The Queen's Poisoner
Page 9
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Ratcliffe’s expression was black with fury, but he said nothing. The king winced and sagged back in the throne, his mouth tight with anger and emotion.
A big hand rested on Owen’s shoulder. The boy looked up and saw the hand belonged to Horwath, who gazed down at him. He said nothing, but his expression seemed sympathetic.
Ratcliffe mastered himself quickly, still burning from the rebuke. “Well, my liege. Let me find a wet nurse for the baby,” he said in a voice dripping with sarcasm.
Owen was not a baby, yet to his horror, tears pricked his eyes and he started to silently cry. He had just started trusting Horwath and now the man was going away to the North. Now his care would be in the hands of Ratcliffe, who was exactly the kind of impatient, boisterous fellow that Owen feared most. His own parents had given him up as a hostage to a king capable of lashing out at even his closest allies in a moment.
“He’s crying?” Ratcliffe said with disgust. “Well, more tears to water the fountains. Dry your eyes, lad. Come . . . stop that at once!”
His little heart was breaking to pieces, and he could no more stop the tears than he could the waterfall rushing outside the palace.
“Stop that!” Ratcliffe chided, stomping forward.
A woman’s voice pierced the great hall. Though it was soft, it was commanding. “What needs to stop, my lords, is all this yelling. You’ve frightened the poor dear out of his wits.”
Owen turned to look at her, but his eyes were too swollen with tears to see much beyond her long golden hair. She knelt in front of him and took out a lace kerchief, which she used to dab Owen’s eyes. Then she brushed Horwath’s hand away from Owen’s shoulder and rested her small hand where his had been. The blurry picture of her came into better focus, revealing a girl a little older than Owen’s eldest sister, Jessica. She had eyes that were green with blue streaks and the prettiest face he had ever seen.
Of all the myths of Ceredigion, Our Lady of the Fountain was the most widespread. The girl smiled at him kindly, looking into his eyes with compassion and warmth. She was the embodiment of the legend of Our Lady—a woman of wisdom, compassion, and consummate gentleness able to bring even a battle-hardened knight to his knees through the power of her presence. As in the legend, the newcomer seemed to quiet the storm of wrath that had been raging just moments before.
“Uncle,” the lady said, glancing up to the man on the throne. “Let me take the boy to the kitchen for a honey cake while Lord Ratcliffe is making arrangements for him. By your leave?”
When Owen chanced a look at the king, he was shocked by the change in his demeanor. His storm of anger was spent, and the tightness around his eyes softened as he gazed at his niece. His hand rested on the dagger hilt, but it did not loosen the blade. The hard frown turned to a small, calm smile. “If you wish so, Elyse,” he said, then gestured his approval and a dismissal of them both.
“Take my hand,” the lady said, rising slowly and offering hers. Owen took it greedily and relished the softness of her fingers. Her gown was made of the sleekest lavender and blue silk, with a white sideless surcoat and a woven gold front.
Owen gazed up at the duke, wanting to thank him but still unable to speak. It pained him to stay silent.
The duke stared into Owen’s eyes, the old man’s expression unreadable to a boy so young. His thick goatee helped conceal the lines of his mouth. He nodded once to Owen, as if offering his own dismissal. Owen left the comfort of his cloak and followed the lady out of the hall.
CHAPTER FOUR
The Cook and the Butler
The palace kitchen brought a smile to Owen’s face—his first since leaving home. Just like the kitchen at Tatton Hall, it was bustling and crowded and interesting to look at. There were chandelier hooks with rings of sausages hanging from them. There were benches and tables full of fat fish and bowls of greens, and there was a covered area where all the spices hung in thick clumps. The ceilings were vaulted, and there were chairs, benches, and tables spread around. Everywhere there were servants rushing in and out, carrying flagons of wine, dishes of bread and cheese. Even the floor was interesting with its diamond-shaped tiles. There was a crunch of pine boughs on the threshold, but the floor inside was swept and flat, and Owen thought it would be the perfect place to set up tiles to knock down.
“You do smile!” Elyse said with a glow of delight in her voice, squeezing his hand tenderly. “You like the kitchen?”
He nodded vigorously, staring at a woman as she pulled three loaves of bread out of the oven on a wooden paddle. The kitchen was on the ground floor of the palace, so there were thick columns here and there to hold up the mammoth castle, but there were also tall windows, which were open to let in light and air. These gave the place a bright and cheery look, quite different from the great hall.
A big hand rested on Owen’s shoulder. The boy looked up and saw the hand belonged to Horwath, who gazed down at him. He said nothing, but his expression seemed sympathetic.
Ratcliffe mastered himself quickly, still burning from the rebuke. “Well, my liege. Let me find a wet nurse for the baby,” he said in a voice dripping with sarcasm.
Owen was not a baby, yet to his horror, tears pricked his eyes and he started to silently cry. He had just started trusting Horwath and now the man was going away to the North. Now his care would be in the hands of Ratcliffe, who was exactly the kind of impatient, boisterous fellow that Owen feared most. His own parents had given him up as a hostage to a king capable of lashing out at even his closest allies in a moment.
“He’s crying?” Ratcliffe said with disgust. “Well, more tears to water the fountains. Dry your eyes, lad. Come . . . stop that at once!”
His little heart was breaking to pieces, and he could no more stop the tears than he could the waterfall rushing outside the palace.
“Stop that!” Ratcliffe chided, stomping forward.
A woman’s voice pierced the great hall. Though it was soft, it was commanding. “What needs to stop, my lords, is all this yelling. You’ve frightened the poor dear out of his wits.”
Owen turned to look at her, but his eyes were too swollen with tears to see much beyond her long golden hair. She knelt in front of him and took out a lace kerchief, which she used to dab Owen’s eyes. Then she brushed Horwath’s hand away from Owen’s shoulder and rested her small hand where his had been. The blurry picture of her came into better focus, revealing a girl a little older than Owen’s eldest sister, Jessica. She had eyes that were green with blue streaks and the prettiest face he had ever seen.
Of all the myths of Ceredigion, Our Lady of the Fountain was the most widespread. The girl smiled at him kindly, looking into his eyes with compassion and warmth. She was the embodiment of the legend of Our Lady—a woman of wisdom, compassion, and consummate gentleness able to bring even a battle-hardened knight to his knees through the power of her presence. As in the legend, the newcomer seemed to quiet the storm of wrath that had been raging just moments before.
“Uncle,” the lady said, glancing up to the man on the throne. “Let me take the boy to the kitchen for a honey cake while Lord Ratcliffe is making arrangements for him. By your leave?”
When Owen chanced a look at the king, he was shocked by the change in his demeanor. His storm of anger was spent, and the tightness around his eyes softened as he gazed at his niece. His hand rested on the dagger hilt, but it did not loosen the blade. The hard frown turned to a small, calm smile. “If you wish so, Elyse,” he said, then gestured his approval and a dismissal of them both.
“Take my hand,” the lady said, rising slowly and offering hers. Owen took it greedily and relished the softness of her fingers. Her gown was made of the sleekest lavender and blue silk, with a white sideless surcoat and a woven gold front.
Owen gazed up at the duke, wanting to thank him but still unable to speak. It pained him to stay silent.
The duke stared into Owen’s eyes, the old man’s expression unreadable to a boy so young. His thick goatee helped conceal the lines of his mouth. He nodded once to Owen, as if offering his own dismissal. Owen left the comfort of his cloak and followed the lady out of the hall.
CHAPTER FOUR
The Cook and the Butler
The palace kitchen brought a smile to Owen’s face—his first since leaving home. Just like the kitchen at Tatton Hall, it was bustling and crowded and interesting to look at. There were chandelier hooks with rings of sausages hanging from them. There were benches and tables full of fat fish and bowls of greens, and there was a covered area where all the spices hung in thick clumps. The ceilings were vaulted, and there were chairs, benches, and tables spread around. Everywhere there were servants rushing in and out, carrying flagons of wine, dishes of bread and cheese. Even the floor was interesting with its diamond-shaped tiles. There was a crunch of pine boughs on the threshold, but the floor inside was swept and flat, and Owen thought it would be the perfect place to set up tiles to knock down.
“You do smile!” Elyse said with a glow of delight in her voice, squeezing his hand tenderly. “You like the kitchen?”
He nodded vigorously, staring at a woman as she pulled three loaves of bread out of the oven on a wooden paddle. The kitchen was on the ground floor of the palace, so there were thick columns here and there to hold up the mammoth castle, but there were also tall windows, which were open to let in light and air. These gave the place a bright and cheery look, quite different from the great hall.
