The Queen's Poisoner

The boy was starting to panic. Ankarette had warned him this could happen. She had told him it was dangerous to wander the tunnels alone and that he needed to be very cautious and always listen for sounds that were out of place. Such as the footfalls behind him.

The narrow pinch of the corridor suddenly filled in ahead of Owen, the walls closing like an arrowhead. It ended abruptly and finally. It was a dead end.

He gasped with fear and glanced over his shoulder. He could still see nothing, but the steps were getting louder. His mind twisted with regret and shock. He needed to think clearly, but fear had flooded him. He scanned the walls, up and down, looking for ladder rungs to climb. Nothing. Even the ceiling had narrowed, though it was still tall.

His mouth was dry as sand. The wild shuddering in his chest turned into a stampede of horses. He gazed around again, and then he saw the handle latch he had missed. There was a concealed door on one side of the passageway. He almost jerked the latch and flung it wide, and if he had, his time as a poisoner’s apprentice would have ended abruptly. Some faint inner voice, probably Ankarette’s, cautioned him just in time. All the hidden entrances in the palace were equipped with secret spyholes. The spyhole was almost too tall for him, but they tended to favor crouching people. Owen slid open the cover and gazed through it.

It was the king’s bedroom.

Owen knew this because he saw the king inside.

The hearth was blazing, and its flickering light glowed orange off the king’s stubbled cheeks. The king was staring into the fire, one hand supporting himself as he leaned against the mantel. His other hand, from his crooked arm, held his crown. He looked as if he were going to toss the crown into the fire and melt the burnished gold.

There were an infinite number of hiding places in the bedroom. A huge canopied bed made of enormous stained-oak beams, carved and sculpted and glistening with the light. There were fur-lined capes and robes. Several stuffed couches and chairs, any of which would have concealed a small boy. There were chests and wardrobes. Even a garderobe! Owen would gladly have thrown himself down the shaft into the cesspit to avoid being caught. But the door might squeal if he opened it, and then the king would turn and see him. He did not want to imagine what he would say. He couldn’t let that happen!

Still, the steps were coming closer, and he could now see the shimmer of the light on the walls of the passageway. Owen’s options were shrinking with each moment. The first thing he did was snuff the wick of his candle, plunging himself into darkness. Darkness was a blanket in which he could hide. But not from a man with a candle. Who was coming? He prayed it was Ankarette, searching for him, but knew he could not trust to such luck. He quivered with fear.

Then an idea struck. The walls narrowed at the end of the tunnel. He knew he would not be able to climb with the candlestick in hand, so he left it on the floor. Then he wedged himself into the narrowest part of the wall and began using his feet and arms to shimmy up to the tip, pressing against the enclosure to gain leverage. He was small and wiry and quickly began to ascend. His heart was pounding like a blacksmith hammer inside his chest as he watched the glow get closer. Then the candle bearer appeared around the bend.

It was Ratcliffe.

Owen’s terror now multiplied. The master of the Espion. The king’s sworn man. He walked deliberately toward Owen, and the boy feared for a moment that he was already seen. He was doomed. He was probably level with Ratcliffe’s head when he felt the ceiling of the tunnel push against his head. Owen dipped his chin and continued to climb until he felt the tunnel ceiling on his neck.

“What’s this?” Ratcliffe chuffed, gazing down at the smoldering candlestick on the ground. He approached faster and stooped to pick it up. The wick was still smoking and the wax was dripping. Owen thought he might faint. He had stopped breathing as soon as he had recognized the man.

Ratcliffe lifted the candle to his nose and sniffed at it. A stern, angry look passed his face. He looked at the concealed door, the slit still clearly open, and then hastily jiggled the handle with the hand holding Owen’s candlestick.

“Who’s there?” Severn growled as the secret door opened.

“It’s me,” answered the spymaster. “My lord, were you visiting with someone just now? I found this on the ground by the door.”

“I’ve been alone,” came the brusque reply. “Alone with my ghosts.”

“My lord, someone’s been spying on you!” Ratcliffe said with growing alarm. “The wick is spent, the candle dripping. Were you . . . are you testing me, my lord? Did you leave this here to see if I would tell you?”