The Queen's Poisoner

Ratcliffe’s face blackened at the king’s harsh words. His voice was thick with anger when he spoke again. “I am doing the best I can!” he seethed.

The king glared at him. “It’s not enough, Dickon. We’ve known each other for a long while and I consider you a friend. Even our wives were friends. But friendship is not enough. This duty is beyond you, man. This is a load on the halter you aren’t strong enough to pull!”

“Am I . . . an ox then?” Ratcliffe stuttered, coming dangerously close to losing control of his tongue. “You are whipping me like one!”

King Severn muttered something under his breath. Owen and Evie were close enough to see his face, but not close enough to hear the words. He looked up at his Espion lord with daggers in his eyes. “I’m going to call on another man to take on the job, Ratcliffe. This blunder is too visible, too humiliating. I’ll be the laughingstock in every court from here to Pisan. I had success at Ambion Hill, proved my right to rule through blood and the blessing of the Fountain. But losing a notorious traitor from my own towers?” He extended a gloved hand. “Give me his book. I want Tunmore’s book. I want to read his lies about me with my own eyes.”

Ratcliffe’s face contorted with fury. “I beg you, Severn,” he said in a groveling, impetuous tone and tried to draw the king away from all the witnesses. His voice was angry but pitched low enough not to be heard by the entire room of onlookers. “Do not cast me aside like you have others. I’m not Hastings. I’m not Bletchley. I’m not Kiskaddon! You can trust me.”

Owen stared at the king, hoping he did not believe the spymaster. Owen had seen Ratcliffe when the king wasn’t around. He knew the disdainful way he treated others. When a man led others, he needed to earn their respect, not lord over them because of his rank. It was a lesson he’d learned from his father, who always treated his men with respect. In his head, it sounded like tiles were being set up to fall. He could almost hear the clicking sound of them.

“Give me the book,” Severn insisted.

Ratcliffe’s face twisted with fury. “I will fetch it.”

“It’s in your belt,” the king snapped, his hand outstretched.

Ratcliffe tugged it loose and thrust it into the king’s hand. He was sulking now, his looks so dark and stormy that Owen feared him even more. “What about your journey? Are we still going into Westmarch as I planned?”

“We leave tomorrow,” the king said, mollified somewhat. He turned the black-bound book over in his hand, examining the binding with curiosity.

“Tomorrow? It will take weeks before the household is ready to move!”

“I’m a soldier, Ratcliffe. You know that. I don’t care how long it takes the household to follow us. I’m bringing an army with me to the West. Soldiers from the North are riding down even now. We will surprise Kiskaddon with our numbers. The last time I ordered him into battle, he balked and refused to come to my aid until the bitter end. If he balks about joining us, it’ll cost him dearly. I think I’ve learned enough lessons from Ambion Hill. It’s time for me to do what I should have done months ago.”

Owen didn’t catch the king’s meaning, but he could tell by his tone of voice that his parents were in trouble. He glanced nervously at his friend and saw her eyes darken with worry. They were doing their best to conceal themselves behind one of the food tables.

“You won’t . . . like . . . what you read in it,” Ratcliffe said, nodding at the book as if it were a living snake. “You won’t care for it. Not at all.”

“I am used to slander, Dickon.” His mouth began to twist with suppressed anger. “I’ve been accused of seducing my niece. Murdering my brother’s sons. Poisoning my wife.” He grunted with disgust. “Remember the eclipse, Dickon? The eclipse that happened the day my wife died? I was blamed for that, too.” His voice had shrunk to almost a whisper. “That, however, may have been my doing. My soul was black that day. And I am Fountain-blessed.”

A silence hung between the two men as they shared memories like a cup of bitter wine.

“My lord,” Ratcliffe said, his voice so humble it was almost convincing, “if you will but give me one more chance. Let me prove my loyalty to you. I have no doubt that Tryneowy was behind Tunmore’s disappearance. I wouldn’t put it past her to have stolen your ring off your finger in the night.”

The king looked at him coldly. “That would be impossible,” he said. “For I did not sleep. I will not announce the change yet, Ratcliffe. But I will soon.” He tugged off one of his black gloves and stuffed it in his belt, then reached out a hand and clapped Ratcliffe’s shoulder. His voice changed in pitch and tone. “You’ve been loyal, Dickon. I value you, truly I do.”