The Queen's Poisoner

“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.