The Queen's Poisoner

The words seemed to remind everyone of their duties. Liona started to call out orders and the servants hurried pell-mell around the kitchen.

Owen had quickly started to gather the tiles into the box, but Monah seized his hand and tugged him away before he could finish, leading him back to his room in the tower.

“There is no time! You must be dressed and ready. Come with me! Lord Ratcliffe is furious!”

There is a great fear of poisoners in any kingdom, but especially in this one. Think what it must do to the constitution of a man to live in constant fear that his next sip or mouthful of food may be the very last. The king’s brother died suddenly, to the surprise of all. Granted, I was told his revels of feasting were quite out of control and his consumption of food and drink gluttonous. I would have enjoyed serving him immensely! But the very suddenness of his death does incline one to suspect the use of poison. The question is—who would poison a king?

—Dominic Mancini, Espion of Our Lady of Kingfountain

CHAPTER SIX

Dickon Ratcliffe

Monah Stirling was not gentle as she helped Owen change into a new suit of clothes. She licked a napkin and roughly scrubbed a smear from his cheek, then stepped back to examine him. “There is no time for a bath, but you will get one later today. What were you doing in the kitchen?”

He stared at her without speaking. His stomach was suddenly upset at the thought of meeting Ratcliffe again . . . and the king. He did not want to breakfast with the king.

Monah mussed her fingers through his thatch of mouse-brown hair and frowned. “Your hair is absolutely wild. What is this pale spot?” She tried to examine the tuft of white hair, but he shrugged away from her.

“None of that, you little brat,” she scolded. Then, snatching his hand, she dragged him down the corridor from his room and back toward the great hall. The castle was teeming with servants now, men and women holding pitchers, vases filled with fresh-cut flowers, rolled rush-matting carpets, urns, and silver dishes. The torches along the corridor hissed at Owen as they passed them, casting long and pointed shadows on the floor.

When they reached the great hall, Ratcliffe was pacing, his face furrowed into a sharp frown of disapproval, but he looked relieved as soon as he caught sight of Owen.

“There he is!” Ratcliffe said with exasperated relief. “Thought you had snuck out of the castle, lad.” His tugged at his fancy collar. “I rather prefer a swim at the baths or the beach, not down a waterfall.”

But I do plan to sneak out of the castle, Owen thought firmly, gazing up at the tall man as he continued to pace. Owen looked over the trestle tables that had been set up in the hall. They were loaded with trays of food. Loaves of golden, sweet-smelling bread, tray after tray of smoked salmon, and a variety of pungent cheeses. A tangled skein of grapes was nestled in a silver dish.

Owen noticed that there were no chairs around and also that he was not the only “guest.” Most were young folk, many were children, and all were part of the king’s court. Were they hostages like he was? He didn’t know any of them and wasn’t sure what to expect. Servants were busying themselves all around him.

“He was in the kitchen,” Monah explained wearily. “I found him.”

“See you do not lose him again!” Ratcliffe scolded. He rubbed his hands together, searching the faces of those assembled. He gave Owen a pointed look. “Be you on time,” he said with an angry frown. “The king is a busy man and must not be kept waiting for fools. Are you a fool, little lord Kiskaddon? Hmmm?”

Owen shook his head but did not speak.

“See that you are not. Ah, the king!”

Owen’s stomach wrenched with fear and he felt a little dizzy. In a moment, one of the side doors opened and the king entered, arm in arm with Princess Elyse, clearly in the midst of a conversation.

“No, it would not be proper,” the king said in a disapproving tone. “You are a princess of the realm. He is only the son of a duke. You are cousins, in some degree, but I will not have you looking after my hostages.”

The king’s gaze swept across the young people assembled in the room, not coming to a rest until it reached Owen.

“The lost has been found then?” he asked with a twist to his lip.

Ratcliffe looked shaken. “My lord,” he said with a shaky voice, “he was . . . he was . . . where was he, Lady Stirling?”

“Playing in the kitchen,” Monah said anxiously, blushing fiercely and curtsying.

The king patted Elyse’s arm. “You see? The boy is hale. You worried in vain.” Then he turned his gaze on Owen, his eyes smoldering with anger. “You gave my niece concern, lad. She fretted for you.”