The Queen's Poisoner

“Enough excuses, Ratcliffe. Is it too much to ask you to keep my hostages under closer supervision? What will I learn next? That you approved one of his parents’ ceaseless requests to see him? By the Fountain, man! He’s just a little boy! How could you be so careless?”

“I . . . I . . .” Ratcliffe’s cheeks were scarlet and sweat dribbled down them from his brow.

The king made a dismissive gesture with a gloved hand. Then he turned his baleful eyes on the queen mother. His lips pursed angrily. “I should have suspected I would find him here, Madame.” The hatred in his eyes and tone made Owen shrink.

“You are quite mistaken, Severn, as you typically are when you’re upset,” the queen mother replied in an icy voice. “I did not summon the lad here. He only just appeared. I haven’t even spoken to him yet.”

The king snorted in disbelief. “You take me for a fool.”

“I take you for one when you act like one. This is the Kiskaddon lad then? Your hostage?” There was a shade of meaning in her words that Owen did not understand. “And he found his way to sanctuary. My, but how that must gall you!”

The king’s expression hardened. It was clear there was no love between the king and his sister-in-law, and Owen could sense the bitterness that had festered between them.

“You cannot take him from here, Severn. Even you have never dared to violate the sanctuary of Our Lady. You’ve threatened it, to be sure! But the people would throw you into the river if you tried and you’d never survive. The boy stays here with me. I did not send for him, but I will not send him away.” She patted Owen’s shoulder possessively.

“The lad does not know you as well as I do,” the king said with husky anger.

“Nor you, my liege,” she sneered. “He and I will have great fun together, discussing many things about your lordship. And about my sons.”

The king held up a hooked finger, silencing her. His face turned pale with anger and warning. “You will say nothing,” he said in a choked growl.

Something peculiar happened then. It was as if the lapping sound of the fountain water had suddenly grown louder, drowning out all other sounds from Owen’s ears. The sensation was soothing, and it began to calm his violently beating heart. Then the king’s voice slipped in among the waters.

“Owen.”

Usually there was a sharp edge to the king’s voice when he spoke Owen’s name, but this time his voice did not sound angry or accusing. It contained all the tenderness of a loving father’s address to his son. He blinked, confused, and peered up at the king.

The sound of the fountain waters grew even louder. He could feel them, as if he were splashing in the waters inside the stone railing. In fact, that’s what he felt like he was doing, playing and splashing and getting wet and relishing in the deliciousness of being naughty. The feeling of the waters rushed through him, soothing him and calming him and filling him with happiness. He was smiling now. The king was smiling too, as if he felt the same thrill of dancing in a fountain.

“Come away from her, Owen,” the king said softly, coaxingly. “She is here for a reason. She plots and she destroys. If you heed her, lad, your family will be killed. Because of her. I want to save you, Owen. Come with me.”

Owen felt a twinge of pain in his shoulder, but it could not hurt him, not truly. He heard words, the queen’s words, but they could not pierce the rushing sound of the waters. A memory tried to intrude, something about the king’s touch, but it was as annoying as a buzzing fly, and he brushed it away.

“I would not lie to you,” the king said seriously, gently, as if he were inviting a butterfly to land on his palm. “There is danger here. Danger you cannot see. You are being trapped in a spider’s web, Owen. Let me free you. Come . . . hold my hand.” The king reached out his black glove. The leather looked soft and warm, the gesture so inviting.

Owen shook loose the queen’s hand and walked toward the king. It felt as if the very waters of the Fountain were coming from that outstretched hand. He knew without a doubt that he would feel safe and protected if he held the king’s hand. More words fluttered around him. Some were sharp-spoken, but they could not pierce the feelings flooding him.

He walked confidently over to the king, who did not look fearsome anymore. He looked tired and pained, but he had a gentle, generous smile.

“My niece is so worried about you,” the king said with a warm smile. “Shall we give her a little surprise then? She looked so fearful when she believed you had come to harm, Owen. Shall we find her back at the palace?”