. “Nightshade . . . has many purposes. I used it on Ratcliffe . . . last night. He told me his secrets. He told me about the letter. But when it . . . when it wears off . . . you can’t remember what you did . . . what you said. That’s how I tricked Ratcliffe into forgetting. That’s how I learned what was in the book. But that’s not my secret.” Her voice thickened with pain. “When you were stillborn, I was . . . the midwife . . . who helped your mother. For you. You’ve always been precious to me, Owen. I had to give you . . . some of my magic . . . for you to live. I learned . . . when you give of the magic . . . it grows stronger. Remember that. I’ve tried to help you the best . . . I could. Now you . . . now you must use your magic . . . to help others. Remember.”

Her hand slipped down. She had no strength left.

“Ankarette!” Owen moaned, taking her hand and squeezing it.

Her eyelashes fluttered. She stared at him, blinking dreamily. The sad smile was gone. Her expression was full of peace.