The Queen's Poisoner
Page 100
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“Quite so. You must deliver this message for me. Tonight. If you leave now, you can be at his camp and back before dawn. See if you can persuade him to come with you. He cannot be late to the Assizes. Will you do this?”
“I’m risking my neck,” Mancini grumbled. “Will you not tell me your plan? I haven’t been able to get the book. The king keeps it with him at all times.”
“He’s struggling to understand what is written in it. I need to know what’s in that book.”
“But the king won’t let go,” Mancini said.
“He’s not the only one who’s read it. Where are the Espion staying? Where is Ratcliffe?”
“What?”
“Where is Ratcliffe?” More insistently this time.
“The . . . all the Espion are staying at the Holywell in town. It’s near Castle Hill, on the—”
“I know it,” she said, cutting him off. Her voice sounded more tired, more pained. “Go, Dominic. Go warn Kiskaddon.”
The spy grunted as he leaned away from the well and marched off toward the torchlight. Owen was grateful he was gone.
“Are you feeling sick?” Owen whispered into the well.
There was a long pause. “I’m very sick, Owen. And we’re running out of time.”
He fidgeted nervously. “I wish there was a way I could help,” he said miserably. “I saw the book on the king’s bed today. I started reading it, but Ratcliffe took it away.”
“That was clever of you,” she said, sounding pleased. “You could tell John Tunmore is Fountain-blessed just from reading it, couldn’t you?”
“Yes,” Owen said. “Ankarette, what is the Dreadful Deadman?”
She was quiet a moment. “How do you know about that name?” she finally asked. “Was it in the book?”
“In a way,” he answered, feeling confused. “While I was reading the book, I heard the name. I heard it twice. The voice said King Eredur wasn’t the Dreadful Deadman. Then it said Lord Dunsdworth—not the boy, but his father—was also not the Dreadful Deadman. What is it?”
“I don’t know for certain,” Ankarette said, her voice soft and subdued. “It is a superstition, mostly. One that is whispered about late at night. It is a legend of the first king of Ceredigion, the one who ruled before Occitania invaded our lands. I told you before of his Wizr. Myrddin was Fountain-blessed and could see the future. There are stories that he left a prophecy. Before he disappeared, he said that the first king of Ceredigion would return someday. He would come back from the dead to rule Ceredigion and Occitania. This prophecy was named the Dreadful Deadman, for when he returns, there will be much war and bloodshed. This legend is not written down, but the people believe in it. It is rumor ladled on gossip and served in a trencher of lies. King Eredur claimed he was the Dreadful Deadman. It’s a ploy many have used to become king. But that is the nature of prophecies. They are much speculated about. I know the Occitanians fear this prophecy. To them it is certainly dreadful. But in this case, Owen, I cannot tell you what is true and what is false. I do not know.”
Owen rubbed his hand over the cool, smooth stone of the well. He kept staring into the depths, wishing he could see her. “Are you truly down there?” he asked.
“I am,” she answered, a smile in her voice. “Now, you said you wished you could help.”
“Can I?” he asked, growing more hopeful.
“Owen, you are the biggest help of all. You are the one who is going to save your family.”
He leaned forward so far he almost fell in. “Really? How?”
“You are going to tell the king your family is guilty of treason.”
His hope suddenly wilted. “Ankarette?”
“Listen to me, my boy. The verdict of the Assizes has already been determined. There must be enough evidence in that book to condemn your parents. I cannot do anything about that. The king has already made up his mind. He will use Duke Horwath to execute his will and deliver the king’s justice. No matter what is said tomorrow at the Assizes, your family will be declared guilty of treason and will be attainted. Do you know that word?”
“No,” Owen groaned miserably. He wanted to be sick.
“Attainder means the forfeiture of land and rights as a consequence of a sentence of death for treason or felony. It means the king will strip away Westmarch from your family and put them to death. Then he can claim the duchy as royal lands or give them to another person. That is what happens. That is what is going to happen tomorrow. What I need to know is what is in that book. Because you are going to have a dream tonight, Owen, and you are going to share it with the king before the Assizes begins. You will confess your family’s treason. That exhibition of your power will not only astonish the king, but the fact that you used it to benefit him will put you in a position of trust. The Assizes, Owen, is your test of loyalty. Your parents have already failed theirs. They failed it months ago when your father didn’t fight for the king at Ambion Hill until it was too late. Your father is useless to the king now, for he can never trust him again. What Severn needs to know is if you will be faithful to him.”
“I’m risking my neck,” Mancini grumbled. “Will you not tell me your plan? I haven’t been able to get the book. The king keeps it with him at all times.”
“He’s struggling to understand what is written in it. I need to know what’s in that book.”
“But the king won’t let go,” Mancini said.
“He’s not the only one who’s read it. Where are the Espion staying? Where is Ratcliffe?”
“What?”
“Where is Ratcliffe?” More insistently this time.
“The . . . all the Espion are staying at the Holywell in town. It’s near Castle Hill, on the—”
“I know it,” she said, cutting him off. Her voice sounded more tired, more pained. “Go, Dominic. Go warn Kiskaddon.”
The spy grunted as he leaned away from the well and marched off toward the torchlight. Owen was grateful he was gone.
“Are you feeling sick?” Owen whispered into the well.
There was a long pause. “I’m very sick, Owen. And we’re running out of time.”
He fidgeted nervously. “I wish there was a way I could help,” he said miserably. “I saw the book on the king’s bed today. I started reading it, but Ratcliffe took it away.”
“That was clever of you,” she said, sounding pleased. “You could tell John Tunmore is Fountain-blessed just from reading it, couldn’t you?”
“Yes,” Owen said. “Ankarette, what is the Dreadful Deadman?”
She was quiet a moment. “How do you know about that name?” she finally asked. “Was it in the book?”
“In a way,” he answered, feeling confused. “While I was reading the book, I heard the name. I heard it twice. The voice said King Eredur wasn’t the Dreadful Deadman. Then it said Lord Dunsdworth—not the boy, but his father—was also not the Dreadful Deadman. What is it?”
“I don’t know for certain,” Ankarette said, her voice soft and subdued. “It is a superstition, mostly. One that is whispered about late at night. It is a legend of the first king of Ceredigion, the one who ruled before Occitania invaded our lands. I told you before of his Wizr. Myrddin was Fountain-blessed and could see the future. There are stories that he left a prophecy. Before he disappeared, he said that the first king of Ceredigion would return someday. He would come back from the dead to rule Ceredigion and Occitania. This prophecy was named the Dreadful Deadman, for when he returns, there will be much war and bloodshed. This legend is not written down, but the people believe in it. It is rumor ladled on gossip and served in a trencher of lies. King Eredur claimed he was the Dreadful Deadman. It’s a ploy many have used to become king. But that is the nature of prophecies. They are much speculated about. I know the Occitanians fear this prophecy. To them it is certainly dreadful. But in this case, Owen, I cannot tell you what is true and what is false. I do not know.”
Owen rubbed his hand over the cool, smooth stone of the well. He kept staring into the depths, wishing he could see her. “Are you truly down there?” he asked.
“I am,” she answered, a smile in her voice. “Now, you said you wished you could help.”
“Can I?” he asked, growing more hopeful.
“Owen, you are the biggest help of all. You are the one who is going to save your family.”
He leaned forward so far he almost fell in. “Really? How?”
“You are going to tell the king your family is guilty of treason.”
His hope suddenly wilted. “Ankarette?”
“Listen to me, my boy. The verdict of the Assizes has already been determined. There must be enough evidence in that book to condemn your parents. I cannot do anything about that. The king has already made up his mind. He will use Duke Horwath to execute his will and deliver the king’s justice. No matter what is said tomorrow at the Assizes, your family will be declared guilty of treason and will be attainted. Do you know that word?”
“No,” Owen groaned miserably. He wanted to be sick.
“Attainder means the forfeiture of land and rights as a consequence of a sentence of death for treason or felony. It means the king will strip away Westmarch from your family and put them to death. Then he can claim the duchy as royal lands or give them to another person. That is what happens. That is what is going to happen tomorrow. What I need to know is what is in that book. Because you are going to have a dream tonight, Owen, and you are going to share it with the king before the Assizes begins. You will confess your family’s treason. That exhibition of your power will not only astonish the king, but the fact that you used it to benefit him will put you in a position of trust. The Assizes, Owen, is your test of loyalty. Your parents have already failed theirs. They failed it months ago when your father didn’t fight for the king at Ambion Hill until it was too late. Your father is useless to the king now, for he can never trust him again. What Severn needs to know is if you will be faithful to him.”
