The Queen's Poisoner (Kingfountain, #1)(69)
He recognized some but not all of those in attendance, and Ankarette quietly whispered in his ear whenever someone he did not know entered the room. The king had called in Ratcliffe, Horwath, and his chancellor Catsby, along with two religious officials representing the sanctuaries. In the months following his victory at Ambion Hill, he had not yet replenished all of the council seats, Ankarette explained quietly. Owen’s father, for example, had not been restored to his previous role and was awaiting his fate in his own lands. The council was small and getting smaller.
Some of the council members had seated themselves, but the king was pacing, keen displeasure and more unnameable emotions playing in his eyes.
“Everyone is here, Your Grace,” Ratcliffe announced, after shutting the door. There was a wary look on his face.
“You are wondering why I’ve summoned you,” Severn said in a low voice. He cast his gaze over the men. “You all look like men who are about to be shoved into the waters. Are you feeling guilty? Did any of you know of this news before it arrived?”
There was a moment of awkward silence. “Know of what news, my lord?” said the man Ankarette had identified as Catsby.
“Tell them,” the king said gruffly, waving a hand at Ratcliffe. That directive delivered, he turned away from the council and started to slip his dagger in and out of its sheath.
Ratcliffe assumed an authoritative posture and advanced to the head of the table. He planted his palms on the gleaming, waxed surface. “News from Southport. We have John Tunmore in custody.”
There were startled gasps around the room. Only Horwath, who was always unflappable, did not react with open shock.
“How could he . . . ?”
“The knave!”
“Be silent!” the king reprimanded. “Hear the news first before you begin babbling. Go on, Dickon.”
Ratcliffe cleared his throat. “He was caught, you may be sure, in the port of Brugia. He was never very far from Ceredigion. A boat was waiting for him in case he needed to escape quickly. A boat paid for by the King of Occitania, if my suspicions hold true. The Espion used it to smuggle him back here.”
“Facts, Dickon,” the king scolded. “Let’s keep to the facts first. Tell them what you found with Tunmore.”
“Yes, my lord. Of course.” Ratcliffe’s anger was stirring, but he kept his tone civil. “He had a book on his person. A private history, to be precise. I have it here.” He withdrew a black leather-bound book, small enough to fit in his hand. “Entries, dates, scribblings, musings. Lots of nonsense about the Fountain, really. But it is clear he was plotting something. He’s been in hiding for nearly two years and played a complicit role in the attempted usurpation. I believe—we believe—the information in here will implicate many.” He waggled the book.
“Only two years ago?” Severn said, his voice cold. “I’d forgotten. It feels so much longer than that.” He pushed away from the wall and strode to the table, limping slightly, an angry frown on his mouth. “Yes, two years ago he plotted to murder me, my wife, and my son. My wife is dead. My son is dead. No doubt he wishes to finish what he started when he seduced Bletchley into treason. For all we may suspect, he was likely behind that pretender’s claim to my throne as well. Tunmore is an eel. The lad was right about that.”
Ankarette, listening keenly, flashed Owen a secret smile.
“What lad?” asked one of the prelates. “The Kiskaddon boy? Was there another prophecy?”
The king’s countenance softened remarkably and his eyes took on the same shining look Evie’s got whenever she talked about the cistern. “Indeed.”
Ratcliffe held up his hands. “Let’s not be hasty, Your Majesty, in ascribing the boy’s powers to anything beyond coincidence or cunning.”
“Twice he’s done it,” Severn said. “Twice! The first you could ascribe to coincidence, if a fantastic one. But the second? He knew something before you did!”
There were grumbles of concern and interest amongst the councillors, one of them begging to know what had happened.
The king silenced them with a wave of his hand.
“The boy had another vision,” Severn said, pacing slowly along the table’s edge with his hobbled gait. “This was not a dream at night like before. It was a day vision. He saw an eel caught by a hook. A rat was holding the fishing pole.” He gave Ratcliffe a meaningful look. “And then news arrives that Tunmore, the Deconeus of Ely, was caught in Brugia—on a hook—by the Espion. The lad is blessed, I tell you. He is Fountain-blessed with the gift of foresight!”
Ankarette smiled and squeezed Owen’s hand. He smiled back at her, giddy that her plan was working out so well.
“The question, I ask you,” the king continued, “is if I have the authority to execute a prelate of the realm. A man purportedly sanctioned by the Fountain. This man has been a raw blister on my heel for these many years. Lest we forget, he was the one who helped write up the truce terms with Occitania ten years ago. Truce terms that shamed my brother—shamed us all!—when Occitania repudiated them. He was a member of this council two years ago.” He tapped his forefinger on the table. “Others more noble than he have paid for their treachery with their lives. Yet he has been immune from the consequences of treason. What say you, council? Do we see if the Fountain will pardon this man when we throw him into the river?”