The Queen's Poisoner (The Kingfountain Series Book 1) (4 page)

CHAPTER FOUR

The Cook and the Butler

The palace kitchen brought a smile to Owen’s face—his first since leaving home. Just like the kitchen at Tatton Hall, it was bustling and crowded and interesting to look at. There were chandelier hooks with rings of sausages hanging from them. There were benches and tables full of fat fish and bowls of greens, and there was a covered area where all the spices hung in thick clumps. The ceilings were vaulted, and there were chairs, benches, and tables spread around. Everywhere there were servants rushing in and out, carrying flagons of wine, dishes of bread and cheese. Even the floor was interesting with its diamond-shaped tiles. There was a crunch of pine boughs on the threshold, but the floor inside was swept and flat, and Owen thought it would be the perfect place to set up tiles to knock down.

“You do smile!” Elyse said with a glow of delight in her voice, squeezing his hand tenderly. “You like the kitchen?”

He nodded vigorously, staring at a woman as she pulled three loaves of bread out of the oven on a wooden paddle. The kitchen was on the ground floor of the palace, so there were thick columns here and there to hold up the mammoth castle, but there were also tall windows, which were open to let in light and air. These gave the place a bright and cheery look, quite different from the great hall.

Elyse guided him through the crowd of servants and maids, leading him to the woman near the ovens, who had set both paddle and bread down on a brick table.

The woman was very short with reddish-brown hair escaping a bonnet, and wearing a flour-dusted apron. She had a little scar on her cheek, but when she turned and saw the princess, her eyes brightened with joy.

“Well, bless me, Princess! You are getting more beautiful by the day. Your mother was a great beauty in her day, and you will shine even brighter. Look at you, lass. Is there a hug for your old cook?”

Princess Elyse was much taller than the cook, but she squeezed her affectionately before kneeling down by Owen’s side. She stroked his head, which tickled a bit, and then took his shoulders squarely in her hands as if presenting him to an official audience.

“Liona, this is Owen Kiskaddon. He is a guest at the palace and will be staying here.”

The cook’s expression brightened even more. “Lord Jorganon’s little brother! So grown up a young man, too!” she said cheerily, tapping her chin thoughtfully. “You must be
ten
years old!”

Owen felt a flush of pleasure in his cheeks and shook his head no. “I am only eight.”

“Eight! That is a surprise. I would not have guessed it. Would you like a honey cake, Master Owen?”

He grinned, nodding cautiously, and she winked and bade him to follow her. She lifted the lid of a clay jar and pulled out a round flat cake with a hash-mark stamp on it. She offered it to him grandly and then slipped a second one to the princess, winking at her as well.

Owen took a bite and immediately knew he would want a second one. The wafer was thin, crisp on the outside, and chewy in the middle. It tasted of honey and treacle and another strange flavor he could not determine. He ate it hungrily, watching the kitchen bustle around them with big vats of soup, hunks of raw meat, and servants whittling carrots, potatoes, squash, and onions into smaller chunks.

“How be the queen, your mother?” Liona asked Elyse softly, dropping her voice lower.

“She is well, thank you,” Elyse said, smiling kindly at the older woman. “I saw her yesterday at the sanctuary.”

Liona’s expression darkened. “I miss Her Highness,” she confided. “What a grand palace this used to be. With parties and balls and so many birthdays to celebrate. The rest of the castle has been downright gloomy since the king came from the North. That is why I refuse to shutter the windows. We need more light. Even a flower withers without sunshine.”

Her words made Owen glance at the nearest window, high above them. Through it, he could see one of the thin spires of the castle rising up. It was the thin tower . . . the one that had put him in mind of a dagger. He wondered if that was where the king slept. A little chill ran down his back at the sight of the tower looming so high above them. Before he knew it, he had finished the honey cake.

“And my, what an appetite you have!” Liona said. She was not that much taller than him and he liked it that she was so short. She tousled his hair. “Look at you, Owen. What is this stripe in your hair? Is it flour?” She touched the white spot of hair on the side of his head and he leaned away from her.

“I noticed it, too,” the princess said. “Just a little tuft of hair . . . white as snow. I imagine when his hair gets long, you can hardly see it.”

Owen himself did not think of it much, but people were always commenting about it. It was just his hair. So what if he had a strange patch in it?

The princess touched the cook’s arm. “Would it be all right if he stayed here a little while? When I came into the hall, everyone was shouting and I could tell he was frightened.”

The cook shook her head. “Shouting in front of such a young man. The height of bad manners! Owen, you may come to my kitchen as often as you like. Your brother was always welcome here. If someone wants to scold you, well, I will scold him first, be it the king himself! Never upset a cook, or even the milk turns sour. You come this way whenever you are scared or lonely. All right, Owen? Will you keep me company now and then?”

He smiled, gazing around at the arches and the hanging pots on pegs. “I like it here,” he said shyly, feeling much calmer now that he was distanced from the king’s fury. He did not want to meet him again, yet he knew he would have to share breakfast with him every day.

The princess knelt down again next to Owen. Her eyes were serious and she petted him fondly, as if she had always known him. “Liona will help take care of you. I am going to find Master Ratcliffe to help him choose a governess for you.” She stroked his arm. “I will watch out for you, Owen. So will Liona. There are many here still . . . faithful.” She hesitated before saying the word. Then she straightened, her dress shimmered with colors in the light, and the beams made her golden hair radiant. She looked like a queen herself.

“Thank you,” Owen mumbled, gazing up at her.

Liona’s nostrils tightened. “The next round of loaves is nearly done. You can always smell them. I will look after the child, Princess. Fear not. There are so many here, he won’t be underfoot.” She gave Owen a look of intrigue. “My husband is the woodcutter of the castle,” she said mysteriously. “He knows all the best haunts to wander and wouldn’t mind a companion on his journeys around the hill. He decides which of the king’s trees to keep and which he will cut and make into firewood. He’s off tromping in the woods right now, or you’d find him here with a flagon of ale and his feet up on a barrel. But I keep a tidy kitchen, as you see, so he knows to leave his dusty boots outside. Let me fetch you another honey cake!” She winked again and quickly went over to the clay pot to do just that. Another girl had stepped in to remove the loaves from the oven.

“Thank you, Liona,” the princess said.

“Anything for Your Highness’s family,” Liona answered, her look dark and serious. She hugged Elyse again.

“Now I must see to finding a
suitable
governess,” the princess said, tousling Owen’s hair one last time.

The cook stared wistfully at the princess as she left the kitchen, but as soon as she was gone, her expression changed from wistful to annoyed. Owen’s heart sank. Had it all been an act?

“And here
he
comes,” Liona said with a huff. “It’s enough to sour a pudding. There is the king’s butler, Master Berwick. He’s from the
North
, Owen. Some men from there are not to be trusted. I pity your lord father. Truly I do. I made my promise and I will keep it. I’ll look after you, lad. You will always have a place here in the kitchen.” She smiled down at him, buoying his spirits.

The sound of boots jarred Owen’s attention, and then an old, wrinkled, leathery man strode in quickly, wheezing as he approached Liona. He was tall with a barrel gut and leathery brown skin. He had a bald dome splotched with liver marks, but there was a wreath of thick, curly hair around his ears and neck. He wore the king’s livery, black and gold with the boar insignia.

“Luke at ye,” he said derisively to Liona. “Standin’ idle at sucha time ’fore supper?” Owen had always struggled to understand people with thick Northern accents. It was as if they were in too much of a hurry to finish all the syllables in their words. “When’s the quail egg pie gonna be finished for the master? Aun’t you started it yit?”

The look on Liona’s face curdled. “Have you not enough to worry about, Berwick, that you must meddle in my kitchen?”

“I wuddun meddle if it were run sharp. The master tain’t a patient man, nor doz he brook laziness.”

“Are you saying I am lazy?” she asked, her voice hardening. “Do you have any idea how long it takes to feed a palace this size? How many loaves of bread we make in a day?”

“Five hundred and six,” he said with a sneer, and snapped his fingers at her. “I tally the flour bags. I know the eggs and yolk. I am the king’s butler and managed his castle in the North—”

“Which was much
smaller
than this one, I might remind you, Berwick!”

Owen stared up at the tall butler. He smelled like something strange—cabbage, perhaps.

His stare attracted the attention of the older man. “And whose whelp is this young’un? Another sorry case whose papa won’t work?”

“This is the
Duke
of Kiskaddon’s son,” Liona said, pulling Owen against her apron. “He’s not a whelp, you rude man, but of noble blood.”

The butler looked at Owen in surprise. “Faw!” he spluttered. “Kiskaddon’s brat! I pity him then! His bruther ended in a river.”

Liona looked cross. “He’s the king’s ward. That’s nothing to be pitied.”

The butler snorted. “Ward? I think not. He’s the king’s hostage. Just had a little chat with Duke Horwath, a mighty fine lord, on his way back to the North. This lad’s days are numbered.”

Liona’s expression hardened, her face turning pale. “You will stop such talk,” she said angrily. She motioned for Owen to go sit on a nearby crate and then walked up to Berwick and started to give him a tongue-lashing in a low voice.

Owen sat on the small crate, his joy in finding the kitchen starting to wane. The king’s threats roiled his stomach. Even though the kitchen was comfortable, warm, and had that wonderful yeasty smell, he could not keep his eye from that daggerlike spire out the window. It felt as if the king were watching him even here.

“No, you watch your words, croon!” Berwick said angrily. “My master
may call down a new cook from the North, and then what would you do? But if you mind me and do as I say, all will go well for you.” He gave Owen a dark look and harrumphed, shaking his head as if the boy were already a cold slab of dead fish.

Liona’s eyes sparked with anger as she returned to him, wiping her fingers vigorously on her apron front. She muttered under her breath for a moment.

“I need to get the king’s supper ready,” she finally said, her voice pitched low. Owen noticed that she would not look him in the eye. “There used to be more children playing around the castle. When the queen and king ruled, it was different. Men like Berwick would watch their words better.” Her lips were taut. “If Berwick only knew, if he only
knew
.” She cast a surreptitious glance at the boy, and then dropped her voice very low. “Are you afraid, Owen?”

He stared at her and nodded mutely.

She hastily walked over to another table and then brought over a bowl with some flour and other ingredients already inside. She cracked an egg with one hand and emptied the yolk into the bowl. She then began kneading the mixture with her strong fingers. Owen felt she wanted to say more, so he waited for her to speak.

She glanced around the kitchen again, making sure no one else was nearby. “My husband and I walk the grounds often,” she said softly, almost in a whisper. “He knows it best. There is a porter door that is always unlocked. Always.” She glanced around again, and when she continued, her voice was even softer. “Owen, your parents did not send you here to be killed. You have friends. Like the princess. Like me. The princess’s mother is in sanctuary at Our Lady. She has been there for the two years since her husband’s brother seized the throne. Mayhap she would help you, Owen. Do you know where the sanctuary is?”

Owen stared at her, his heart pounding fast. “We passed it . . . on the way here.”

“You did,” she said, kneading the dough as if she were trying to strangle Berwick. “If you go to that sanctuary, not even the king can make you come out. You would be safe there.” She glanced back at the crowded kitchen, her eyes darting around worriedly. “If you are a brave little boy.”

A little spark of hope lit in his chest. “I’m brave,” he whispered softly, gazing hard at her. But as he looked up at her, he saw the knifelike spire through the window again.