The Queen's Poisoner

“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.”